The High Ground (20 page)

Julieta hurried down to him, lost her footing in her high heels and tumbled the final steps. The Emperor caught her. “Whoa, whoa.”

Julieta gave an embarrassed giggle. “I’m sorry. I’m just so excited.” Her father swung her in a circle, and set her gently aside.

Seeing Julieta in her father’s arms brought back a vivid memory. Her father hugging her close as they rode a sled down a snow-covered hill on Kronos where the high mountains in the southern hemisphere offered spectacular skiing. She was four. Her mother was gone and a new woman sat at her father’s side, but she felt safe encircled in her father’s embrace. It was a shame insecurities and fears couldn’t be so easily quelled now.

Estella had already made her elegant descent to the ground floor and was greeting her stepmother. Mercedes shook off her reverie, and descended the rest of the way. Her father drew himself to attention and gave a sharp inclination of his head, making it clear to the guards and equerries gathered all around that this was no longer just his daughter, but his equal.

Mercedes mirrored the gesture, and walked past him toward the front doors. A single push from the guards to either side sent them gliding open. They gave double foot stamps and the butts of their rifles cracked against the floor as she passed. It was all a bit intoxicating.

* * *

It turned out, unsurprisingly, that a Pony Town cab driver wasn’t all that familiar with the Palacio Colina, and a self-fly flitter wasn’t an option. Apparently they weren’t programmed with locations on the hill. Whether from worry that a cab might be rigged with explosives or because they were cheaper and might allow riffraff to gawk at their betters, Tracy wasn’t sure.

What he did know was that the invitation read eight p.m., and he was arriving at eight thirty-five. Despite his nerves and anxiety over being late he couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of the stately homes as they flew past. He had thought the Talion house was impressive. It looked like a shack next to these monuments to wealth and power.

On the pinnacle of the hill the lights of the imperial palace glittered in the darkness. Tracy wondered if Mercedes was still up there. Intricate gates, the metal twined to resemble leaves and vines, rose up on their left. The driver looked at his nav system, muttered and turned toward the gates.

A guard stepped out. Tracy pulled the invitation out of his pocket and rolled down the window. The cool night air filled with the scent of star jasmine and gardenia rolled into the cab, banishing the faint odor of pastrami and coffee from the driver’s unfinished dinner.

“Your business,” the guard began, then he saw Tracy’s uniform, stepped back and saluted. “Sir.”

Tracy still offered the invitation. It was waved off. “Go ahead, sir.”

Tracy left the window down and found himself ridiculously pleased by the guard’s reaction. He could get used to this. He caught a glimpse of the driver in the rearview mirror looking back at him seemingly impressed, and Tracy preened a bit more.

They joined a line of limousines approaching the grand portico. Eventually it was their turn. A Hajin footman in the elaborate livery of the Aubrey family waited while the driver lowered the flitter to a comfortable height, then opened the door for Tracy and bowed as he exited.

Tracy’s driver, an older human man, leaned out his window. “Hey, this took longer than I thought. Your old man didn’t give me enough money to cover that. That’ll be another twenty Reals.”

Embarrassment and rage sent heat washing into Tracy’s face. “You told my dad you knew the area. Your problem if you lied,” he said in an angry whisper.

The driver raised his voice. “What kind of officer welshes on a debt?”

A bead of sweat broke out and rolled down Tracy’s cheek. The limos were backing up behind them. He heard the Hajin footman murmuring into his lapel radio. Pride had turned to embarrassment. The driver in the limo behind them climbed out. Tracy reached for his credit spike.

A human in an elegant suit emerged from the front doors and came down the steps. The Hajin footman stepped aside. The man leaned in toward the driver. “I am Stephen Grassley, majordomo to House de Vargas.”

The driver’s expression shifted from calculating to worried. He started to whine, “I was promised—”

“You were paid in advance. If you continue to embarrass this young man you may find your license in some danger.”

“Fortune fucker,” the driver spat. The window rolled up and he accelerated away so quickly that dust and gravel was thrown against Grassley’s and Tracy’s trouser legs.

“I’m sorry,” Tracy muttered. “I should have—”

“No matter. Please step out of the way so others may be dropped off.” The majordomo walked back up the stairs.

