The High Ground (5 page)

The “young gentlemen” had begun arriving over the past week to be fitted for their uniforms for The High Ground, and his father had made sad eyes at Tracy, and once said hesitantly, “Are you sure?” Tracy’s blazing look had his father stuttering into muteness. Since then there had been tense silence in the shop and the apartment.

One such noble scion stood on the raised platform idly sipping champagne—Beauregard Honorius Sinclair Cullen, Vizconde Dorado Arco, Knight of the Shells, Shareholder General of the Grand Cartel and heir apparent to the 19th Duque de Argento y Pepco. Tracy knelt at Cullen’s feet, marking and pinning the cuffs of the pants. The spider silk had the consistency of flowing water against his skin. His father stood behind the young nobleman, smoothing the material across the broad shoulders and checking the fit of the coat at the tapering waistline.

“Good God, Arturo, military victories? Don’t be so conventional,” Cullen mocked, responding to a remark from his friend, Lord Arturo Espadero del Campo, one of the three sons of the Duque Agua de Negra. The man who had been the heir apparent to the Solar League until Mercedes Adalina Saturnina Inez de Arango, the Infanta, had agreed to attend The High Ground.

Tracy lowered his lashes to veil his eyes and hide the secret he had hugged close ever since the news services had announced that the Infanta would attend the military academy, the first required step of her ascent to the throne. There had been pictures of the girl in the modified uniform that had a long skirt instead of pants, and it was then that Tracy realized the identity of the girl on the beach.

The girl who had filled his thoughts, and had him waking sticky and panting from vividly erotic dreams. In some ways Tracy felt a fool. How could he have failed to recognize her? But she had been so out of context that it had never occurred to him, because context was everything in the carefully structured world of the Solar League.

I met the eldest child of the Emperor. We talked, and I said something. Something that helped her in some way. I wonder what it was?

If he had accepted the commission he might have found out. Tracy gave a quiet, derisive snort. As if he’d be allowed anywhere near her up on the space station—the
cosmódromo
—that housed the academy.

Cullen continued, “Military governor, that’s what you want. You can make a fortune when you have a planet to squeeze. Especially if you land a Hidden World. The government doesn’t care how much you bleed them.”

Del Campo sprawled on the sofa twirling his glass by the stem and watching the bubbles rise. “I don’t need money,” he said. His voice was a soft drawl. Both the young men had that FFH upper class accent, but it was even more pronounced in del Campo. Maybe because he was a cousin of the Emperor, Tracy wondered. “I want the people’s love,” he concluded.

“Why? Are you planning on going into politics after you leave the fleet?” Cullen laughed as if the very idea were absurd. He drained his glass and thrust it out.

Bajit minced over and refilled the glass, bowed and backed away. Tracy caught his father’s pained look. It would have reduced their status even further to have humans waiting on other humans so they had pulled the Hajin out of the workroom to act as waiter. Of course that meant Bajit wasn’t sewing which meant they were falling behind on orders, which meant more late nights for all three of them. Tracy swallowed resentment and found it lay just as uncomfortably in the gut as in the mouth.

“I’m a third son. I need to find some way to make my mark. Especially since it seems that neither my father nor Mihalis will become emperor now.”

Cullen shifted so he could look directly at his friend, his foot coming down hard on Tracy’s fingers. Tracy gave a hiss of pain, and for the first time Cullen seemed to be aware of him. He actually looked down. Tracy stared up into startlingly green eyes. With his jet-black hair and impressive physique Cullen was an extraordinarily handsome man, and at six foot four he made Tracy feel short even though he was six feet tall. The Vizconde was still standing on Tracy’s fingers.

“Watch what you’re doing,” he snapped and only then did he move his foot.

All of the slights and insults over the years and especially the past month coalesced into a hard burning ball and settled in Tracy’s throat. He felt his jaw tighten. Then he caught his father’s look—pleading and frantic.

Tracy returned his gaze to Cullen’s. “I beg your pardon, sir.” But he didn’t bow his head or look down.

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “Dolt.” He returned his attention to his companion. “This whole thing with Mercedes is just nonsense. I loathe the fact our class has to be part of an experiment. One doomed to fail, no doubt.”

