Musketeer Space

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “I don’t want to be a Sabre,” Dana said indignantly. “I want to be a Musketeer!” The thought of what her mother would say if she came home in red and gold livery made her want to throw up.

  Twice the salary. She knew that the Sabres were still coasting on the glory that came from saving the solar system at the end of the War of the Sun-kissed, but Dana had never guessed that it would have such ramfications.

  Amiral Treville almost laughed, but stopped herself in time. “You’re sweet, kid. I wish half of my gals had that attitude. But being a Musketeer… it doesn’t mean what what it used to. If not for the Regence’s nostalgia for the world before the war, we would have disappeared into the Cardinal’s filing cabinet years ago. A historical footnote, rather than an item in the Royal Budget spreadsheet that gets smaller every year.”

  Dana knew which way this conversation was going, and she was desperate to say something, anything to change that look of mild pity on Amiral Treville’s face. As she racked her brain, though, she saw the amiral’s eyes flicked away, already distracted by something more important in that plexi-glass corridor of hers. “Excuse me, Dana. Some business that can’t wait.”

  Treville leaped to her feet and marched to the door, flinging it open. In an enormous voice using every inch of her impressive lungs, she bellowed: “ATHOS, PORTHOS, ARAMIS! Get in here, you bastards!”

  3

  Shouting at Musketeers

  Dana had hoped for so much of this meeting with Amiral Treville. Had she been an idiot to think that her skills would be instantly recognised, that Treville would be interested in meeting the daughter of an old colleague?

  Instead, Treville’s attention was drawn to two pilots who entered the office with guilty expressions. Two, when she had called for three.

  These pilots in bright blue and white jackets over well-worn flight suits; they had what Dana wanted. They were Musketeers. They didn’t look especially happy about it, though. From their stance, it was not the first time these two had been called in to experience the rough end of Treville’s managerial style.

  Ignored at the desk, Dana observed them both.

  One was tall and elegant, with dark hair scraped up into a tight topknot – the second most common hairstyle for pilots after the buzz cut. She was casually beautiful in that femme manner that Dana could never manage – all legs and cheekbones and effortless grace. A pearl pin fastened her hair in place – it looked genuine vintage rather than something printed to fit in with retro fashions. An elaborate henna tattoo ran down her neck and collarbone, then emerged again at the wrist of her left hand, flowering in lacework all the way to her light brown fingertips.

  The shorter Musketeer was round in all dimensions, including a bosom that must surely get in the way of her helm controls. She had a cheeky, pleasant face beneath a head shaved almost as closely as Treville’s. She also wore a version of the Musketeer uniform that Dana had never seen before – a long blue-and-white coat cut to flatter her size, in expensive cloth rather than the more common artificial blends. She wore the coat with a wide, bedazzled belt that glittered with a small fortune in pearl studs.

  As if all that wasn’t enough swish and vanity, this shorter Musketeer had the blue and white fleur-de-lis mark of the service painted in exquisite miniature upon each of her manicured fingernails.

  “I can count, you know,” said Amiral Treville dryly, scanning the corridor once again. “Where’s your third partner in crime?”

  “Athos? Oh… sick,” said the elegant one, which would have been more convincing if the short one hadn’t come in with “Still on patrol,” during her friend’s hesitation.

  Treville loomed at them both, looking thunderous. “Sick?” she repeated. “Are you sure you don’t mean drunk?”

  Dana had a momentary impulse to hide beneath the desk.

  “Space pox,” said the round one, with some authority. “He can hardly walk. You know what Athos is like, Amiral, he catches everything going.”

  “So, he sent you ahead,” said Treville, her voice eerily calm. “To explain why three of the Royal Space Fleet, the Regence’s Own Musketeers, were arrested outside the Palais Luna for duelling?”

  “That’s a lie!” said the elegant one, convincingly outraged. “We weren’t duelling, Amiral. Just fighting. My body is a temple.”

  “Six of the Cardinal’s Sabres were there too,” put in the other. “That’s mitigating circumstances. They might have drawn weapons first.”

