The High Ground (15 page)

“Excuse me?”

“My class is used to people like you being more… ingratiating. When you’re not they notice you and not in a good way. I know you want to better yourself.” The warmth Tracy had felt toward her turned to hurt that made breathing hard.

Better yourself. Better yourself.
The words kept pounding through his head.

Mercedes went on. “Well the best way for you to accomplish that is to find a way to be useful to some of our classmates.”

“Like I did with you,” Tracy said harshly.

“Yes, but pick some who aren’t too well born so they won’t be insulted by your overtures and cultivate them.”

“Well, forgive me for my mistake in
cultivating
you. Clearly I was out of line to pick someone so well born,” Tracy snapped.

Mercedes’ eyes widened and an expression of dismay crossed her face. “I… I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I? I didn’t mean to.” Tracy spun on his heel and walked away. “What did I say?” she called after him.

He didn’t look back. A churning cold rage closed his throat and made it ache. He returned to the busier areas of the
cosmódromo
. A trash incinerator panel beckoned. Tracy strode over to it and pulled the box containing the Sidone tapestry out of his pocket. He meant to throw it down the chute, but he wanted one last look before he trashed it. The colors and the intricate beauty caught him. It would be criminal to destroy such art. No, he would keep it, but as a reminder of who he was, that they couldn’t be trusted, and that he was on his own.

* * *

“What did I do?” Mercedes almost wailed the question.

“I couldn’t say, Cadet Princess,” Tako blandly replied.

“I was only trying to help,” Mercedes muttered. Tako remained silent. Mercedes gazed into the Hajin’s large liquid and totally expressionless brown eyes. “I wasn’t wrong. He
is
a stiff-necked idiot.” Silence from the batBEM. “Oh, you’re useless.”

“Do you wish something from me, Cadet Princess?”

“Talk to me!”

“That would be inappropriate, Cadet Princess.”

“Why?”

The long lashes that were the same butterscotch color as the Hajin’s mane briefly screened her eyes. They were abruptly lifted and the alien’s gaze was cold. “I know my place.”

The lashes veiled her eyes again, and when she lifted them the icy look was gone. Had she imagined it? Hoped she had imagined it, but the message had been received.

“Oh. I see,” Mercedes said. “But I can’t apologize to him. You see, I also know my place.”

The first quarter had ground to an end. Three months of drills, classes, homework, slights and the first pale shoots of something that might, if one were generous, call budding friendships. Hugo of all people, the quiet and studious Ernesto Chapman-Owiti, who despite being a
marqués
didn’t treat Tracy like shit, and even one of Boho’s cadre, Davin Pulkkinen, though that might have been more due to the fact Tracy was tutoring him in math, and less about actual friendship.

Tracy probably could have counted Mercedes among that handful if he hadn’t been such a stiff-necked ass. He hadn’t spoken to Mercedes aside from polite commonplaces since their disastrous picnic. In the beginning he had snubbed her, then when his anger began to cool he had made a tentative overture only to have her snub him in return. Which made him mad all over again. Intellectually he knew they were both being idiots, but he had no idea how to now bridge the rift.

And maybe he shouldn’t even try, he thought as he looked down from the choir loft to where she and her ladies sat in the front left pew. Boho, Arturo and his brother Mihalis sat with them. They were certainly the three highest born male cadets at the academy so it was appropriate for them to be with the Infanta. Just as it was completely inappropriate for a tailor’s son to be with her. Still he wished he could apologize so that his last memory of an improbable association wouldn’t be tinged with a residue of anger. At least he had the Sidone tapestry suspended in a Lucite cube as a tangible reminder.

The end of term had also brought a five-day pass, and a lifting of the stricture against travel to the planet. That left Tracy with a dilemma—did he go home and visit his dad or not? If he didn’t his dad would think that Tracy hadn’t forgiven him. If he did Tracy would
have
to forgive him.

It was a dilemma he was going to have to resolve pretty damn quickly because there was going to be a
fútbol
match on Tuesday and then leave would begin, and since Tracy was a substitute he couldn’t avoid the decision by just staying on the station. Even though the chance of his actually playing was small he was going to have to be there.

