The High Ground Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Melinda Snodgrass

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  1. Two Fathers

  2. Refusals

  3. Meeting by Chance

  4. Confrontations

  5. Gifts and Guilt

  6. Unpleasant Truths

  7. So it is to be War

  8. A Lack of Manners

  9. A Fragile Construct

  10. Cabals

  11. Pretty, Petty Things

  12. Games

  13. This is Love?

  14. Is Everyone Crazy?

  15. It’s All a Bit Intoxicating

  16. It Ultimately Comes Down to Numbers

  17. Affairs of Honor

  18. Go Along to Get Along

  19. Efficient Ways to Kill

  20. The Strongest Part of the Blade

  21. Wings & Prayers

  22. Cojones

  23. Politics, Politics, Politics

  24. Knowing Who Your Friends Are

  25. You Have my Permission

  26. Lockdown

  27. Somewhere in the Darkness

  28. Bigger Problems

  29. Something to Bury

  30. Not Without Cost

  31. The Best You Can Hope For

  32. The Game of Kings

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Coming Soon from Titan Books

  Also Available from Titan Books

  Also by Melinda Snodgrass and coming soon from Titan Books

  IN EVIL TIMES (JULY 2017)

  The High Ground

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783295821

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781783295838

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London

  SE1 0UP

  First edition: July 2016

  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.

  © 2016 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 George R.R. who loved this universe so much that he wouldn’t let me give up on crafting the right story. And when we couldn’t make it happen as a shared world project where we could play together he generously gave me the despicable—oh, excuse me, George—the charming, handsome and debonair Boho to abuse… er… use. Thanks, dear friend.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  THE IMPERIAL FAMILY

  His Imperial Highness Fernán Marcus Severino Beltrán de Arango, Emperor of the Solar League

  Her Imperial Highness Mercedes Adalina Saturnina Inez de Arango, the Infanta

  Her Imperial Highness Estella de Arango

  Her Imperial Highness Julieta de Arango

  Her Imperial Highness Izzara de Arango

  Her Imperial Highness Tanis de Arango

  Her Imperial Highness Beatrisa de Arango

  Her Imperial Highness Delia de Arango

  Her Imperial Highness Dulcinea de Arango

  Her Imperial Highness Constanza de Arango, Emperor’s consort

  THE HIGH GROUND

  OFFICERS

  Vice Admiral Conde Sergei Arrington Vasquez y Markov

  Captain Lord Manfred Zeng

  Captain Baron Tarek El-Ghazzawy

  Commander Lord Trent Crispin

  Commander Jeffery Baldinini

  Commander Father Tanuwidjaja

  Commander Phillip McWhinnie

  Commander Michael Westfield

  Recruit Commander Nathaniel Deal

  Recruit Commander Yas Begay

  STUDENTS

  Marqués Clark Bennington Kunst

  Marqués Ernesto Chapman-Owiti

  Vizconde Beauregard (Boho) Honorius Sinclair Cullen

  Vizconde Mihalis del Campo

  Vizconde Yves Riccardo Petek

  Baron Jasper Talion

  Lord Arturo Espadero del Campo

  Lord Sanjay Favreau

  Ensign Prefect Caballero Marcus Gelb

  Caballero Davin Pulkkinen

  Caballero Hugo Devris

  Lady Cipriana Delacroix, daughter of the Duque de Nico-Hathaway

  Lady Danica Everett, daughter of the Conde de Wahle

  Lady Sumiko Tsukuda, daughter of Caballero Arashi Tsukuda

  Thracius (Tracy) Ransom Belmanor

  Mark Wilson

  Donnel (Cara’ot batBEM)

  Mela (Isanjo batBEM)

  Tako (Hajin batBEM)

  THE FORTUNE FIVE HUNDRED (FFH)

  Rohan Danilo Marcus Aubrey, Conde de Vargas

  Analise Aubrey, Condessa de Vargas

  Duque Musa del Campo

  Duque de Argento y Pepco

  Marqués C. de Vaca

  Lord Estevan de Vaca

  Caballero Sasha Olsen

  Caballero Malcomb Devris

  Lady Pearl Devris

  Lady Opal Devris

  Lady Ruby Devris

  Lady Topaz Devris

  Lady Citrine Devris

  Caballero Stefan Devris

  Caballero Rafe Devris

  Caballero Brandon Devris

  Father Jose del Campo

  THE COMMONERS

  Alexander Belmanor

  Bajit (Hajin)

  Flanon (Hajin)

  PROLOGUE

  SECRETS AND SCHEMES

  They listened to the screams of pain and terror and watched the humans die courtesy of the monitoring devices that had been slipped into the hull of the spaceship by the Isanjo builders as it was being constructed. Ma’utea gave a slow beat of Cara broad, fleshy wings and took a slow turn through the thick mist on the bridge, then returned to Cara post.

  It was difficult to watch sentient creatures die but the task of the Cara’ot scout ship was just that—to witness and report. Never to intervene. Not that they could have; the enemy that was currently destroying the human ship was beyond the Cara’ot’s ability to defeat.