  “They did draw weapons first,” hissed her elegant friend.

  “That is exactly what I said, Aramis. I’m glad you agree. They drew weapons first. Which is why we didn’t duel with them.” The round Musketeer hesitated, and then smiled in a friendly way as if she hadn’t at all lost track of their version of events. “Clearly, a misunderstanding. For which I am sure the Sabres are every bit as sorry as we are.”

  Treville slowly breathed out, her whole massive body trembling. “I don’t care about the Cardinal’s Sabres, Captain Porthos. I’m not responsible for their antics. As it happens, I know the Sabres were there, because they’re the ones who arrested you! I’ve spent an hour this morning trying to convince the Regence not to hand the entire Royal Fleet over to the Cardinal and take early retirement. Is that what you want for me? Gardening leave on the third Daughter of Peace? Anyone got a straw hat I can borrow?”

  Dana drew her gaze away, not wanting to witness this humiliating scene. For this reason, she was the first to see the man hovering at the glass door.

  He wore a blue-and-white jacket over a flight suit like the others, but he could not possibly be a pilot. His hair was too ridiculous.

  You thought that about the Moth pilot at Meung Station, she reminded herself sternly, remembering the scarred pilot’s rebellious sweep of black hair that had caused Dana to underestimate her.

  This Musketeer, if such he was, had taken rebellious fashion to extremes. He had fair skin, and gratuitous ginger-gold hair that fell straight to his shoulders – a safety hazard if ever Dana had seen one. He also had a beard and drooping moustache that was like nothing she had ever seen before.

  Perhaps it was some kind of practical joke.

  The man was pale and sweaty beneath his gratuitous facial hair, looking distinctly unwell. If this was the missing Athos, perhaps he had the space pox after all.

  For a moment, he caught Dana’s eye, and grinned at the disapproval he saw on her face. Then he rapped hard on the plexi-glass door, interrupting Treville in the middle of her tirade about how her best and brightest were turning her into a galactic laughing stock.

  “And here he is,” Treville drawled with great sarcasm as Athos let himself into the office. “Finally ready to grace us with your presence, Milord? Enjoyed your cup of tea and cucumber sandwiches before you sauntered over to pay your respects, did you?”

  “You know I only live to serve you, boss,” said Athos in a deep, respectful voice. As he spoke, Dana realised why Treville had mocked him with that word ‘milord’ (which she had heard recently on Meung Station, applied to an entirely different gentleman). Athos had the cut-glass accent of a New Aristocrat, and the exaggerated manners of one too. What on earth was such a fashionable fool doing in the Royal Space Fleet?

  “You live to make trouble,” Treville grumbled. “Your fellow Musketeers here assure me there was no Duel consumed during your run in with the Sabres. Is that true?”

  “Not a drop, dear Amiral,” Athos confirmed. “We simply engaged in an old fashioned brawl. You know the sort of thing. Fisticuffs.” He mimicked a gentle boxing match, as if to convince her of his innocence. “It was very noble and historically authentic.”

  Treville rolled her eyes. “How quaint.”

  Dana could not help noticing that Athos had a calming effect on Treville. There was something about his presence that apparently made street fighting and the Regence’s displeasure a little more forgivable.

  “I have led my friends astray,” said Athos, with a formal bow. “An
d I take the entire blame for it – oh, bollocks.” His face drained of what little colour it had, and he lost his balance.

  Both Aramis and Porthos dove for him, but Treville was there first, helping the man to lie back on the floor, pale and shaking as he was. “Athos,” she demanded, unbuttoning his jacket. “Are you actually bleeding on my floor right now, you fucking liability?”

  “Bandage seals must have broken,” he gasped, playing up the wound for all it was worth. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just lie here for a moment and then I’ll be fine.”

  “Why did you not get him to a medibay?” Treville barked at Aramis and Porthos.

  “Well,” said Porthos with an apologetic smile. “To be fair, Amiral, we were on our way to fetch medical assistance when, uh, you called us in here.”

