The High Ground (8 page)

Mercedes snuck one final look at Tracy. High color flew in his cheeks and his grey eyes were alight with pleasure. He had his shoulders squared and he looked taller than he had even moments before. Then they were in the mess hall, a large utilitarian space softened only by the battle banners hanging from the high ceiling. On some the colors were faded, the metallic threads tarnished by time. Others were scorched. Still others displayed ragged edges where sections had been burned or torn away. A history of human conquest written in fabric.

There was a raised dais at one end of the room that held the high table. The rest of the tables ran perpendicular to the high table, and each of those was headed by an officer with the rank of commander or captain. Mercedes assumed the men were teachers. A military band was in one corner staffed by low-ranking spacers.

At the high table the commandant and his second were already in place. A chaplain sat at one end of the table, and at the other was Rohan Danilo Marcus Aubrey, Conde de Vargas, who served as the direct patron to The High Ground. His plump hands were folded over his paunch, and the light reflected off the scalp showing through his thinning red hair.

Alien servants were flowing through a set of double doors. Each time they slid open Mercedes had a glimpse of the kitchen beyond and the laboring cooks, none of them human. Among the fur and hooves and tails she spotted one human. An older man, stoop-shouldered with greying hair. He was trying to stay hidden at the side of the doors, but leaned out now and then to scan the crowd of students. She frowned at the incongruity, then saw his face light up with pride and pleasure. She followed his gaze. He was looking at the young man from the beach and now she could see the resemblance. If she had to guess she would bet they were father and son. The older man lingered for a brief moment longer, pressed the tips of his fingers to his heart and then his lips. The doors closed again. When they reopened the man was gone. Mercedes looked to Tracy, but he hadn’t noticed. He had been focused on scanning the long tables for his place card. When he finally found it his table was well in the back and next to the doors leading into the kitchen, which made it ironic that he had missed seeing his parent.

As she expected, Mercedes and her attendants were at the middle table closest to the dais. Their companions were the sons of the highest born families with one notable exception: her cousin, Mihalis, eldest of the de Campo sons, was not present. She and her ladies were clumped at one end of the table, a small island of femininity in the midst of a sea of testosterone. Mercedes knew for a fact that Vice Admiral Markov was married, but even spouses weren’t permitted at this welcoming banquet. Clearly the rituals and traditions of The High Ground were uniquely male. Would they be adjusted to accommodate the four nobly born women?
Only time will tell
, she thought.

The band struck up the League anthem and with a scrape of chairs and scuff of feet everyone stood. A
fusilero
slapped his rifle, and banged the butt of the gun on the floor announcing with a roar:

“All rise for His Imperial Highness Fernán Marcus Severino Beltrán de Arango!”

Her father entered and walked toward the high table. As he passed he glanced briefly over at her. For the briefest instant her father’s eyes, cold and demanding, met hers.

She received the message loud and clear—
don’t fail me
.

He looked away, and the image of a work-weary father miming his message of love to an unaware child flitted across her mind. She wished that gesture of love had been given to her. Instead she was left with only the crushing burden of expectation.

Reveille had sounded, piped through speakers in the rooms and echoing down the halls. Tracy was already up, dressed in his workout clothes—sweat pants, T-shirt and running shoes—and heading down the corridor toward the mess hall when the recorded bells rang and the bugle blew. At home he’d risen with his father at five so there was time to work before school. His interior alarm had brought him awake at the normal time, and he saw no reason to linger in bed. Drills were scheduled for eight, and he wanted to be sure his breakfast had time to settle before some drill sergeant laid into him.

It meant he once again dressed without assistance from his batBEM, and he wasn’t sorry. Last night when he’d returned to his room after the banquet he found Donnel waiting for him. As the Cara’ot helped him out of his jacket he said, “I took the liberty of laying out your gym clothes for tomorrow, and loading your text books on your tap-pad, sir.”

“Uh… thank you.”