  Perhaps if the humans had not fired upon the spires they would have survived, but when the crystalline creatures had begun to nudge at the small vessel there had been the predictable human reaction. The guns had fired, torpedoes had shattered spires and death had been the response. Ma’utea sighed and returned Cara attention to the main screen.

  It was split into several sections. The center showed an exterior image of the ship under assault. Others revealed the humans inside that fragile metal shell, their bodies being rendered by the touch of the crystalline scales that had broken off from the main alien body, and were slicing through their ship.

  Weapons fire lit the corridors of the Solar League’s warship, and alien scales were shattered. But not enough and not quickly enough to save the human males fighting inside. Hours passed and the Cara’ot watched as the human frigate, the Ave Rapaz, was reduced and rebuilt into a tiny glittering latticework of crystal. The scales became ropes and towed what had once been a ship to the main snowflake-like body of the alien hive. Another ship was gone.

  “Did they get off a message buoy?” Ma’utea asked Cara comm officer.

  “Yes.”

  “Track and destro
y.”

  “Is it not time for them to know what they face?” asked Cara first officer. The long proboscis waggled as Cara spoke.

  “No, they fear the unknown that might lurk beneath the bed far more than the reality,” Ma’utea replied.

  “And fear breeds anger,” piped up Silea from Cara comm station.

  “And their anger is their greatest asset,” Ma’utea added softly. Cara spun slowly in the dense atmosphere, and briefly wondered when that anger would be turned against the Cara’ot. Soon was Cara guess given the truculence of the species.

  Ma’utea touched the control panel with Cara prehensile feet, and their ship lifted away from the head of the comet behind which they had been sheltering on the edges of this star’s system. The engines sprang to life, and their ship overtook the human distress buoy. A quick blast from the port weapons and it was reduced to debris.

  Ma’utea switched screens to show the rapidly receding system. Of the seven planets in this system, four had already been transformed. The strange crystal lattices that had replaced the planets glittered in the light of the system’s sun, and like tumbling silicon snowflakes the alien colonies were already spinning toward the next planet. There the strange Star Ants would kiss, enfold and reform every bit of matter that formed the world and rebuild it into an inexplicable shape of unknown purpose.

  Alien vanguards had noticed the flare of power from the Cara’ot ship and were speeding after them. If they did not wish to join the dying planets they needed to be gone. The Cara’ot ship slid into the heliosphere, and entered folded space just as the crystal vanguard arrived.

  * * *

  The naked human lay on the surgical table. Hair curled on his chest but thinned as it scaled the thrusting belly. It was as if the climb had exhausted the pale red strands. The harsh light of the operating room was not kind to the supine, pasty figure. Shadows pooled at the edges of the room and figures moved in the darkness with the soft ting of metal on metal as they prepared.

  The man’s twin stood next to the table dressed in a high-collared coat and the tight pants that were all the rage, but not kind to a man of his age and girth.

  He tugged at the collar that only accentuated his double chin. “Well, I’m off to home and the wife.”

  “They’re not all that fond of one another,” a female voice spoke from the pools of darkness at the edge of the room.

  “Oh, I’ll soon have the condessa billing and cooing,” the man said as he walked out of the room.

  1

  TWO FATHERS

  His Most Noble and Puissant Emperor of the Solar League stood on a large footstool while his tailor knelt at his feet, pinning the hem of his dress pants.

  “A little more break over the instep, Your Imperial Highness?” the tailor asked. The Emperor turned slightly to survey his image in the gilt-edged mirror.

  “That looks good.”

  The tailor marked the edge with a bit of chalk and moved to the other leg. “How are your children, Majestad?” the stoop-shouldered man mumbled around a mouthful of pins.

  The Emperor noted and appreciated the tactful phrasing of the question. Children rather than daughters. He glanced down at the grey head bent over its task and decided to say what he was thinking.

  “What a shame I can’t tap you for the diplomatic corps. You are far more judicious and thoughtful than many of my so-called diplomats.”

  “You’re too kind, Your Imperial Highness.”

  The Emperor turned back to the mirror and studied the tired face of the man reflected there. Emperor, Highness, Majestad—so many words to connote his power, and all of them nothing but meaningless sound. He sighed. For the ruler of the humans’ far-flung galactic empire had managed to sire only daughters, nine of them from five different wives in his fruitless attempts to obtain a male heir. Two years ago a clandestine medical test had made it clear that approaching a sixth young woman of impeccable birth and breeding would not alter the situation.

  He had broken laws to obtain that information and hidden his transgression by the discreet removal of the creature who had run that test, but the reality remained. If he did not change the laws governing succession, his cousin or his cousin’s children would succeed him, and that he would not accept. He was determined that his eldest, Mercedes, would take the throne upon his death.

  Sadly it was proving to be a daunting task. Not because of political resistance. It had taken over a year, but he had rammed the amendment through parliament, changing the right of succession to include daughters. No, the problem was Mercedes. When presented with his legislative triumph the girl had refused to take the first, necessary step to ascend to the throne—entering the League’s military academy The High Ground. She had done so in a show of the famous Arango temper, and had spent the last two days locked in her suite.

  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.”

  2

  REFUSALS

  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 princip
al 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.”