  “We thought we’d better hop back here to get him patched up,” said Aramis helpfully. She patted Athos on the head as if he were a beloved pet, and smiled a sweet, charming smile.

  There was a red stain, a small one, on Athos’ chest. Dana stared at it from a distance as Treville called for medics. They arrived in short order and began patching him up rather more effectively than he and his colleagues had managed.

  Only when Athos had been taken away on a stretcher did Treville, the last of her anger worn away, stare down his two partners in crime. “Blades, then,” she said in a heavy voice. “You’ve been fighting with actual blades, you utter…” but her words trailed away before she could locate a harsh enough noun.

  “But not with Duel,” said Aramis gravely. “For you have expressly forbidden…”

  “Get out of here,” Treville growled. “Keep an eye on that boy of yours. I want him back in the sky in three days.”

  The two Musketeers slid out, not bothering to hide how relieved they were to escape with their skins intact. Treville slammed the door behind them.

  “As you can see, Dana,” she said without ceremony, sitting back behind her desk. “None of the useless pricks I currently have serving under me have gotten themselves killed lately. You might think it would be worth betting on Athos, but he has the luck of the devil and can even turn being stabbed into some kind of poetic statement. The Musketeers are in the shit with the Regence, our funding is at an all time low, and there are no new ships on our horizon. I’m probably going to have to lay off a dozen gals this year. There’s no position for a newcomer to step into, no matter her family history.”

  Dana felt the ceiling slowly press down around her. This was it, then. She was being dismissed. “Would it have made a difference if I brought my own ship?” she asked, hating herself for saying it, but she would always wonder if she had lost her chance because of that Duel back on Meung Station, and the sale of the Buttercup.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Treville, handing back the application stud with a sympathetic pat of her hand over Dana’s. “They still let me print ships, thank God, it’s all the other budget lines that have disappeared. I’ve nothing to offer you, kid. My pilots are even providing their own uniforms these days, which is how Porthos gets away with that gaudy belt of hers. If it makes you feel better – very few applicants get into the Fleet on their first application. Try again in a year or two, if we’re still here. In the meantime, you’ve got more than enough flight hours to put in for the Pigeons or the Ravens. They’re always hiring, and it’s good basic experience to flesh out your CV.”

  Pigeon or Raven. A grunt, or a courier. Neither of them were the job that Dana wanted. “Thanks anyway,” she said, trying to keep her chin up.

  “I’m sorry,” said Treville, meeting her gaze. “We’re not what you imagined, are we?”

  “No,” said Dana, more sharply than politeness allowed. “You’re really not.”

  Dana left Amiral Treville’s office with two copies of a letter of introduction added to her application chip – one for the Pigeons and one for the Ravens. She had not yet decided which to try for.

  The thought of being a courier made her want to pack up and go home. She was here to be a Musketeer like her mother before her, to defend the Regence’s peace and protect the innocent, not to ferry messages back and forth.

  As a Pigeon she would at least be guarding the safety of Royal Space, even if she might spend half her time on her feet instead of in a flight deck. Palace duty did not pay so well as the airy life of the Ravens, but it would keep her closer to here, to Paris and Luna Palais, where she might someday earn enough merit to be considered for the next empty helm of a musket-class dart.

  And… sure, she wouldn’t have a ship of her own, but she might get a mecha out of the deal. That could be fun.

  From what Treville had said, it would not have made a difference if Dana had arrived in her own antique yellow-sprayed dart, with a gleaming stainless stud at her cuff and a photo silk full of nostalgia in her pocket, but oh, she was still seething about what had happened back at Meung Station. Everything had gone wrong from there. If Dana saw that thieving bitch from the Moth again, she was going to…

  But, there she was.

  Dana stood at the plexi-glass doors that opened from Treville’s observation deck. From here, she could see across Marie Antoinette Esplanade, one of the main shopping hubs of Paris Station. The immense plaza was busy with people, many of them in the colour-coded uniforms of the Fleet – Red, Gold, Blue, White, Grey, Black.