Donnel motioned for him to sit on the bed as he pulled on gloves. Tracy jerked when the creature knelt and carefully removed his mirror-bright boots, giving them a brush with the sleeve on one of his arms. “I also added a map to your class schedule. Wouldn’t do to be late on your first day.”

“Thank you,” Tracy muttered again. Donnel motioned for him to stand. Once again he found himself obeying, and jerked nervously when the alien unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers.

“I will be waiting in the shower area with your undress blues after drills.”

“Really, you don’t need to do that. Really you don’t,” Tracy objected as he stepped out of the puddled material. He could hear the desperation in his voice.

Donnel rocked back onto two of his three legs and gazed up at Tracy out of those strange eyes. “If I may be so bold, sir… it will place you at a disadvantage if you do not show the proper attitude toward the serving class. Again, your pardon, but you are already operating at a deficit as a scholarship student. If you wish to hold your own you must behave as if there is no difference between you and the FFH. One way to demonstrate that is to seem at ease with personal servants. I hope you will forgive my bluntness, sir.”

“Yeah. Okay. I see your point. I’ll see you after drills. And… uh… I can handle… the rest.” He gripped the waistband of his shorts, determined to hold them in place.

“Very good, sir.” Donnel brushed down the dress uniform and hung it carefully in the closet. “If that will be all I will see you in the morning.”

But fortunately Tracy had dodged that by rising early. He was finding this level of attention rather creepy. He might have to ape his betters—his mouth twisted at that unconscious use of the word—when he was around them, but in the privacy of his quarters he’d look after himself.

* * *

It hadn’t been a restful night. The bed was too narrow and Mercedes constantly woke to find that her foot was hanging off the edge and exposed to the cold air. She was also intensely aware of the other girls sleeping all around her. As the hours crawled past she discovered that Cipriana snored and Sumiko talked in her sleep. Mercedes hoped
she
didn’t have any embarrassing sleeping habits.

Their quarters were clearly an awkward retro-fit. The walls between what had probably been individual rooms had been removed to leave a large ungraceful space with closets bulging like growths into the room and toilets and showers exposed. All four beds were set in a star pattern and only two of them were placed where the overhead reading lights could provide illumination. Between the beds and the desks the space felt cramped and unwieldy.

Mercedes wondered why the rooms had been twisted and deformed in this way, and then the answer hit her with blinding clarity—the administration was worried that if the women had private rooms they might find ways to slip boys into those rooms and into those beds and sex might occur. Instead the women were forced to live and sleep cheek by jowl to act as duennas for each other.

According to their class schedules physical training occupied the first two hours of the morning. As their maids—batBEMs—fussed and flitted about assisting them to undress after the banquet, Mercedes had inspected her gym attire. Once again it was a split skirt but not as long as the skirt for the dress uniform or her undress blues. The workout skirt ended mid-calf, a singularly unattractive length. There was a bulky tunic to be worn on top that hung to mid-thigh and would effectively hide her figure. Mercedes suspected the abundance of material was going to interfere with movement.

The four Hajin BatBEMs appeared a few minutes after reveille had sounded and started the water in the showers running. Mercedes slid out of the bunk and headed to a toilet. Pulling up her nightgown she sat down on the metal seat and felt her bladder tighten.

Cipriana apparently didn’t suffer from embarrassment over having to urinate in front of other people. Her pee tinkled loudly into the metal bowl but even with that encouragement Mercedes couldn’t relax and relieve herself. Her servant, Tako, sensed her discomfort and positioned herself in front of the opening. Mercedes sighed and finally let go.

A quick shower was followed by all of them standing in front of the mirrors and quickly applying makeup while their hair was brushed and braided by the servants. The chrono set into the sleeve of Mercedes’ tunic showed that twelve minutes had elapsed.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath Mercedes faced her ladies. She wondered if her expression was as trepidatious as theirs.

“Well, all right. This is it then.
Touch the sky with glory
,” she added though she felt silly intoning the motto.

She turned on her heel, the rubber of her gym shoe squeaking on the hard composite floor, and led them toward the door. Behind her someone giggled. She didn’t look back to find out who.

