The High Ground (2 page)

Emperor, Highness, Majestad
, but at the end just a baffled father.

The Emperor pulled his thoughts away from his damaged sperm and his recalcitrant child. “And your… son, isn’t it? How is he?”

“He’s fine,
Majestad
. Kind of you to ask.” A sigh seemed to arise from the depths of the tailor’s soul.

The vast levels of rank fell away and the Emperor realized that this father was also having problems with his offspring. Two perplexed fathers separated by rank, wealth and power but sharing an eternal human problem.

* * *

“Trouble?”

The tailor stared up into the jowled face. Fatigue gouged lines around the Emperor’s mouth, and hung pouches beneath the brown eyes. The tailor knew he shouldn’t speak, propriety dictated he not. The Emperor seemed to sense his dilemma, and he gently encouraged: “Go on, it’s all right.”

He couldn’t hold it back. Discretion was thrown aside and the tailor blurted out, “He’s won a full scholarship to The High Ground, but he refuses to go.”

The Emperor stared, then burst out laughing. The tailor stiffened, hating himself for speaking. He had opened himself up to mockery. He forced down the flash of pride and resentment, and managed to assume a tone of humble gratitude as he said, “You are right to laugh at my foolish child,
Majestad
.”

“No, no, you misunderstand. I am facing the
exact
same dilemma with my eldest.”

The tailor’s eyes flicked up to briefly meet the Emperor’s, and he rose stiffly to his feet, feeling and hearing his knees crack.

“My Tracy has an opportunity to move up. Men have won titles in combat. I don’t want him to have
my
life,” he murmured, gazing down at his gnarled hands.

“And I moved heaven and earth to give her
mine
. I guarantee her the throne and she says I’ve ruined her life. What the devil is wrong with these kids?” the Emperor demanded. The tailor merely shrugged. “Why is your son refusing? The scholarships have always been a way to reward the deserving poor.”

And that attitude
, thought the tailor,
is
exactly
why he is refusing.
He stared up into the face of his sovereign and sought the diplomatic answer. Once again they stared at one another, but this time from distant vantage points. The tailor was saved from answering by a knock on the great double doors.

“Come,” the Emperor called.

An aide dressed in the uniform of the
Orden de la Estrella
hurried in. He bowed and said, “Highness, we have lost another ship.”

Thracius Ransom Belmanor, known (despite his best efforts) as Tracy, stared at Principal Naranjo, seated behind his scarred and tap-pad laden desk, and tried to process what he was hearing.

“…So sorry, but it comes directly from the school board and I can’t…” The older man spread his hands in a gesture of futility and helplessness.

The blood rising into Tracy’s face made him feel like he had a fever, and rage quivered deep in his gut, an angry animal waiting to tear free and destroy the man across the desk. He yanked his focus away from Naranjo’s face, studied the ugly faded paint on the walls of the office, the diploma and the few commendations, the picture of the principal taking part in a pep rally in the gym.

“I had written my speech,” Tracy mumbled, then realized that sounded pathetic so he added with appropriate heat, “And Hugo is a meathead. How many grades had to be changed for him to suddenly be the top student? Which teachers were willing to do that?”

Naranjo folded his hands in front of him, the knuckles flaring white, and remained silent, but his jaw worked as if he were holding back unwise and unwary words. “Doesn’t matter. Caballero Hugo Devris will be the valedictorian.”

Tracy clutched at the strap of his tap-pad case that was slung over his shoulder. “Caballero? Hugo? When did that happen?”

Naranjo simply said, “His father was just knighted.
Hereditary
title, not a life grant.”

Tracy understood now. The newly minted noble at this working-class high school clearly had to receive the top honor. It would be an insult to the FFH—the Fortune Five Hundred—if the son of a tailor took that title over an aristo, however recently his blood had been turned blue. The College of Peers had probably stepped in and applied pressure to the school board who had pressured the principal who had leaned on the teachers, and now Hugo—
oh excuse me
, Caballero
Hugo
—was the best student in this year’s senior class.

