Musketeer Space

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  The Commissary turned to Madame Su. “Is that correct, Madame? Has D’Artagnan ever met your husband?”

  “I don’t know,” said Madame Su, looking at the Musketeer in confusion. “I don’t think she had, before I sent her to find him… you do know that this isn’t D’Artagnan, don’t you? My lodger is female.”

  “That’s quite correct,” said the Musketeer. “Apologies for the interruption, but I am not D’Artagnan.”

  “You mean that you are not the D’Artagnan who pays rent with Madame Su, but you are… her husband, then?” asked the Commissary, paddling furiously.

  “I have no wife,” said the Musketeer, and for the first time his tone was less than light. “And my name is not D’Artagnan.”

  The Commissary blinked twice and looked at Madame Su. “Who is this man?”

  “I thought you knew!” she exploded. “He’s not my lodger, that’s for sure.” She gave the Musketeer a dirty look. “If she has been hiding a husband, I am certainly going to charge her double and backdate the rent!”

  “Madame, I assure you, I have not been sharing D’Artagnan’s apartment,” the Musketeer said. “I have quite reasonable rooms elsewhere in Paris.”

  “So who are you?” the Commissary demanded.

  “Captain-lieutenant Athos of the Royal Musketeer fleet.” He smiled politely at her, and raised his wrist. “You can scan my ID if you like. I tried to suggest this when I was first brought into the cells, but for some reason the guards were very keen to keep my presence here off the records.”

  “That happened to me too,” said Madame Su thoughtfully.

  “What an astounding coincidence,” said Athos of the Musketeers.

  Early retirement, the Commissary decided. It was the only reasonable response to a farce like this. “You identified yourself as D’Artagnan,” she growled.

  “Did I?” said Athos. “I was minding my own business, approaching my friend’s new quarters, and suddenly I was surrounded by a group of somewhat young and inexperienced Red Hammers. One of them asked if I was D’Artagnan in a very fierce voice…” He held up his hands, as if helpless. “I didn’t like to embarrass them by pointing out the obvious.”

  “The obvious,” repeated the Commissary.

  “Madame Su here can help iron out the details of the obvious differences between myself and Mecha-Cadet D’Artagnan,” said Athos.

  “I can think of a few,” muttered Madame Su.

  The door of the interrogation room burst open, and a woman stood there in a bright pink flight suit that marked her as a civilian. She had a long sweep of black hair, a nasty scar slashed across her face, and she looked like she was about to murder someone.

  “Return to the front desk immediately,” blustered the Commissary, getting to her feet. “You have no right to interrupt this interrogation!”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” said Athos, his eyes on the intruder as if she were the most dangerous thing in the room.

  “My credentials,” snapped the woman, holding her wrist out to the Commissary, who scanned her stud with the clamshell on her desk. Special Agent Captain Rosnay Cho, Security Level 22, rattled across the screen.

  Level 22 meant that the agent reported directly to the Cardinal herself. With visions of her early retirement disappearing into smoke, the Commissary bowed her head. “I cede these prisoners to you, of course, Special Agent Cho.”

  “Only the woman,” said Cho. Her eyes flicked briefly over the Musketeer who called himself Athos. “This one can rot in your holding cells for as long as you like.” She held out one hand to the terrified Madame Su. “You are coming with me, madame. My employer has some very important questions to ask you about your husband.”

  The journey that followed was the most terrifying time of Madame Su’s life. It was particularly fraught when Special Agent Cho discovered that the ship she had intended to use to transport them to Luna Palais was missing, along with an engineer, and that there were no security records of how this had happened.

  After further delays and quite a lot of enraged shouting, they were eventually packed into a borrowed red and gold sabre-class dart, bound for the moon.

  During the journey, Madame Su thought about every insulting thing she had ever said about the current Regence and her good-for-nothing husband the Prince Consort. Was this her fault? Had she been recorded somewhere, saying something she shouldn’t? It was a relief when the dart docked a good distance from the Palace, and she realised they were going somewhere else altogether: a private residence, which contained no angry members of the royal family.