Tracy had read every article, following each breathless discussion about how one bathroom was being refitted for the ladies. How many attendants the royal princess would bring. It had turned out to be only three rather than her usual seven ladies-in-waiting. There had been speculation about how the three were selected, what the presence of women on the station would do to good order and morale.

As if reading Tracy’s thoughts, del Campo spoke up. “I think she’s bringing a few attendants so there might be an opportunity for shagging as opposed to drilling.” The elegant dandy cocked his head. “Or perhaps drilling is the proper term.”

Cullen gave a shout of laughter. “I claim Cipriana. That nose and jaw on Mercedes are far too off-putting.” He paused, stroking his chin in deliberately theatrical and calculating manner. “Still, that ass is certainly appealing.” He paused for another sip of champagne.

Tracy reached into the pin box. It was almost involuntary, fueled by his rage at the nasty and suggestive remark. He jabbed the pin into Cullen’s ankle. The man bellowed and jerked. Tracy lifted his head and stared challengingly up into the Vizconde’s face. He then slowly removed the pin.

For a long moment there was only silence, then Alexander broke into hurried, stammering speech. “Ah, your lordship. I beg pardon. My boy has been at school. He’s a bit out of practice—”

Cullen ignored the older man. He stared down at Tracy. The rage in Cullen’s green eyes should have flayed the skin off him, but Tracy was oddly calm. Cullen embodied everything Tracy hated. He couldn’t strike back against the FFH, and Mercedes would never know he had defended her honor, but that was okay if he stood up to Cullen.

“If I didn’t already have a competent servant I would hire you so I could have the pleasure of beating you until you became less of an oaf. But perhaps that’s unlikely. You seem slow.”

Tracy gave Cullen a thin smile. “I won a place at The High Ground. You’re going just because your daddy is a duque—”

He was suddenly rocked by a hard blow across the face. But not from Cullen. Tracy had been prepared for the blow, but not the source. It was his father who had struck him. Tracy reeled less from pain than shock. Bajit reacted in alarm and went galloping out of the fitting room, champagne slopping from the bottle. Alexander grabbed Tracy by the collar and dragged him, choking, to his feet.

“I should give him to you, my lord, so you could teach him manners, but you probably wouldn’t want him.” His father gave him a shake as if displaying a piece of particularly unpleasant trash.

Never in his life had Tracy heard such a tone from his father. His bitter pleasure and anger melted into grief and anger. His cheek and jaw burned from the blow.

His dad glared at him. “Now apologize!” Alexander grated.

Obedience won out over pride and betrayal. Tracy bowed his head and muttered, “I beg your pardon, sir, for my clumsiness.”

“Still too proud. Whine. Make me pity you,” Cullen said.

His father shook him again. Fear and fury and grief combined to leave Tracy unable to draw in a full breath, much less speak. He endured another blow to his sore jaw, but no words emerged and he watched the dread bloom on his father’s face. They were saved by the royal cousin. Del Campo languidly drained his glass and stood.

“Oh leave off, Boho. He’s not worth the effort. And I want to get a ride in before Lady Maria’s party.”

Cullen tore off his jacket and threw it at Tracy who caught it instinctively. He turned to Alexander. “I should take my custom elsewhere, Belmanor, but I’ll give you another chance. Make sure my uniform is perfect and I won’t blacken your name to the entire FFH.” He walked toward the small dressing room and paused with his hand on the curtain. “But don’t expect payment. That will be your punishment for your son being an ill-mannered lout.”

A few moments later and they were gone. The faint echo of the bell over the door hung in the air. The anger was fading leaving only nausea. Tracy balled up the jacket and pressed it against his aching stomach.

“Dad,” Tracy began, but Alexander stepped away and glared at him.

“I took out a loan to buy that material from Dunlap’s.
Now
how do I pay for it? You’re right not to go to The High Ground. You haven’t got the skills—socially or emotionally—to make it. And after this performance today I doubt you have the brains for it either.” He whirled and strode into the workroom.

Tracy stood, stunned for a few minutes, then plunged after him. Bajit was frantically pressing shirts on the big heat press, the steam coiling around his face. Tracy flung Cullen’s jacket to the floor.

“You’re wrong! I could do it.”

Alexander whirled on him. “No! You couldn’t! You are what you are and it’s time you accepted that. This is your life.” He threw open his arms indicating the workroom.