Embarrassed, Tracy mumbled, “Right. Sorry. Right away.”

He hurried up the broad steps leading to the elaborate front doors, torn between gratitude at the help and the implicit criticism and condescension in the man’s remarks. Every time he thought he was transcending his background something always reminded him that in the eyes of these people he never would.

Tracy stepped through into the foyer. The floor underfoot was pale blue glass. Ahead there was a rather terrifying staircase, a curving expanse of crystal stairs with only a thin silver metal railing to offset vertigo.

An Isanjo maid darted over to Tracy’s elbow. “If I may take your hat, young sir.”

He handed it over automatically then was seized with a sudden worry. “How do I get it back? Do I get a ticket or something?”

“I have made note of your name, Cadet Belmanor,” the alien said, gesturing toward his nameplate woven into the fabric of his coat.

“Oh. Right.” He headed for the stairs. As he climbed he wondered why the hell someone would have a staircase with clear treads?

Then he reached the ballroom that encompassed most of the first floor, and all such extraneous thoughts vanished. Overhead enormous chandeliers seemed to drip ice and fire from long multi-sided crystal spikes. There was a loft above a pair of doors at the far end of the enormous room where a small orchestra was playing. The floor beneath his boots was polished sek wood that seemed to flex with each step, easing any possible jarring while dancing.

A delicate clearing of the throat pulled Tracy out of his dumbfounded trance. He flushed furiously when he realized there was a receiving line and that the Conde de Vargas and the condessa, an older but very beautiful woman who stood at his side, were waiting to greet him.

“Sir!” Tracy snapped off a salute.

Rohan Aubrey held out a plump white hand. “Cadet Belmanor, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Allow me to present my wife, Analise.”

The condessa had long auburn hair that fell over her shoulders like a waterfall. “Cadet. Welcome to our home.”

Tracy bowed. That at least he knew how to do well. His father had drilled that skill into him. “Thank you, ma’am… milady.”

The condessa gave him a kind smile, and Aubrey slapped him on the shoulder. “The buffet is all set up through those doors at the far end. If you’re anything like our sons you’re hungry. Young men, particularly soldiers, are always hungry. Please, go, enjoy and then find a pretty girl to dance with.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“And a word in your ear,” the conde said quietly. “The only person in civilian dress that you salute is the Emperor.”

“Uh, right, thank you, sir.”

Tracy bowed to the conde, and once more to the condessa, and moved toward the etched glass doors the Conde de Vargas had indicated. The entire wall to his left was a series of tall cathedral-style windows. As he passed they switched; one moment clear glass, the next they became mirrors throwing back his image, and that of the swirling crowds. No one was dancing yet, but the room was still a banquet for the senses.

Tracy wondered if he dared take a surreptitious photo for his father. He decided to wait until there were people dancing and take a video rather than a static picture. There would be less chance of getting caught, and his father would get the full effect of the amazing room.

Through the doors was another large room, where five buffet tables stood against the walls, laden with a bewildering array of food. The smell of roasted meat permeated the air. Round tables with eight chairs to each table glistened beneath white tablecloths, filling the center of the room. Servants wove through the tables carrying bottles of wine and champagne. There was the roar of conversation and the syncopation of tinkling crystal.

More servants stood at carving stations at all five buffet tables. Tracy gathered up a plate and silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin and moved down the table. There were oysters on the half shell, shrimp both fried and cold, a silver bowl piled high with caviar, salads, vegetables, roasted fowl, standing rib roast, and ham. He had no idea how to eat a raw oyster, but he was determined to try it, just like he was going to try the caviar.

Once his plate was piled high he scanned the room for a place to sit. Hugo Devris and Mark Wilson were sitting with several members of the team including Jasper Talion, whose broken arm was in a sling. Ernesto Chapman-Owiti sat with several other acknowledged geniuses from all three classes. There were tables of the gung-ho types who were clearly going to end up commanding
fusileros
. There was a table of only the highest born—Boho Cullen, Arturo del Campo and his brother. The three ladies-in-waiting were all at that table.
Trawling for husbands no doubt
, Tracy thought. There was no sign of Mercedes.

