In Evil Times Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Melinda Snodgrass and coming soon from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1: For your own Good

  2: Well, this is Awkward

  3: Not my Daughter

  4: The Satyr in the Garden

  5: When you need a Whore

  6: Is this all there is?

  7: Deadened to the Pain

  8: Sing for your Supper

  9: Goodbyes and Grievances

  10: The Monsters in the Dark

  11: Against Infinity

  12: Heroics and Hysterics

  13: The World as It Is

  14: Decision Point

  15: By Lucky Chance

  16: Good News! the League is Here

  17: Duty

  18: Lies and Damn Lies

  19: The Worst Kind of Woman

  20: Confiscation

  21: The Children’s Hour

  22: The Monsters Among Us

  23: Please think we’re Nice

  24: Heroes and Politics

  25: Such an easy thing to Give

  26: Mostly we Make Shit Up

  27: Would you do it all Again?

  28: Dial up a Miracle

  29: A Dutiful Son

  30: Ghosts and Shadows

  31: So will you be Judged

  32: What waits in the Dark

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also Available from Titan Books

  IN EVIL TIMES

  Also by Melinda Snodgrass and coming soon from Titan Books

  THE HIGH GROUND

  THE HIDDEN WORLD (July 2018)

  IN EVIL TIMES

  THE IMPERIALS SAGA

  MELINDA SNODGRASS

  TITAN BOOKS

  In Evil Times

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783295845

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781783295852

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London

  SE1 0UP

  First edition: July 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © 2017 Melinda Snodgrass. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  This one is For Eric Kelley.

  My Garrus and an invaluable source of late night brainstorm sessions.

  1

  FOR YOUR OWN GOOD

  “We wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Put you in a situation where you might find yourself issuing orders to one of your betters.”

  Ensign Thracius—Tracy—Ransom Belmanor stared down at the Lieutenant Junior Grade bars. They glittered against the black velvet that lined the clear Lucite box. The box itself sat in the exact center of the desk belonging to Vice Admiral Duque Maximilian Vertrant, the Commandant of the High Ground. A small man, the massive furniture seemed to dwarf him.

  When Tracy had started school three years earlier, Vice Admiral Vasquez y Markov had led the Solar League’s preeminent military academy. Big and burly, Markov had dominated the room and the academy, but the admiral had been forced to retire at the end of Tracy’s first year. The ever useful spend more time with his family being the stated reason. The real reason was that Markov had missed a plot against the emperor of the Solar League and his chosen successor— his daughter, Mercedes—that had been going on right beneath the commandant’s aristocratic nose.

  In contrast to Markov’s rumbling tones, Vertrant had a rather high-pitched voice complete with a prissy upper-class accent and an annoying habit of stressing random words. Vertrant never forgot his title and never let others forget it either, and he had all the characteristics of the Fortune Five Hundred that Tracy most loathed and despised. The commandant finished by saying, “Especially given the high station held by one of your classmates in particular and you a mere scholarship student…”

  Tracy and his fellow scholarship student Mark Wilson had endured countless such snubs and less than stellar assignments during their three years at the High Ground. That had certainly been the case for the shipboard trials that had occupied part of this, their final year. Tracy wished that he and Mark could have shared beers and bitches, but the other scholarship student had never forgiven Tracy for receiving the Distinguido Servicio Cruzar for his service to the Infanta. They had barely spoken beyond what was required for the past two years.

  And now, mere days before the graduation ceremony, another insult. Instead of graduating as a newly minted first lieutenant like every other ensign in the senior class he was one step below his classmates. Except for one. He hoped. Tracy couldn’t help it, he blurted out, “Is this being done to Ensign Wilson as well?”

  The thin brows snapped together in a sharp frown and Vertrant’s nose wrinkled as if confronted by a particularly noxious odor. “Nothing is being done to you, Belmanor. I do this as a favor, for your own good.”

  “Oh, of course, sir, how could I not have realized that.”

  Unfortunately Vertrant wasn’t stupid. He stood and leaned across the desk, his small body almost vibrating with rage. “Only your stellar academic achievement is preventing me from responding, Lieutenant Junior Grade, but be advised— school is over. You are an officer in the Orden de la Estrella and insubordination can and will be punished. You are dismissed.”

  Tracy slammed his boot heels together, snapped off a perfect salute, swept up the now tainted emblems of his new rank and left the office. He wanted to find Davin or Ernesto and vent, but everyone was busy overseeing the batBEMs who were clearing out their quarters.

  The person Tracy most wanted to talk to was Mercedes, but he knew that was impossible. Their closeness during freshman year had ended with the announcement of her engagement to 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, known as Boho to his friends and as Asshole to Tracy. The wedding of the Infanta and her dashing fiancé was set for one week after graduation. Tracy was very glad he’d be aboard a ship and hopefully far away from Ouranos and Hissilek, the planet’s capital city. He just prayed his future captain wouldn’t insist the crew watch the royal wedding. Maybe he could arrange to be on duty or something.