Tracy stared at the bolts of material, the sewing machines, the boxes of thread. Pictured a life spent among the scraps. He had thought his father was proud of him, loved him. Now he knew the truth. He was nothing when compared to his father’s sycophantic adoration of the Fortune Five Hundred. A boulder had landed on his chest, crushing and painful. He wanted to wail like a child, or scream profanities. Tracy fought for control, threw back his head, and said in a low, cold voice, “Your little kingdom. Well, enjoy it because I’m going.” He went to the rack and tore down the cheap uniform provided by the academy.

“If you walk out that door you are never coming back,” Alexander called after him, his voice shaking.

“Fine! I hate you and I hope I never see you again!” Tracy said, spitting out the words. He plunged up the stairs to their apartment. He didn’t have much to pack. Toiletries, underwear, his tap-pad and ScoopRing, his mother’s rosary, the uniform, and shoes. A couple of changes of clothes. He had a feeling he’d be in uniform most of the time. He pulled out a travel sewing kit that had also been his mother’s. It was well stocked with thread, needles, pins and a tape measure. Tracy bounced it in his hand. It was a reminder of a life he was leaving behind. He should leave it too. But he had a vague gauzy memory of his mother packing it away as she headed out for the final fitting of some grand lady’s gown. He shoved it into his holdall.

He knew better than to take any posters, but he did take the crucifix down and added it to the holdall. He sealed the corners, slung it onto his shoulder and headed back down the stairs. He hesitated. What if his father was still in the workroom? It would be so awkward and anti-climactic. It might even shake his resolve. There was nothing for it. Gritting his teeth Tracy entered the stifling room. Alexander wasn’t there. Just Bajit, now seated at a sewing machine. One of the alien’s large and expressive eyes rolled toward Tracy.

“I am so sorry to see you go, young sir,” Bajit lisped. “But may your path lead you to great reward.”

“Thank you, Bajit, that’s kind.” Tracy moved to the door into the alley. He tapped his ScoopRing and deleted the key code for the shop. He was never coming back here again.

“And, sir,” the alien called. Tracy looked back. “Your papa will be reconciled, of that I am sure. Know that he loves you.”

“If you think that then you really don’t understand humans.”

* * *

Three expectant faces stared up at her. Mercedes stood at the front of the shuttle looking at the women who had been tasked with accompanying her to the academy. They had known each other since childhood, and they had been among the seven attendants who had been assigned to her once she reached sixteen and set up her own household. How or by what standards they had been selected to join her in military service she wasn’t sure. She just hoped it wasn’t based solely on political clout. There had been more than a few editorials questioning the Emperor’s decision so if any of them failed it would just weaken him further. Mercedes realized she had been wool gathering and she returned her attention to her companions.

Lady Danica Everett, daughter of the Conde de Wahle; fine-boned with dark golden hair and brown eyes, filled with worry at the moment. She was small; her head barely came up to Mercedes’ shoulder.

Lady Cipriana Delacroix, daughter of the Duque de Nico-Hathaway, a true beauty with ebony skin and black hair with a hint of red among the raven. She was tall and slim, and a martial light flashed in her dark eyes.

Lady Sumiko Tsukuda, daughter of Caballero Arashi Tsukuda. She was the lowest born of the trio. Plump, a little unremarkable, but known to be bookish and far too ready to engage in a debate over any and every topic. They were debates Sumiko often won.

They were all clad in spider silk uniforms. The skirts were to the floor, which Mercedes knew to be absurd. At least they were split down the center like culottes so they could maintain decency in freefall. Instead of pumps or sandals they wore black knee boots. White shirts held with a gold clip at the throat and jackets identical to those worn by the men, but adjusted to accommodate a woman’s breasts and hips. Mercedes had to admit that the severe lines of the jacket were very flattering. All of them wore their hair in a single tight braid down their backs.

“Remember, you are not there to wait on me. Just to act as chaperones. We’ll be assigned servants—”

“
One
servant,” Cipriana said, looking up and allowing the holo to slide back into her ScoopRing.

“It’s not like we need more. We eat in the mess hall, we’re not going to be changing clothes five times a day. Our title for the first year will be simply ‘cadet’. Second year we’ll become midshipmen. Senior year we’ll be ensigns—”