It was clearly magic. Just as magical as the touch of a sword that had turned Hugo’s crass, big-bellied and sweating father, the so-called Flitter King, into Caballero Malcomb Devris, Knight of the Solar League and worthy to join the Fortune Five Hundred. Word in the
Alibi
, the only really independent news outlet in Hissilek, was that Devris had been selling flitter cars to the FFH at well below market value.

“I’m applying to universities. I needed this for my scholarships,” Tracy said.

“But you
have
a scholarship,” Naranjo said pointedly.

“I’d be the only
intitulado
at The High Ground. It’s nothing but aristos up there. And I hated RCFC. I never want to be a soldier.”

“There’s a big difference between the
Reserva Combata Formación Cuerpo
and The High Ground. That’s
Orden de la Estrella
, not the
fusileros
. You’d be on a ship, not humping a gun dirt side or getting wet in the navy. And you’d graduate an officer. There have been commoners who have won high honors in battle.”

“Yeah, how many more died and we never heard of them?”

Naranjo just shrugged. “You’re smart, Tracy. Probably the best student to come through these doors since I’ve been principal. Don’t let pride hamper your chances.” They stared at each other for a few more moments then the principal pointedly picked up a tap-pad and studied the line of text scrolling past.

Tracy spun on his heel and walked out into the hallway of the school. The smell of spinach, macaroni and cheese, and male gym sweat still lingered in the air. Most of the students had already fled on this Friday afternoon so Tracy’s footfalls seemed loud as they echoed from the concrete floor and bounced off the lines of lockers.

He stepped outside, and the late May heat from Ouranos’s blue/white sun immediately had sweat popping on his forehead and his T-shirt sticking to his chest. He found it an effort to put one foot in front of the other, and it wasn’t just the heat that had his footsteps dragging. On Fridays he and his dad always met for dinner in Pony Town where they enjoyed one of the spicy alien cuisines that could be safely ingested by humans. Normally he looked forward to this ritual, but how could he bear to tell his dad that he was no longer the valedictorian? Especially coming on the heels of his refusal to accept the scholarship to the military academy.

There was a subtle trembling that came up through the ground and into the soles of his shoes. Tracy looked up as a big passenger ship lifted off from the Cristóbal Colón Spaceport. The massive vessel glittered in the sunlight as it balanced on a tail of flame. He had only been on one of the great ships twice. He didn’t remember the trip out, he had been barely four. The trip back however was etched in acid memory. He had been seven when they returned to Ouranos. His mother had died, their attempt to become carpet baggers on a newly discovered Hidden World had ended badly, and Tracy, his father and grandfather had returned deeply in debt and utterly defeated to the capital city of Hissilek.

The memory brought a sudden tightness to his chest, a new grief that had nothing to do with the news he had received this afternoon. Tracy was shaken and bewildered by the emotion and then he found the context. He had wanted to see the stars from the observation deck and his father had tried to sneak them up to the upper levels where the well-born, wealthy and well-connected traveled in luxury, but they had been stopped by a supercilious steward who ordered them back down to the dorm quarters. Tracy never had gotten to see the stars from space.

His father had. The shop “made” for some of the young gentlemen who attended the academy and occasionally crises would demand his father’s presence on the great floating space station. There were moments when he wanted to beg to go in Alexander’s place, but his father didn’t want him missing school and the FFH families were particular about who served them. Maybe now, since his life and education were over he’d get to go and see the stars.

You would if you went to The High Ground.

He pushed away the traitorous thought. He had made his decision. He wouldn’t give the
pendejos
the satisfaction. His errant, agitated thoughts had him walking without looking where he was going, and Tracy suddenly found a beefy hand against his chest and he was shoved unceremoniously against the wall of a building.

He looked up into the face of the bodyguard dressed in the livery of House C. de Vaca de Basaf, and realized he was in that no man’s land of commerce that separated the estates and palaces of the Palacio Colina from Pony Town and Stick Town and Slunky Town, the alien neighborhoods farther inland and well away from the cooling breezes off the ocean.

He recognized the livery because his father had made him memorize the coats of arms of every noble house so if any member of the FFH were to grace the tailor shop they would be greeted by name and title. Truthfully the shop only catered to a handful of well-born clients; men of a more conservative bent who preferred Alexander Belmanor’s understated tailoring. The whole thing had been a massive waste of time in Tracy’s opinion and in fact he was faintly embarrassed by his father’s pride at being one of the four tailors who “made” for the Emperor.