* * *

Tracy entered the mess hall and found that of the first-year cadets only he and the ladies had arrived. Tracy was startled to see Mercedes.
The Infanta
, he mentally made the correction. He had no idea what a noble lady’s life was like, but he doubted early mornings played any part in it. She was looking at him, and a sharp frown furrowed the pale chocolate skin between those sweeping brows. Apparently he’d allowed his surprise to show on his face.

He ducked his head and hustled to his table near the kitchen doors. He was relieved to see only a knife, fork and spoon instead of the array of flatware that had daunted him the night before. He had tried to surreptitiously watch his dinner companions, but he knew he and the other scholarship student, a young man from Nueva Terra named Mark Wilson, had made mistakes and that those mistakes had been noted by their better-born classmates. Even Hugo had known how to use the extra forks and spoons. The Devrises might not have had a title until recently, but they had the next best thing—money.

The FFH progeny with whom Tracy shared the table hadn’t been all that happy. It wasn’t just the presence of the commoners that had aroused their noble ire. There had also been a lot of bitching about the table itself. Its placement near the kitchen doors had been viewed as an insult, just like having to share the table with
intitulado
. The professor at the head of the table—who had introduced himself as Commander Trent Crispin—had cast the fulminating aristos an amused glance and said, “Look on the bright side. Our food is hot when it arrives.”

That had drawn a laugh from Hugo. It had rung out too loud and too forced, and Hugo had wilted under the looks. Tracy almost felt sorry for the boy. Then he remembered that Hugo had taken what was rightfully his, to be the valedictorian, and Tracy quashed the feeling.

This morning Crispin was not present at the table. Since the dais was cleared of emperors, commandants and patrons the teachers had commandeered the high table and the task of supervising the first-year cadets had fallen to upperclassmen. Ensign Prefect Caballero Marcus Gelb had been the only other formal introduction that had been made last night. A ribbon on the left shoulder of the third-year student’s uniform marked him as the prefect for their table. His only other notable feature had been an angry red cut across his receding chin. The man had noticed Tracy staring, frowned and Tracy had quickly looked away.

A Hajin servant appeared at Tracy’s side, pulling him out of his reverie. “Traditional breakfast or oatmeal,” the alien inquired softly. “Tea or coffee? Juice?”

Tracy considered the Sims he’d seen about life in the corps and books he’d read. He decided to opt for the less heavy alternative, at least until he knew what physical training was likely to entail.

“Oatmeal, café au lait, apple juice.” The Hajin bowed and slipped back into the kitchen.

The food appeared quickly and Tracy began to eat. The food at the banquet had been first rate, and Tracy had assumed that would be the exception since they were hosting royalty, but breakfast was equally delicious, the oatmeal subtly flavored with cinnamon and cardamom and an alien spice he couldn’t identify.
Well of course
, he thought,
the FFH isn’t going to start slumming just because they’re in the military. Servants to wait on us hand and foot and gourmet meals.

A few moments later Wilson arrived. They had surreptitiously exchanged names and handshakes the night before. The better-born cadets at their table had not offered their names to the two scholarship students, and indeed seemed to pretend they weren’t present. Wilson had looked enviously at Tracy’s spider silk and tugged ineffectually at the poorly tailored coat of his pale blue charity uniform. Tracy had wanted to suggest that Wilson bring the coat to his room and let him fit it properly, but he quashed the impulse. He didn’t want to be known as the tailor’s son, the tradesman, the low-class lout. That life was behind him.

“Morning,” Wilson muttered.

“Morning,” Tracy grunted back.

At some point he and Wilson would have to talk, and decide just how much interaction they were going to have. Tracy felt it would be a mistake for them to spend too much time together. The next three years wasn’t just an opportunity for an education. They needed to use it to make contacts and form alliances. Assuming any of their FFH classmates ever decided to acknowledge them, much less speak to them, Tracy thought as he watched Gelb, frown furrowing his brow, stalk to the table.

The prefect leaned toward them. “I will have good order at this table. So don’t fucking embarrass me,
intitulados
!” he hissed in an undertone.