It had been made very clear that every new cadet would try out for the team though the ladies had been exempted. Tracy lacked the stamina of many of the players, but he was quick and agile. He had hoped to dodge this drain on his time, but unfortunately he had made the team and even more unfortunate only as a substitute. So now he had to attend practice even though he had almost zero chance of ever playing.

Of course Boho Cullen had been selected along with Jasper Talion, Hugo Devris, Sanjay Favreau and Mark Wilson as first-string players. Tracy tried not to care that the other scholarship student was now laughing and socializing with his well-born teammates while Tracy sat on the bench. Still it rankled.

Especially since Tracy had yet another demand on his time that left him studying far into the night, and giving up most of his weekends to school work. It had happened the very first Sunday during the opening hymn. Tracy had started to sing and noticed a few turning heads, including Mercedes. He was pleased she had noticed him, but pleasure warred with pride, and he’d pointedly looked away. When he’d snuck another glance in her direction she was once again gazing at the altar, and he could only see the back of her head. He had mumbled his way through the responses, kneeling and standing more from muscle memory than any attention to the Mass. Instead he had thought back on their final conversation torn between anger and regret.

During the second hymn he’d become aware of a very tall young man with skin the color of honey, sleek brown hair, stilt-like legs and a kettle belly pushing out the folds of his choir robe moving down the aisle between the pews. His head swung from side to side like a radar dish seeking a target. His green eyes met Tracy’s and lit with delight. He smiled and nodded. Tracy had awkwardly done the same.

Right after Mass concluded he was introduced to Commander Jeffery Baldinini, the academy’s music director, and invited to join the choir. Tracy had declined. A terse message from Zeng had made it clear that in the military an invitation was indistinguishable from a command. So Tracy joined the choir thus losing Tuesday nights to rehearsal as well as Saturday afternoon when Baldinini had insisted on giving him private voice lessons. Tracy didn’t resent the lessons as much as the formal rehearsals because the training might be something he could use if he failed to pass the
prueba
and washed out of the academy.

The random, tumbling thoughts brought him back to the present—seated in the sweeping balcony of the choir loft while Commander Father Tanuwidjaja delivered his sermon. The chapel was a beautiful place with folded curves that made it feel like one was inside a nautilus shell. The walls were made from some translucent material and lit from within as if the grace, glory and light of God shone all around them.

Unfortunately Tanuwidjaja’s rhetorical style didn’t match his surroundings. He had a reedy voice, and he tended to stare down at the pulpit and read his sermon from his tap-pad. He also had a bad habit of delivering interminable homilies. Today he had already run nearly ten minutes over the allotted time. Which was just adding to Tracy’s nerves. He was to sing his first solo during the elevation of the Host—for him the most moving moment in the service—and it was beginning to feel like they were never going to get to it as Tanuwidjaja droned on. And on. And on.

To hold down the flutter of nerves Tracy studied the altar. It was sculpted from the hull of a lost battle cruiser, and the metal had taken on an opalescent quality from the blast from the Cara’ot ship which had destroyed the S.L.S.S.
Paul Revere
. It seemed like an odd juxtaposition to Tracy. A fragment of a vessel of war in a place of peace. But maybe that was normal at a military academy where everyone presumed that the Lord was on your side.

Or until you got your ass blown out of space and pretty much knew He wasn’t on your side
.

Tracy choked on a nervous laugh and got a stern look from Baldinini followed by an encouraging smile. The choir director was seated at the keyboard of the large pipe organ. Tracy schooled his features and tried to think about anything but how nervous he was feeling. He looked back down into the congregation. From here he could see the students who were surreptitiously checking their ScoopRings or even hiding a tap-pad inside a hymnal or prayer book.

In the very back pews were the batBEMs, seeming to listen with great attention to the human priest. Tracy studied them—Isanjo, Hajin, Tiponi, and the single Cara’ot. It suddenly occurred to him that they probably had their own gods and religious practices, but here they were kneeling before their conqueror’s god. He wondered why he had never thought about it before. Probably because he hadn’t ever been this bored before.

