The Hidden World

by Melinda Snodgrass

  She reached an area where the fighting had been hardest. Bodies still littered the corridor. All corsairs. A few of the bodies wore pressure suits. Most were just in clothes. No match for marines in battle armor. Among her soldiers there had only been three deaths and sixteen wounded. The bodies and the injured had already been returned to their respective ships for treatment and preparation for burial.

  They turned a corner and came upon another clot of bodies. There was a young woman among them. A rifle lay near her side. One hand rested on the leg of a dead corsair. A trail of blood on the floor of the hallway showed how she had dragged herself, bleeding, to his side. Her swelling belly told another story. Mercedes recognized the dead woman from the crew manifests. She had been an hombre aboard one of the frigates. Mercedes stared in shock at the dead woman and the now dead infant she carried.

  “Stockholm Syndrome,” Nance said laconically. “Fairly common after captives have been held for a significant period of time. They start to identify and sympathize with their captors.”

  “She fell in love with her rapist?” Mercedes questioned.

  “Or maybe she just fell in love. No rape involved.”

  Mercedes shook her head and motioned to her aide. The lieutenant used the facial recognition application on his tappad to identify the woman. Mercedes read over his shoulder, HOMBRE ALICIA BROWN. The aide marked her as deceased. Back at fleet headquarters on Hellfire a letter of condolence would be prepared and forwarded to the grieving family. With the toe of her boot Mercedes lifted the dead woman’s slack hand from the corsair’s leg, and kicked the rifle even farther away.

  “I take it we’re not mentioning she was fighting with the enemy,” Nance said.

  “If we do her family won’t get the death benefit payment.” She glanced over at her young aide. “I expect you to keep silent, Lieutenant.”

  “About what, ma’am?”

  “Good boy.”

  “You’re tender-hearted, Highness,” Nance said.

  “Tell that to our soldiers who died when I gave the order to fire on that escaping ship.”

  They stepped through the bodies. The congealing blood on the floor was tacky on the soles of Mercedes’ boots, and the atmosphere carried the scent of blood and feces. Mercedes started taking shallow breaths through her mouth. Another turn and they were out of the charnel house and into the cafeteria. Survivors had been freed from the cells and were being processed there. As well as prisoners. Not all of the corsairs had fought to the death. There was the smell of overcooked cabbage and unwashed bodies. It was still better than the stench of death. Medical personnel were checking out the hostages while officers debriefed them. It was organized chaos. Mercedes searched the crowd for the women. How many more burgeoning bellies was she going to find?

  The answer was quickly evident. It had been almost six months. Of the eight women who had been captured only five were left. Two had been aboard the destroyed ship, one was the dead woman in the hallway. Of those left living four of them were pregnant. Three pairs of defiant eyes met hers. One of the mothers-to-be couldn’t meet Mercedes’ gaze. Her lips trembled and slow tears ran down her cheeks. Salutes were exchanged, which added to the incongruity of the situation. Mercedes turned first to the woman who was not gravid. She looked to be in her mid-twenties with pixie-cut hair and bright, intelligent eyes.

  “So, how did you luck out?”

  “Untreated gonorrhea. By the time I got taken to a doc I was sterile.”

  “But that’s so treatable,” Mercedes said.

  “Yeah, but not if it’s your stepdad who’s fucking you, your mom refuses to believe you, and you live on a remote farm on Wasua. I enlisted as soon as I was eighteen to get away from that shit. So yeah, I’ll take being spayed over what they’re facing.” She nodded toward the other women.

  The crying woman went from silent tears to shattering sobs. It was a breach of every deportment lesson she’d ever taken, but Mercedes put her arms around the woman and hugged her tight. “It’s all right. It’s all right. You’re safe now,” she soothed.

  “I can’t have this… this thing,” she gasped. “Please, please, Highness, help me.”

  “Shhh. It’s going to be all right. You won’t have to raise the child. We’ll take care of that.”

  “I don’t want it growing inside me!”

