been at the edge of his teeth, but after four years being drilled in protocol and the chain of command, he managed to swallow the angry retort. Instead he had saluted and managed a simple “Yes, sir.” At least he hadn’t thanked Markov for the insult.
Later, he wondered why he hadn’t spoken up. Cowardice? Was he really intimidated by the FFH? That was a terrible thought, for it implied that he did know his place. If he was honest with himself, that was why he hadn’t attended the postgraduation ball. He knew that none of Mercedes’s ladies-in-waiting would have accepted him as escort. He couldn’t bring a woman of his own social strata. And Mercedes was the daughter of the Emperor, and no one could ever know what they had shared, or that Tracy loved her and that she loved him.
So he didn’t go to the ball. Instead, he stood on the Crystal Bridge on Ring Central and watched Mercedes, out of uniform and a vision in crimson and gold, enter the ballroom on the arm of Honorius Sinclair Cullen, Knight of the Arches and Shells, Duke de Argento, known casually as Boho, and Tracy’s nemesis and rival. It should have been Tracy at her side. But that could never be.
Tracy took a long pull on his whiskey, draining the glass. It was cheap liquor and it etched pain down his throat, and settled like a burning coal in his gut. Unlike the other morose and uncommunicative patrons, Tracy had chosen to sit at the bar. The bartender, a big man, the stripes on his apron imperfectly hiding the grime, nodded at Tracy’s empty glass.
“Another?”
“Sure. Why the hell not?”
“You’ve really been hammering these down, kid.” Tracy looked up and was surprised by the kindness in the man’s brown eyes. “You gonna be able to find your way back to your ship?” Whiskey gurgled into the glass.
“Maybe it would be better if I didn’t.”
A rag emerged from the apron pocket and wiped down the steel surface of the bar. “You don’t wanna do that. The League hangs deserters.”
Tracy downed the drink in one gulp, and fought back nausea. He shook his head. “Not me. They wouldn’t look for me. They’d be glad the Embarrassment has been quietly swept under the rug.”
“Look, kid, you got troubles. I can see that.”
“Wow, you always this perceptive?”
“Cut the attitude,” but the words were said mildly and with a faint smile. “Look, if you want feel better about the state of the galaxy and your place in it, you should talk to that guy. It may all be bullshit, but Rohan’s got one hell of a story.”
Tracy looked in the direction of the pointing finger and saw a portly man of medium height seated at a corner table and cuddling an empty glass. His dark hair was streaked with grey, and his forehead overly large due to the receding hairline. The bartender moved to the far end of the bar and started filling the empty glasses on the Hajin’s tray. Tracy looked again at the slumped man. On impulse, he snatched up his glass and walked over to the table.
Jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the bartender, Tracy said, “He says you’ve got a good story that’s going to put everything in perspective for me.” Tracy kicked out a chair and sat down. He half hoped that the man would object and start a fight. Tracy was in the mood to hit somebody, and here on Wasua, unlike at the High Ground, a fight wouldn’t turn into a stupid duel. Tracy touched the scar at his left temple, a gift from Boho. A closer look at the man revealed the unlikeliness of a fight breaking out. There was no muscle beneath the fat, and dark, puffy bags hung beneath his eyes.
“Loren doesn’t believe me,” Rohan said. “But it’s all true.” Alcohol slurred the words, but Tracy could hear the aristocratic accent of a member of the Fortune Five Hundred. God knew he could recognize it. He’d been listening to it for four damn years. He even feared he’d begun to ape it.
“Okay, I’ll bite: What’s all true?”
The tip of the man’s tongue licked at his lips. “I could tell the story better with something to wet my throat,” he said.
“Okay, fine.” Tracy went back to the bar and returned with a bottle of bourbon. He slammed it down between them. “There. Now I’ve paid for the tale. So go on, amaze me.”
Rohan drew himself up, but the haughtiness of the movement was undercut when he began swaying in his chair. A pudgy hand grabbed the edge of the table and he stabilized. “I am more, much more than I seem.”
“Okay.” Tracy drew out the word.
The man looked around with exaggerated care. “I have to be careful. If they knew I was talking …”
“Yes?”
The man drew a finger across his throat. He leaned across the table. His breath was a nauseating mix of booze and halitosis. “What I’m going to tell you could shake the foundations of the League.”
The drunk poured himself a drink, tossed it back, and continued. “But it happened—all of it—and it’s all true. Listen and learn, young man.” Rohan refilled his glass, topped off Tracy’s, and saluted with his glass. This time he settled for a sip rather than a gulp. Rohan sighed and no longer seemed focused on the young officer.
“It all started when one of my aides arranged a bachelor party …”
If a strip club could ever be considered tasteful, Rohan assumed that this one fit that bill. Not that he was an expert. This was his first time in such an establishment, where human women flaunted themselves, much to the fury of the Church. So why had he agreed to join his staff at a stag party in honor of Knud’s upcoming nuptials? The answer came easily. Because my wife’s latest lover is the same age as my daughter, and this one was just too much. So his presence in the Cosmos Club was—what? Payback? And how likely was it that Juliana would ever find out? Surpassingly small. And that she would care? Smaller yet.
He blushed as a nearly naked hostess, her breasts and mons outlined with a jeweled harness, took their coats and, with the graceful hand gestures of a trained courtesan, ushered them over to the smiling maître d’, a handsome man with a spade beard and sparkling black eyes. He led the group through tall double doors and into the club proper. The lighting in the main room was subdued, but recessed spotlights struck fire from the slowly rotating platforms that held beautiful, naked women. The platforms were shaped like spiral galaxies, the stars formed by faux diamonds. Rohan stared at the rounded buttocks of the girls and wondered what those behinds looked like after a long night seated on the platforms. Between the platforms was a stage made of clear glass. A crystal pole thrust up, an aggressive statement, from the center of the stage.
Waitresses dressed—no, make that accented—with the same kind of jeweled harness worn by the hostess moved between the tables, serving drinks and food. Rohan saw a Brie en croûte garnished with sour cherries go past on a tray, and the aromas from the kitchen were as good as anything he’d smelled in the city’s finest restaurants. His belly gave a growl of appreciation. Yes, definitely an upscale establishment, catering to the wealthy and wellborn of the FFH. Another anomaly struck him. There were no aliens present. The waitstaff were all humans, an expensive affectation. Rohan assumed that in the bowels of the kitchen, Hajin and Isanjo labored as dishwashers, but the image presented to the paying customers was aggressively human.
John Fujasaki had reserved a circular booth at the edge of the stage. An ice-filled champagne bucket and the expected bottle were already waiting. As the party arranged themselves, the maître d’ opened the bottle with a discreet pop