So just what the hell did a Tiponi Flute think was sacred? And did the Cara’ot anthropomorphize their god or gods? Tracy had to figure they didn’t since they had been altering their physical forms, even down to their genders, for thousands of years. At this point there was no longer a physical norm for the species.

It occurred to him that might be an interesting research paper for his upcoming philosophy class. Maybe by studying the Cara’ot’s religious traditions one might figure out the foundational form. Upon reflection Tracy decided it made more sense as a biology project. He’d run it past his lab partner Ernesto. Chapman-Owiti was wicked smart and would probably have some advice on how to proceed.

Surreptitiously Tracy pulled back the sleeve of his choir robe and checked the chromo set in the sleeve of his dress uniform. Tanuwidjaja was really on a roll today. The sermon was coming up on forty-five minutes. At this rate they would never get to communion… and his solo. A sharp poke in the back had Tracy looking over his shoulder to Davin Pulkkinen. Tracy studied Davin’s flushed cheeks and the air of suppressed excitement, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Closer and longer association with Pulkkinen during choir practice had revealed the knight’s son was a jokester and a clown, and when he was away from his better-born comrades he tended to actually talk to Tracy. Davin dropped one eyelid in a slow and elaborate wink, and raised his forefinger to his lips in a shushing gesture.

Tracy couldn’t tell if dread or delight held sway because clearly Pulkkinen was up to something. A sharp buzzing rose from the back of the chapel. Tanuwidjaja’s head jerked up from his pad and he peered about the chapel. The buzzing stopped. Tanuwidjaja resumed. Three minutes later a raucous ringing like a maddened alarm clock blared out from the right side of the chapel. There were growing mutters and laughter from the congregation. Zeng and Vice Admiral Vasquez y Markov were on their feet. The admiral’s expression was thunderous. The ringing cut off.

Tanuwidjaja’s head swung from side to side. Tracy couldn’t see the priest’s expression, but expected it resembled a nervous rabbit contemplating an open meadow. “And so as we contemplate our burden of sin—”

From all around the chapel alarms began to blare, buzz, ring, jingle and clang. Gales of laughter wove through the cacophony. Vasquez y Markov bellowed, “DISGRACEFUL!”

Captain Father Tanuwidjaja held up a hand, and used the power of the microphone to trump the alarms, the laughter and the outrage. “All right. All right. I surrender. I promise I’ll stick to the allotted time going forward. Now please. May we continue with the Mass?”

Tracy, staring open-mouthed in delight and amazement at Pulkkinen, watched as the cadet pulled aside his choir robe and slipped a hand into his pocket. The noise abruptly cut off. Tracy also noticed that Commander Baldinini was pointedly rearranging the music on the organ stand. Apparently he was also tired of Tanuwidjaja’s overly long sermons. The choirmaster gave Tracy a nod.

Captain Father Tanuwidjaja left the pulpit and retired to the altar. Yves joined him, carrying the host and the chalice to the priest. Three months had peeled away the fat, but hadn’t decreased the deer-in-the-headlights stare that seemed to be Yves’ normal expression. Right now though he looked euphoric.
He’d probably make a great priest
, Tracy thought. Too bad he was the first son so that option was right out. For a moment Tracy considered that perhaps being born into the FFH was as limiting as his own precarious rung in the lower middle class.

The opening chords of Mozart’s
Ave verum corpus
sighed from the pipes on the massive organ, pulling Tracy out of his reverie. He stood and discovered someone had replaced his knees with rubber and his belly felt hollow.

The priest raised the chalice. Light coruscated off the polished gold and glittered in the row of amethysts around the base of the goblet. Tracy’s heart seemed too large for his chest and his heartbeat thudded in his ears, almost surpassing the music of the organ. There was a tingling on the back of his neck and on his shoulders as if a warm hand had been laid upon him. Tracy sucked in a deep breath, the fragrance of frankincense wafting through his nose. He released the first note, sending it floating toward the vault of the ceiling.

He should have been thinking only of the service and of his savior. Instead all he saw was Mercedes. Her head lifting abruptly from her folded hands to stare up at the choir loft.

After that he forgot about God and sang to her.

* * *

“We’re going
home
!” Danica caroled.

“A long soak in a hot bath,” Sumiko added almost reverently.