  He entered his room. Donnel his Cara’ot batBEM was snapping shut his holdall. Tracy threw the Lucite box at him. The batBEM caught it with one of his four hands, the six fingers closing tightly on the box.

  “Here, get these on my jacket.”

  The Cara’ot stared at the bars then looked up at Tracy, the four eyes blinking at him. “One last kick in the nuts before you leave the hallowed halls, I see.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be the last,” Tracy replied sourly.

  Donnel’s three legs propelled him quickly to the closet where Tracy’s O-Trell—Orden de la Estrella—dress uniform jacket hung waiting for the graduation ceremony. “Wish we knew where we were heading. Big capital ship gives us more space. Small frigate and we’ll need to leave some things with your dad.”

  “We’ll know by three o’clock Saturday when our postings get announced.”


  “It’ll be good to be in space again,” the alien said.

  “We’re in space.”

  “Moving through space. Not stuck on this stationary behemoth. New worlds. New stars.”

  Tracy dropped onto his bunk. “You’ve missed it.”

  “Yeah. We Cara’ot are by nature gypsies. We spend most of our lives on trading ships.”

  “And stealing and manipulating the DNA of other races,” Tracy shot back.

  “We traded in DNA until your people came along and put a stop to it.”

  “And a good thing we did too. You’re a goddamn horror,” Tracy said, eyeing the alien.

  Two of the four eyes rolled down the length of his squat body, and Donnel gave himself a pat with all four hands. “Made to order for a specific purpose,” he said in tones of satisfaction.

  Tracy shuddered. “Like I said… a horror.”

  “You don’t give a shit what we do among ourselves. It’s just your own precious human DNA that’s so sacred. Sir.” It was added as an obvious and calculated afterthought.

  “Our League, our rules. If the Cara’ot don’t like it they can leave.”

  “Not really an option. You humans would go bugfuck if we tried to leave and kick the shit out of us again.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. We know we can’t trust you. Any of you.”

  “You know all of us aliens,” three of the arms gestured widely, “got along just fine until you guys showed up.”

  “You startled us. We really had thought we were alone in the universe.”

  “Well God help us if we ever actually scare you, if this is how you react when you’re just startled.”

  “Why are we even having this idiotic conversation? Get the bars on my uniform!”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Boy, somebody’s in a mood.” Donnel’s expression softened and he dropped the mocking tone as he said gently, “You let them get to you, sir.”

  The sudden kindness broke Tracy’s control. “I’m second in our class behind Ernesto. I’ve got that.” He pointed at where the Distinguido Servicio Cruzar glittered on the left breast of his jacket. “But I’ll never rate. Not unless the FFH gives me a title.”

  “I’d say that’s highly likely given your… connections.”

  Tracy gave a violent gesture. “Don’t. Don’t bring her up. I can’t… I can’t bear it.”

  “You knew it was impossible,” the alien said in even gentler tones.

  “I know. But knowing doesn’t help.”

  * * *

  Mercedes Adalina Saturnina Inez de Arango, the Infanta, stood on a riser while three Isanjo seamstresses knelt at the hem of her dress. The claws on their clever, long-fingered hands were retracted so only the soft pads arranged the flowing material over the stiff petticoats. Occasionally one of them would look up, large eyes set in a fur-covered face. Mercedes could read nothing in those eyes. No hint of what they might be thinking. The human designer stood back, fingers at his lips, eyes narrowed, a frown between his brows, evaluating the wedding gown. Tiny diamonds covered the dress, glittering and flashing. More jewels formed a pattern on the bodice, the symbol of the Solar League. Mercedes drew in shallow breaths because said bodice felt like it was trying to crush her ribcage. The only good thing about it was the deep V of the neckline that made her neck seem longer and displayed her décolletage, one of her better attributes.

  After three years spent wearing primarily an O-Trell uniform complete with trousers or battle armor, Mercedes found the elaborate wedding gown to be confining and uncomfortable. She dreaded how the stiff netting of the petticoats would feel on the back of her thighs when she finally did get to sit down at the reception banquet. Tall as she was, she felt like the enormous belled skirt and lace flounces made her look dumpy.

  Señor Vasilyev was approaching, holding a cloud of lace in his hands. He shook it out and it chimed as the tiny crystal bells kissed each other. The twenty-foot-long train was attached to the shoulders of the gown. He stepped back and beamed. Mercedes realized that his eyes were sweeping across his creation. He didn’t even see her. How absurd she looked.

  “Lovely. Lovely. His Majesty wishes you to wear your grandmother’s tiara. I’ll complete the design of the veil after I’ve seen it.”

  Mercedes held her breath and repeated the mantra— courtesy, respect, civility. Qualities always to be remembered and applied, particularly when dealing with a person who was not a member of her class. But the reminder of her grandmother’s tiara, delicate twisted leaves of platinum, diamonds, pearls and moonstones brought into focus how much she hated this dress. Only two weeks until the wedding. How could she say anything now? She should have spoken up months ago.

  “Madre de Dios, you look like an over-decorated bonbon,” came a new voice, a light soprano with sarcasm dripping off every syllable.