  “I understand. We’ll talk about it once you’re all safely out of here.”

  One of the other women gave the sobbing girl a sour look then turned her gaze to Mercedes. “At least you didn’t lie. She’s never getting an abortion. Look, Dina, just whelp the thing and take the damn subsidy. That’s what I plan to do.” Another flat stare at Mercedes. “Maybe you could find me a husband too while you’re fixing everything, Your Highness.”

  “I have a husband,” another woman said. She hesitantly touched the mound of her belly. “He’ll never take me back after this.”

  “We will see to it that all of you are cared for. You have my word.”

  Mercedes moved away. In her mind’s eye her sister Beatrisa’s face was overlaid on the women’s faces. She didn’t think tears would be the first reaction of her pugnacious sister, but she damn well knew how Bea would respond to being forced to bear a child. She had made it abundantly clear she was not going to marry and she was not having kids.

  Her hand closed vise-like on her aide’s elbow. “Get them out of here first. Put them aboard my ship and have the medics check them over. Send a memo to fleet command that long-term birth control needs to be mandatory for all active service women.”

  The young man looked startled. “Ma’am, the church—”

  “Won’t be happy. Yes, I know. But we can’t inflict this added danger on our women soldiers.”

  He looked like he wanted to say more, but wisely simply said, “Yes, ma’am,” and made a note.

  Nance gave her an ironic look and pulled her aside. “My, you certainly do like to punch above your weight, Highness.”

  “Military matters are in my purview.”

  “And they will argue they owe allegiance to a higher power.”

  “I’m sure, but since that other power tends to be stubbornly silent they can bloody well listen to me.”

  One of Nance’s factotums hurried up. “Ma’am, sir, we’ve downloaded the data off the base’s mainframe and we’re pulling navigational information off the captured ships. We’ve got a long list of merchants and companies who have been dealing in stolen goods. We also seem to have information on a Hidden World. A place called Kusatsu-Shirane.”

  * * *

  “I think this is worth a celebratory brunch,” Jahan said as they walked away from the credit union that held the note on the Selkie.

  “Giant steak,” Luis sighed.

  “Ugh,” Dalea said.

  “I’m sure there’ll be something for a vegetarian,” Graarack soothed the Hajin.

  “I still have to watch you masticating dead and bleeding flesh,” the doctor said. “And you spitting acid on it before you masticate it,” she added with a nod to the Sidone.

  “Well, I have to watch you all masticating potential relatives… except for Luis who doesn’t eat anything if it grows in the ground,” Jax said. A sudden awkward silence fell across the mismatched crew. Jax shook with laughter. “Got ya.”

  “E for effort on the joke front. Still a giant fail,” Jahan said.

  “We’re not known for our comedic sense,” the Flute replied.

  “We noticed,” Tracy said.

  “And hey, I eat stuff that grows in the ground,” Luis said defensively. “I eat potatoes.”

  “That does not count as a vegetable,” Dalea began to lecture.

  Tracy cut off the familiar debate. “Okay, let’s find food. Spend a little of this dinero on ourselves.”

  They moved down the street checking the menus hanging in windows or set on placards out front of the various establishments. It was a pleasant summer morning on the main continent of Geneva. The planet wasn’t
heavily populated and tended to favor the more customer-friendly credit unions over the large interplanetary banks. It was why Tracy had gone with them when he first purchased the ship. Their background checks also weren’t as rigorous as with other institutions.

  After some discussion the crew had decided to go to the credit union and make the additional loan payment in person rather than trust to a Foldstream transfer. During the journey to Geneva there had been a dinnertime conversation over how much of the reward money to place against the loan. Because of Tracy’s paranoia and Jax’s caution they opted to only make a single extra payment. Any more and the loan officer might begin to question their sudden windfall.

  Tracy picked a restaurant that had a wide choice of tapas and a number of alien waitstaff. The crew of the Selkie had learned the hard way that some restaurants were hostile to serving his mixed species crew.

  Before any debate could break out over his choice Tracy held up a finger. “Captain’s prerogative.”