  Special Agent Cho let herself in through the front door, spoke briefly to a servant, and then dragged Madame Su along with her until they reached a botanical atrium at the centre of the residence.

  The greenness and realness of the plants was something of a shock to Madame Su, who preferred her vegetation pre-packed in plastic pouches, with salad dressing.

  Special Agent Cho pushed her way through several fronds of greenery, dragging her prisoner along with her, until they found a corner of the atrium that was occupied.

  The woman was younger than Madame Su herself, perhaps forty years old, and greying at the temples. She wore a thick apron and gloves, her dark hair tied back in a bun as she concentrated on snipping stray flowers from a strong vine with a pair of vicious-looking secateurs.

  “Hello, Rosnay,” she said, sounding quite serene. “How is it all going, then?”

  “Mixed results,” said the agent through gritted teeth. “Brought you a present, Eminence.”

  “So you have.” The woman looked Madame Su over, as if perusing fabrics in a warehouse. “I think we’re going to require tea, don’t you?”

  “I’d rather find my missing Moth,” Special Agent Cho said angrily. “You won’t believe what those cunning bastards have…”

  “Tea,” said the gardener in a very firm voice, not to be denied. “And little sandwiches, with lots of butter. Our guest looks tired and hungry.”

  Madame Su, who was not entirely stupid, and knew what the title “Eminence” meant, did her best not to burst into tears. This was Cardinal Richelieu. Chances were very low that she was going to get out of this alive.

  “Tea would be nice,” Madame Su managed in a small voice.

  “Jolly good,” said the Cardinal, snipping another dead-head. “Tea, sandwiches and a nice cozy chat.”

  It was the most awkward tea party in the history of the solar system. Madame Su did not dare say anything without being asked directly. Special Agent Cho vibrated with fury over whatever had happened to her spaceship. The Cardinal was pleasant enough but remained terrifyingly formal, and regularly received messages upon her clamshell in between sips of tea and bites of toast point.

  The sandwiches and the tea was excellent, but there is nothing like the fear of immediate execution to make even a splendid spread taste like dust on the tongue.

  “Your husband, Madame Su,” said the Cardinal after a long moment. She still did not look like a grand religious leader, with only a small solar star hanging at her throat to mark that she belonged to the Church of All. She wore black flight fatigues, as if she were a soldier rather than a priest. Her hair was dressed with a constellation of pearl pins. “You are aware that he is a conspirator?”

  Madame Su did not dare argue this point. “My Conrad was always such a good boy,” she whispered, clutching her teacup as if it might fly away into space at any moment. “But the Palace… there are temptations.”

  “Indeed,” said the Cardinal. “Treason can be a terrible temptation, to one so young and vulnerable.”

  “I knew nothing about it!” Madame Su burst out. “I only wanted my husband back safe, I didn’t -” She broke off, and buried her face in a biscuit, nibbling like a mouse.

  A new message came in. The Cardinal read it, her eyes flicking across the words incredulously, and then she smiled. “Tell me, Madame Su, of everything you know about your husband’s connection to his former t
eammate, Madame Marie Chevreuse-Montbazon.”

  Madame Su pressed her lips together in fear. That woman. That athletic goddess with her winning smile and decadent, corrupting ways. “I have not had sight of that bitch since she was exiled, and good riddance,” she spat.

  The Cardinal did not say ‘indeed’ again this time, but she smiled a warm and reassuring smile. “You think Chevreuse a likely ringleader?”

  “Trouble from head to toe,” Madame Su grumbled. “A husband-eater.”

  Special Agent Cho received a call through her comm, and she leaped to her feet, asking the Cardinal for permission to take it outside. Her Eminence agreed with a graceful nod of her head.

  Madame Su began to think that she was misplaced in her fear – the Cardinal had made no move to accuse Madame Su of being complicit in her husband’s dealings.

  “Why, I could tell you a story or two about that Marie Chevreuse,” she volunteered bravely.