  Lieutenant Lady Cipriana Delacroix leaned against the doorjamb, one booted foot cocked over the other, completely at ease in her O-Trell uniform. Once one of Mercedes’ ladies-in-waiting, she had joined Mercedes at the military academy. Smarter than she pretended, Cipriana was also an accredited beauty with jet-black hair shot through with strands of red, dark eyes, ebony skin and perfect features. She also lacked even a vestige of tact when it came to members of the lower class.

  Her blunt assessment of the dress had Vasilyev puffing and bristling. Mercedes found a reserve of diplomacy. “I’m certain that Señor Vasilyev’s goal is to make me look like a fairy princess, and I appreciate his efforts despite the deficiencies of his subject.”

  “Well, then he’s an idiot.” Mercedes again cringed. “You’re damn near six feet tall, Mer, and you’ve got a figure. There’s nothing fairy-like about you. Now Dani, she could have pulled this off…” Cipriana’s voice trailed away into sadness.

  “I don’t want to die. Mercedes, help me!”

  Lady Danica Everett’s agonized words just before she was pulled away by agents of Seguridad Imperial. Mercedes shuddered because she hadn’t, in fact, helped her one-time friend and lady-in-waiting. She hadn’t even tried.

  “Sorry. Bad memories. I shouldn’t have brought her up,” Cipri said, contrite.

  Of the three ladies-in-waiting who had accompanied Mercedes to the High Ground three years before, only Cipri remained. Sumiko had been allowed to leave after the traumatic events of that first year with the fig leaf that she would someday return. That wasn’t going to happen because Sumi was married, had a child and was pregnant with her second.

  As for the third girl, there would be no return. Lady Danica Everett had died, but not, as Cipriana believed, in a tragic Foldspace accident. Something had indeed gone wrong when her parents’ ship entered the Fold but it had been no accident. The Conde de Wahle’s ship had been sabotaged by SEGU agents on orders from the Emperor. It was punishment for their involvement in the plot to discredit Mercedes, and undermine the Emperor’s rule. The parents had accepted the death sentence in return for their youngest children being spared, but Dani had foolishly gotten herself secretly engaged to a claimant to the throne so she suffered the same fate as her plotting father.

  “It’s just the two of us now,” Cipriana concluded and pulled Mercedes back to the present.

  Mercedes pushed away the guilt and the residual anger that she still felt toward Dani, waved away the Isanjo seamstresses and Vasilyev, and stepped off the riser. She tucked Cipriana’s arm under hers.

  “Yes, but we made it, and the good news is that you won’t have to be my chaperone after Saturday.”

  “But who’s going to chaperone me? Oh wait, I won’t have one. Just me… posted to a warship with all those lovely men. And did I mention… just me?” She gave Mercedes a droll look.

  “You are impossible,” Mercedes said, giving the other girl a slap on the arm. “And you won’t be alone for long. There are two second-year women, and a whole four females in the freshman class.”

  “Who knows, maybe we’ll break into double digits some day,” Cipriana replied. �
�Though I doubt it.”

  The doors closed behind the designer and his minions. Mercedes gripped Cipriana by the upper arms. “Okay, tell me truthfully. How awful is this dress?”

  “Awful doesn’t begin to describe it. Try ghastly. Horrendous. Maybe monstrous—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it.” Mercedes clutched at her hair and took a turn around the room. The petticoats crackled and rasped against her legs. “Oh God, what am I going to do?”

  “Get a different dress.”

  “I’m getting married in two weeks.”

  “You’re the Infanta. An army of seamstresses will sew night and day, and what designer wouldn’t love the chance to craft your wedding gown? Frankly I’m wondering if this clown is trying to undermine the succession by putting you in this… this…” Words failed her and Cipriana just gestured helplessly at the dress.

  “Get me out of it,” Mercedes ordered.

  Cipriana’s fingers were cold on Mercedes’ back as she unzipped and unhooked. The yards of material puddled around her feet as Mercedes yanked off the stiff petticoats. It seemed to form a scratchy wall, trapping her inside. She stepped over it, padded over to the bed and sat down. With the tight bodice she wasn’t wearing a bra. She found herself contemplating her bare breasts and wondered what it would feel like when Boho finally touched them without any intervening material. Despite every governess and duenna’s objection there wasn’t a girl in the FFH who didn’t read the romantic novels—“little bonbons” as they were called—and dream about dashing space pirates or FFH nobles in disguise who fall in love with innocent intitulado girls.

  Strange there aren’t any books about FFH noble ladies who fall in love with intitulado men who are anything but sweet but rather prickly and opinionated and who love her and save her and whom she rejects—

  Mercedes forced her thoughts away from Tracy Belmanor and back to her fiancé.

  “I want to be pretty. It’s my wedding day, and Boho is so handsome.”

  Cipriana joined her on the bed. “Mercedes, you are pretty. No, that’s wrong. You’re dramatic and that lasts. Pretty fades. And Boho loves you.”