A flitter bounced lightly on its maglev cushion while a Hajin chauffeur held open the door of the vehicle. The alien’s mane was thick and golden, falling in a forelock over the long face. The thick hair ran down the back of his head and disappeared beneath the collar of his elaborate livery. The alien looked hot and uncomfortable, as uncomfortable as Bajit, the Hajin who pressed clothes for the Belmanors in their stifling workroom. One of the chauffeur’s large dark eyes, set on the side of its bony head, was cocked at Tracy, the other stared at the door of the bank on the other side of the street.

The Marqués was being bowed through the tall steel and glass doors by an obsequious bank manager. He headed down the steps accompanied by a second guard. His eyes skimmed across Tracy, bored and uncaring. The bodyguard at the flitter cuffed Tracy lightly on the cheek. Reminded of his duty, Tracy bowed as the nobleman walked past. C. de Vaca stepped into the backseat of the flitter. The guards took their seats in the flitter and the entire entourage flew away.

I wonder if he has a son going to The High Ground?
Tracy thought.
Of course he does if he’s got a son.
Every Fortune Five Hundred male had to attend the academy unless they’d been promised to the church. Just like every
intitulado
had to spend six months playing soldier in the
Reserva Combata Formación Cuerpo
during their last year in high school.
So we can be cannon fodder if there’s another war
, Tracy thought.

With an angry shake of the head he forced away the thoughts. It wasn’t that he was regretting his decision. It was just like being told not to think about pink elephants. He checked the time on his ScoopRing, realized he was going to be late and set off at a jog.

The glass, stone and steel buildings that housed the engines of the economy gave way to less towering construction, cheaper materials, and subtle inhuman differences in color choices and design. It was also decidedly shabby. Signs for strip clubs, massage parlors, nail and hair salons blossomed down side streets. Tracy knew that many of them were in fact brothels despite the laws that made sex between humans and aliens strictly illegal. The ban had been put in place out of fear of the mysterious Cara’ot and their uncanny ability to blend the DNA of wildly divergent species to create new and strange hybrids. But sex was a potent drive, as was the lure of the exotic, and now the authorities mostly turned a blind eye. Unless it was some prominent politician who had fallen out of favor with the Emperor. It was a convenient way to remove a problem without leaving Imperial fingerprints.

Tracy moved deeper into Pony Town and the crowds on the streets began to change as well as the architecture. There were still humans, but in addition there were Hajin clip-clopping past on delicate hooves, their long arms swinging at their sides, and their manes fluttering. Tiponi Flutes, like animated groves of bamboo, hooted and swayed as they played their incomprehensible math-based stick and tile game. The betting was frenzied and the Reals piled up.

Isanjo, fur-covered and wide-eyed, their prehensile tails waving like pennants, flowed through the crowds. Tracy spotted a tail dart quickly into a human’s pocket and emerge with a wallet. The Isanjo vanished into the crowd, and the human walked on, unaware of the robbery.

There was a shadow in one of the narrow side streets that met no known shape or form. It vanished into a doorway, and Tracy realized he might have actually seen a Cara’ot. They were normally found only aboard their ships, and in the warehouses surrounding spaceports where they sold their goods.

His father was waiting on the corner by the bodega where they bought groceries. Slight and stoop-shouldered, his greying, dishwater-blond hair lay limp on his skull from the heat and humidity. The older man’s eyes lit up when he spotted Tracy, and Alexander waved. He had almost abnormally long hands and the swollen knuckles from his work intensified the sense of freakishness.

Panting, Tracy came to a stop, and Alexander hugged him. “You’re late.”

“Sorry.” Tracy almost added
Naranjo wanted to see me
, but bit it back just in time.

“Where do you want to eat?”

Tracy pointed at an open-air café bracketed by wooden trellises. Overhead thick ropes crisscrossed with the complexity of a spider’s web. Isanjo ran along the ropes, trays balanced expertly in their six-fingered hands. Alexander sighed.