  Right there amongst so many short and shaven and tightly-braided heads was a woman walking quickly, her long sweep of black hair streaming out behind a violet flight suit.

  Dana could still hear the voice of the pilot from the Moth drawling in her ear, the snide ‘Buttercup.’

  The thief, who had taunted her into an illegal game and stolen her very identity.

  Blazing hatred flashed through Dana’s body, and she flung herself at the nearest escalator, running several steps at a time to get to the foot of it, dodging shoppers and customers and her fellow pilots to reach her prey.

  “Hey, stop!” she yelled, but the pilot from Meung Station did not even glance up.

  4

  How They Met And Other Minor Tragedies

  So far, Dana’s day had been a colossal waste of time. After years of working, she had finally reached the space station of her dreams, only to have those dreams squashed by reality.

  The Musketeers weren’t taking new pilots.

  Even if they were, she wouldn’t be top of their list.

  She had travelled all this way from the other end of the solar system, sold the ship her Papa had restored with such pride and joy, failed to live up to her Mama’s reputation… it was all such a mess.

  Dana could not let herself be angry at Amiral Treville, or even those scruffbag Musketeers who had the best job in the galaxy and wasted their time pissing about like naughty schoolgirls.

  But as she stood on the gantry, looking down across the beautiful ornamental plaza and the pilot in the bright violet flight-suit, she knew who she could be angry at.

  That viper with the long, beautiful sweep of hair, who had tricked Dana into thinking she wasn’t a pilot, then beaten her painfully in a game of Duel, and robbed her blind. The one who called her embarrassing ship a buttercup. Ro, if that was really her name.

  Oh yes, Dana could be angry. As if there was even a choice.

  She all but flew down the escalator, dodging people this way and that as she ran across the plaza. She circled around into what looked like a clear area, but nearly collided with a transport cart bringing cryo-tubes in through a large door marked Medibay.

  Impatient, Dana waited until they were clear and then bolted forward, only to crash into a man as he stepped out of the medibay doors. He cried in pain at the impact, and Dana bounced off his chest, landing heavily on the ground.

  “Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I’m after this villainous cow of a— Oh!”

  She knew this man. It was Athos the Musketeer, still sporting his frivolous golden beard, a freshly-bandaged shoulder, and apparently bleeding once again from the chest.

>   Possibly that last part was her fault.

  “Shouldn’t you still be in the medibay?” she blurted out.

  He growled at her, clutching his wound. There was no charming twinkle as he had shown back in the office of Amiral Treville. “With an accent like yours, kid, shouldn’t you have better manners?”

  “I didn’t mean to bump you,” Dana said impatiently, scrambling to her feet. “And I said I was sorry. But I must catch her -”

  Athos reached out and grabbed her with his good arm, squeezing her shoulder painfully. “If you’re in a hurry now, sweetness, when will you be in less of a hurry? We have a code of conduct on Paris Satellite, and it sounds like you need a fucking lesson in manners.”

  Damn it all, that was fighting language. Dana felt sick to the stomach at the thought of taking Duel again so soon after the last time, but she was anxious to get after that pilot before she lost her.

  “I’m new on station,” she said, shaking his hand from her arm. “Where are such things usually done?”

  “Level 5, Alpha square behind the Luxembourg,” suggested Athos. “1500 hours.”

  “Done! Fine. Whatever.”

  Dana spun away from him, picking up speed again as she tore on through the plaza, desperately hoping that she had not lost her prey.

  There was the violet flight suit, disappearing into a narrow walkway. Dana ducked and weaved around the crowd, closing the distance between them.

  She saw another Musketeer pilot from Treville’s office, the curvy and cheerful woman called Porthos, still wearing that splendid custom-made coat and bedazzled belt. It was matched now with a jewelled turban to conceal her pilot’s buzz cut. What a peacock! Dana could not imagine why people bothered with such fashionable fripperies when there were ships to fly. Porthos stood out from her group of friends, laughing and making expansive gestures as she shared a joke.