Tracy spotted a table near the doors, which meant it caught the draft from the ballroom and was well away from the food. It was empty. Perfect. He went over and sat down. After only a few bites he decided that oysters were delicious and he went back for a plate of just those. He was starting to see the china at the bottom of both plates when a shadow fell across the table.

Tracy looked over his shoulder to see his host standing behind him. He started to jump to his feet when Rohan Aubrey laid a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. “Mind if I join you, Cadet?”

“Uh, no, sir, of course not.”

Aubrey settled into a chair with a grunt and a sigh. “Standing for that long kills my lower back. Analise would say it would help if I lost this.” He slapped his paunch and gave a chuckle. “She’s right of course. But for now I’m taking a break until Fernán arrives.” Tracy couldn’t think of a word to say to a man who could refer to the Emperor by his first name. “So, how was the first quarter?”

“Good,” Tracy offered hesitantly.

“Glad to hear it. You’re racking up impressive grades.”

“You… you see our grades, sir?”

“Of course. I follow all of you. You’re the future and more importantly our first line of defense. And The High Ground is my particular passion. Hard to believe now, I know, but I was quite the dashing
Infierno
pilot in my youth. So, where do you think your talents lie?”

“I’m good at math. I expect I’ll end up a navigator or a gunnery officer.”

“I hear you’re also a very good shot.”

“If I can line up my shots. Though I’d rather not tote a rifle.”

“A cautious man. I like that. We get enough of the balls-to-the-wall variety. Everything ultimately comes down to the numbers, doesn’t it? Number of ships, number of missiles, amount of available fuel, rations, supply lines in general.” The conde paused. “And men, particularly men. The numbers are rather interesting out in sector 470.” Aubrey stood, pressed his fists against the small of his back and stretched. “Well, lovely visiting with you. Keep up the good work, Cadet.”

The conde walked back into the ballroom just as the orchestra began to play “Hail to the Emperor”.

Cadets were leaving their tables and rushing to watch the arrival of the Emperor. As for Tracy, he sat still wondering,
What the hell was that about?
He replayed the conversation.
Sector 470
. Clearly he was supposed to take a look at resources flowing to that sector, and look for… what? Maybe he’d know it if he saw it. Okay, so what if he did find something? How was he supposed to report his findings back to the Conde de Vargas? He pushed that aside as a problem for another day. Mercedes was arriving. He wanted to see that, and maybe in a crowd of seven or eight hundred people he could find a way to tell her he was sorry.

* * *

Constanza had clung to her father’s arm all the way up the rather terrifying staircase. Once they were all gathered on the landing her father had removed his wife’s hand from his arm, placed his hand in the small of her back, and pushed her gently aside. He gestured to Mercedes.

“Come.”

It was not the cajoling tone of a father, but the command of an emperor. Mercedes moved to his side and he extended his arm. She placed a gloved hand on his sleeve and they walked toward the vaulted scissor arch into the ballroom. The majordomo called in stentorian tones over the opening chords of the imperial march:

“His Most Noble and Puissant Emperor of the Solar League, Fernán Marcus Severino Beltrán de Arango. And Her Imperial Highness, Princess Mercedes Adalina Saturnina Inez de Arango, the Infanta!”

The quick glance back over her shoulder was meant for her sisters, but Mercedes caught a glimpse of Constanza’s face. It was rigid and her blue eyes glittered with unshed tears. Mercedes had made a silly face, and she now struggled to compose her features so her stepmother wouldn’t think Mercedes was mocking her. Mercedes wasn’t sure she had been successful and then it was too late, for she and her father were through the arch and making a stately progress down the center of the dance floor while the elite of the Fortune Five Hundred bowed and curtsied at their passing.

She murmured greetings and lightly touched the fingertips of various well-wishers but it was all done by reflex. She couldn’t shake the image of Constanza’s face. There had been hurt reflected there and more than hurt… fear.

Mercedes’ recollections of the day her mother, Maribel, left were hazy, but there had been something in Constanza’s agonized expression that touched that memory. There had been an infant crying in the background. Julieta presumably. Two-year-old Estella had been sitting on the floor in their nursery playing with blocks. Maribel had knelt in front of her, and Mercedes, age four, had stood in the circle of her mother’s arms. She could remember her mother’s mouth moving, but she had no memory of the words spoken.