  A light sparkled in the Cardinal’s eyes. “Please do.”

  It was as if a dam had burst inside her. Madame Su barely paused for breath as she rattled out all of the disreputable, flirtatious instances she had witnessed over the last several years. She only paused when Cho returned, interrupting without any manners at all.

  “Your Eminence,” she gasped. “It’s done.”

  The Cardinal’s face changed, from the politely encouraging lady to a sharp, incisive politician. She turned to Cho, forgetting Madame Su was even there. “The Colin Guillaume?”

  “En route to Valour, with enough time missing from their flight log to account for an unidentified ship that docked briefly at the mecha graveyard.”

  The Cardinal shone from within like a diamond. “Evidence?” she purred.

  “On board, with the Ambassador.” Cho smiled with all her teeth. “Milord will collect the data when they touch down on Valour.”

  “Excuse me, Madame Su,” said the Cardinal, sweeping to her feet. “My breakfast meeting with the Regence has taken on more than its usual importance. You may return to Paris Satellite.”

  Madame Su blinked, surprised at the sudden release. “I may?”

  “I hardly wish to detain you.”

  “But -”

  “Your husband escaped his abduction, and has since returned to his bed at the Palace. I am sure he will be in contact with you when he awakes. But it is late, of course. After such a trying day, you should get some rest.”

  Madame Su stood, and was guided to the door by polite servants as if she were the visitor who had chosen such an unwelcome time to be paying calls. “But,” she said again, before she found herself standing alone on the automatic pavement in front of the residence. It hummed beneath her feet, drawing along the avenue of one of the wealthiest areas on Luna Palais.

  “Oh, Conrad,” she sighed. “What have you got us into now?”

  Her credit stud chimed discreetly, informing her that she had received a substantial payment from the Cardinal’s office, ‘in compensation for your inconvenience, and for the rendering of future intelligence.’

  At some point during the night, Madame Su had become the Cardinal’s spy.

  16

  Cinquefoil For Beginners

  A week after the events that Dana D’Artagnan had mentally filed away as That Night, she came off a double transport shift at Paris Satellite to find Athos waiting for her at the gate. He tilted his head at her expectantly.

  She had been avoiding him, and he knew it.

  “I am so sorry,” Dana blurted out when she got close enough to speak.

  Athos shook his head, took her arm and hauled her along the concourse, heading for Marie Antoinette Esplanade. “Not here. Practice rooms.”

  Dana knew discretion was necessary, but it was all she could do to stop herself from rolling out a dozen more apologies between here and their destination.

  Finally they reached the entertainment hub, where Athos paid for a rec space with a credit swipe of his stud. Only when they were inside the sleek and empty white practice room did Dana realise that he had more than one baton hanging from his belt. What was the plural of a pilot’s slice?

  “You want to fence?” she asked as he tossed the second baton to her, and stripped off his Musketeer jacket.

  “Porthos said you’d keep avoiding me until I let you get some stuff off your chest, and I thought that sounded like a waste of time, but she’s generally right about these things.” He frowned at her. “At least this way, we’ll be doing something productive.”

  Dana scowled. “Porthos should keep her nose out of everyone else’s business.”

  “See, D’Artagnan? That is why you and I are friends.” Athos called up a screen in the wall and tapped a few print commands into it. “Did you get fitted for the practice gear I told you about? You need your own pattern to print from.”

  “I haven’t had time.”

  He rolled his eyes at her. “Preventing bruises saves on medipatches. Make the time. This will do for now.”

  Athos’ own fencing jacket, pre-programmed into the system, printed first. A generic woman’s jacket followed, which he tossed to her. He had ordered water bottles and towels, too. “By next time, you’ll need your own strip and mask. For now, concentrate on not stabbing me in the face and I’ll resist the urge to do the same. We won’t go at full speed.”

  Dana did not retort that she might have been better prepared for this session if he’d given her any warning. They both knew that if he hadn’t sprung this on her, she might have kept dodging him for at least another week.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said, struggling into the stiff jacket. She had hoped for a lie-down and some dinner at the end of her shift, but she knew better than to argue with Athos in a mood like this. Besides… she owed him.