  There was a nice patio out back and they were seated at a table beneath a grape arbor. Bunches of grapes like amethysts hung from the twisting vines that covered the wooden trellis. There was the lazy buzz of bees and the sweet scent of ripe fruit.

  Once their orders were placed, Jax pulled his tap-pad out of his satchel. “I think it would be a good investment to use some of the funds to increase our equipment order for Kusatsu-Shirane. Their economy is growing with an emphasis on agriculture at this stage of the colony’s development and we get a nice markup on the machinery.”

  Tracy glanced around the table. There were nods of assent. They had all learned to trust Jax’s instincts when it came to sales and inventory. “Okay, there’s still time to increase the order before we take delivery on Nueva Terra.”

  Jax busied himself with his tap-pad, and the ping echoed through the patio as the order was sent. Jahan raised her sangria glass. “To us. Doing good deeds and making a Real or two in the process.”

  * * *

  The second bottle of wine was down to the dregs. Boho tilted the bottle and cocked a questioning eye at Lord Arturo Espadero del Campo. “Shall we order another?”

  Arturo leaned back in his chair, hands thrust into the pockets of his tuxedo slacks. There was an enigmatic quality to the man with his hooded eyes and the way his lips seemed to always be curved in a slight smile. His dark brown hair was combed sleekly against his narrow skull and was perfectly iced with gray at the temples. A slight paunch ballooned the front of his pressed white dress shirt. Boho eyed the dirty plates that littered the table and reflected that too many more evenings like this one would lead to him filling out his shirt in a similar manner.

  “I think brandy. Or perhaps an Irish coffee. Yes, that sounds good. Bit of a chill in the air tonight. I love that moment when we are trembling between fall and winter,” Arturo said.

  In the weeks since Mercedes had left there had been too many days seated behind a desk, first in Mercedes’ office and then in the office he’d insisted be furnished for him. What Boho hadn’t been able to change was the assistant. Jaakon was as soft-footed as a cat and just as aloof.

  Boho’s evenings were filled with concerts and late suppers, nightclubs and late suppers, balls, masques, and ridottos—and late suppers. Weekends there were hunt breakfasts and shooting parties, and soon the round of Christmas parties would begin. He made another mental vow to begin getting up early and hitting the gym before he went to the office.

  With his return to the capital Boho had started to renew old acquaintances. Davin had proved to be a disappointment, and Margrave Clark Bennington Kunst, Boho’s other closest friend from his youth, had retired to the family estate on the Hajin home world of Belán to raise a family. He had also opened a chain of fencing academies across several League worlds designed to separate wealthy intitulados from their money by teaching their sons the art of the duello. Kunst had been a notable swordsman during their days at the High Ground, and the president of their dueling society.

  Of his other compatriots, well, everyone had grown up. They were all married, running estates or business interests, serving in government and a handful, like Davin, were even still in the military. A tiny handful had died from accidents or disease. One had even been murdered by his wife. But Arturo was living in Hissilek, serving in parliament, and despite a wife and children had been very happy to join Boho on his carouses.

  Tonight had been an excursion to the opera. Boho had feared Arturo would bring his wife, but it seemed his friend had an interest in the soprano singing Violetta and wanted no spousal interference in that pursuit. In the singer’s dressing room backstage Boho had found himself in the odd position of being the wingman rather than the hunter. He had been even more surprised when Arturo ended the flirtation and left after bestowing only fervent kisses to the lady’s palms.

  “That’s it? I thought you’d have her on her back as soon as the house cleared,” Boho had said as they left the opera house.

  Arturo had given him a secretive smile and said, “I’m an angler. I love the tug and play as you bring a fish into the net.”

  The human waiter arrived and took their orders. Boho decided on a glass of port rather than the whiskey-laced coffee that Arturo ordered. Once their drinks were in hand, Boho leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs off to the side of the table.

  “So, back when we were young you said you wanted to have military victories so the people would love you,” Boho said. “Yet you had no victories and you ended up a politician and nobody loves politicians.” He didn’t try to hide the sting that lay buried in the heart of his jocular tone.

  “And I believe you talked about being a planetary governor so you could squeeze the populace and make a fortune. Neither one of us achieved our goals. Instead your wife steals my victories, and puts you on an allowance.”

  The words landed like a fist to the gut. Boho straightened. “How do you know about that?”

  “Who do you think authorizes the money for the upkeep of the royals? You should be kinder to us politicians.”

  Steadying his breathing Boho took a sip of his port, leaned back again. “I’m beginning to suspect this evening wasn’t just a social outing. Are you angling me?”

  “Very perceptive of you.” Arturo took a sip and ended up with whipped cream adorning his upper lip. The tip of his tongue emerged and licked it away. It reminded Boho of a snake testing the air. “Are you happy with your situation, Boho?”

  “Let’s see, a royal duke, married to the heir to the throne, living in a palace, why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Because if the succession should change where would you be and what would you be?”

  The stem of the port glass was thin and fragile beneath his fingers. Boho forced himself to relax his grip. He gave the glass a slow spin. “Are we anticipating the succession changing?”

  “If she hits fifty without an heir I think that’s assured.”

  “So, I marry one of the other qualified princesses. There are a number to choose from.”

  “Two, to be exact, and once again be an ornament… unless you think Carisa or Beatrisa will be more biddable?” Arturo said. “And I think it’s an open question as to whether parliament would approve swapping out one princess for another. And they sure as hell will never accept the dyke.”

  The port filled Boho’s mouth with the taste of roses and summer. “So just what are we discussing here?” he asked.

  Arturo took another sip of his coffee. “Just musing about the stressors that currently exist in our society. Casually wondering whether the League would do better with a return to a more normal and traditional pattern. You understand.”

  “Perfectly.” Another swallow of port. “You have sisters, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Three of them are at present unmarried.”

  Boho raised his glass. “Here’s to available women.”

  Arturo tapped his coffee cup against the glass. “And may they be willing as well.”

&n
bsp; * * *

  Dinner had concluded, the dishes were cleared, and the crew was gathered for their evening ritual where a member of the crew read aloud from a book of their choosing. Since he had a large alien contingent, Tracy had heard a lot of tales from creatures who didn’t view the world quite the same way as humans. Since humans by and large didn’t give a damn about what aliens thought they were rarely translated into Spanish or English, so his crew would translate on the fly. The reading choices also told him a lot about their various personalities. Luis loved adventure tales with manly men rescuing beautiful women and fighting off enemies. The boy did have the good sense not to pick stories that were overtly about fighting and killing aliens. Jax liked nonfiction so they heard a lot of Tiponi Flute history, which was fairly inexplicable. Graarack liked mysteries, Jahan loved romances, which Tracy found to be head-spinning since in person she tended to be practical and very hardheaded, and Dalea preferred biographies, particularly those about inventors and scientists.

  Tracy leaned back, loosened his belt, and alternated sips of brandy with hits off a Tiponi stim stick. The Isanjo’s voice was soft, almost haunting, as she read the concluding paragraph from The Dream of the Green Bower.

  “And Helmic embraced Lavana, the tip of his tail gently wiping away the single tear. ‘I said I would return and build you a bower among the high branches where the wind would sing and leaves dance. She laid her hand in his and they ascended the polished steps and entered their aerie. They were home at last.”

  She shut down her ring. Dalea gave a watery but happy sniff. “Thank you, Jahan, that was wonderful.”

  “When are you and your husband going to ascend to that bower?” Graarack asked the Isanjo.

  “Once the captain here manages to make us all rich.” She gave Tracy a fang-baring grin.

  “Nag, nag, nag. I’m doing my best,” Tracy said.

  “So, you’re up next,” the Sidone said. “What are you going to read, Ollie… Tracy?”

  “I thought I’d share a children’s book with you. My mother read it to me and I really liked it. The Wind in the Willows.”