  “Stop looking at me like you drowned my pet,” he snapped, setting his own pilot’s slice to the thinnest, lightest setting, with a blunted tip. The SmartMetal was springy that way, best for practice bouts. When Porthos played blades with Dana, she encouraged her to go for a heavier weight of sword, but Athos was all about technique.

  “Athos, you went to prison for me.” Dana wouldn’t even have known about it if Aramis hadn’t let it slip. Athos was furious that Aramis opened her mouth, and promptly stormed out of the bar where they had been drinking. Dana had been too embarrassed to look him in the eye ever since.

  “Hardly prison,” he scoffed, doing a few experimental lunges with the sword. “The holding cell at the Armoury is an old friend of mine. I was only there a day or so, and it gave me a chance to catch up on the newest graffiti. Are you ready?”

  “Just about.” Dana stretched first. Last time she had allowed Athos to lead her in ‘a little light sword practice’ she had spent a whole evening evening massaging painful cramps out of her calves. Athos never did anything lightly.

  He was waiting for her now, sword at the ready. They began with a few gentle taps, measuring distance, watching each other. “Besides,” Athos said finally. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it to piss off the Cardinal.”

  There wasn’t much time to talk – not with his sword flicking at her, and Dana mustering up all her concentration to accept the lesson for what it was.

  If fencing was a conversation, then Athos had all the nouns, adjectives and verbs. It was all Dana could do to grab the occasional punctuation mark. Whenever she failed to defend herself against one of his moves, he stopped and checked himself, then did it again at half or quarter speed, so she could work out what she could or should have done to counter it.

  “This is so much better than talking about our feelings,” Dana said breathlessly when they paused to slug water from freshly-printed bottles.

  “Don’t tell Porthos,” said Athos, with half a grin.

  “Did Amiral Treville really go to the Regence herself to get you freed?”

  He shrugged with one shoulder, wiping the back of his neck with a towel. “Someone had to. The bastards were keeping me out of the system, so there was no tra
ce of my ID.”

  “Treville trusted Aramis and Porthos’ word that they had you in the Armoury?”

  Athos reached out and tapped Dana on the nose with his fingertip. “Treville may be scary as all fuck, but she’s loyal to her pilots, and she knows we wouldn’t bullshit her about anything really important. Remember that, D’Artagnan. She’s worth letting into your confidence, if you’ve anything worth protecting. No one is more loyal to the Crown or the Solar System or the Musketeers than our Amiral Treville.”

  Dana hesitated, but nodded. Athos didn’t trust many people, so this was worth knowing. “So Treville marched into the Palace…”

  “And interrupted the Regence at her morning chocolate – with guess who?”

  Dana laughed at that, a sudden shout of noise in the muffled practice room. “I bet that went down well.”

  “The Cardinal knows which side her bread is buttered on. She’s always the first to suggest that her enemies be forgiven. It’s the dart she slips in while agreeing with everyone that poisons the trough.” Athos flexed his sword a few more times. “Ready for another bout?”

  “It doesn’t count as forgiving me if you take it out of my body in sweat and blood,” Dana protested, but she dropped her water bottle to the floor and headed into the centre of the space again, sword in hand.

  “Nothing to forgive,” he told her. “But if you haven’t got a touch on me three times by the end of this session, I expect you to grovel.”

  They threw themselves back into it: flick and slide, parry, defend, lunge, and endless footwork drills.

  This must be what it would be like to have a brother, Dana thought as Athos corrected her stance for the fourth time, literally kicking her feet into the proper position. She grinned stupidly at him. He looked confused, then prodded her in the pit of her stomach with the blunt tip of his sword. “Again. Do better.”

  Aramis pounced upon them both when they emerged from the practice room, sweaty and exhausted. “Kidnapping you!” she announced, flinging an arm around Athos’ shoulders and making a face at him. “So wet. Bleh.”