“Can we go back to my place and shower before the kidnapping?” Athos asked, butting her with his damp head. Aramis squirmed and kept him at arm’s distance.
“Ugh, yes. Though that is against the philosophy of kidnapping, so I may insist upon a forfeit.”
“What are we doing now?” Dana gave into the inevitable, that her time would not be her own until the next work shift. Who needed sleep and food anyway?
Aramis shook her wrist, calling up three virtual tickets that glowed in the air before them and then disappeared back into her credit stud. “CINQUEFOIL!” she howled. “Serpentin versus the Mousers, it’s going to be brutal.”
“I would,” said Athos calmly, “actually rather eat glass.”
“I know, darling, that’s why it means so much to us that you’re going to overcome your appalling bias against the game of gods and join us,” said Aramis. “Porthos has royal escort duty, which means three tickets going begging. Luckily, there are three of us right here.”
“Give mine to Grimaud.”
“She has her own. You bought her a season ticket to the Mousers last Joyeux, because you are a selfless and thoughtful person and she would have dumped your arse years ago if you didn’t come through with the bribes.”
“I’m beginning to regret the error of my generosity,” said Athos.
Aramis ignored him, as she so often did. “Dana, you in?”
Dana had not managed to see a game of cinquefoil in Paris so far. Porthos’ preferences were firmly for fleur-de-lis. Athos’ distaste made her all the more curious. “Of course,” she said.
“You’ll regret it,” Athos warned.
“And you have spent far too long in your own company lately, my friend,” said Aramis lightly, her eyes back on him. “Did you think we wouldn’t notice?”
Athos strode ahead, avoiding her steady gaze. “Fine. At least with all the blood spatter and inane commentary, I won’t be expected to make conversation with either of you.”
“So what you’re saying is, I win?” Aramis called after him, then winked at Dana. “I usually win.”
ARTOIS: Here we are back for the local derby, both of Paris Satellite’s homegrown teams facing off for the first time this season: that’s Serpentin in green and white, and the Mousers in grey. Your commentary team today is myself, Charlemagne Artois, sitting alongside three-times Solar Cup winner Renée Olympe, how are you this evening, champ?
OLYMPE: I’m excited, Artois, It’s always a grudge match between these two teams, but you only have to look at the lineup to know that this is going to be a tough game. Serpentin are playing their brand new chevalier, Thierry Degas, only months after his controversial transfer back from the Freedom League who poached him from the Mousers themselves two seasons ago for a record transfer sum of 28 million credits.
ARTOIS: Yes, Olympe, you can see from the banners that the Mousers fans are still furious that their former captain returned to Paris only to sign up with their most fierce local rivals. And the team aren’t any happier about it. Even before gameplay begins, the current captain and chevalier of the Mousers, Samir Olivier, has refused to include Degas in his pole salute, that’s quite a snub.
OLYMPE: Who can blame him, Artois, Olivier was one of many young players who came up through the youth club with Degas, and it’s always a blow to find out that your heroes care more for financial incentive than team loyalty – not that I’m bitter, as a long-time Mousers fan myself.
ARTOIS: Not that you’re biased either, Olympe!
OLYMPE: Of course I’m biased, Artois, the Mousers are the best team in the Solar League.
ARTOIS: Five years without winning the Cup suggests otherwise…
OLYMPE: AND IT’S KICKOFF!
Thirty seconds into the game, Dana was conceded Athos’ point about cinquefoil. This was the most distressing spectator sport she had ever witnessed. There was a controlled chaos to fleur-de-lis, a dance between the Jousters and their opponents. There was technique and skill, a fierce elegance to the whole thing.
Cinquefoil appeared to have no formal rules. The large zero-gravity tank (the same size as was used for the other game) was surrounded on all sides by the audience stands. The higher up you were, the more you could see of the game – and because everyone sat about thirty centimetres from the plexi-glass walls of the tank, it was entirely possible for a player to crash into the wall right in front of your face, blood spiralling out in tiny floating globes.
ARTOIS: That’s a beautiful leap from Henri of the Mousers, he’s got a fierce turn of speed on him as he propels himself directly in the path of Valentine.
OLYMPE: Always up the north side, of course, but even when they know it’s coming, he’s – and it’s first blood in the fourth quadrant, with both Serpentin pole attacks making a vicious double play against Bradamante!
ARTOIS: She’s made of nails, that player, it’s like she hasn’t even noticed that her nose is broken, look at that shoulder work as she shoves Valentine directly into Lola Chang’s path and OH THAT HAS TO HURT!
Dana considered herself tough, but she had her hands half covering her face for most of the game. Athos was several drinks ahead of the rest of them, having started well before they even reached their seats. Aramis, the optimist of the three, genuinely enjoyed the vicious mechanics of the game – or she had, right up to the moment she had spotted Captain Tracy Dubois sitting in a private box with her husband, on the far side of the tank.
Porthos might have lightened the mood, but she was in full uniform, on duty near the royal box from which the Regence and Prince Consort viewed the spectacle, accompanied by several friends and ministers.
Dana realised that the stately older woman who sat to one side of the Regence in a plum-coloured gown was the Cardinal herself. She did not look especially religious, though there was a chilly gravity to her.
Dana shivered for a moment, when the Cardinal looked in her direction. The last thing she wanted was that kind of attention.
OLYMPE: Believe me, Artois, a broken nose hurts just as much in zero gravity as it does anywhere else, but don’t take your eyes off the second quadrant, where Olivier has kicked his way past the pole challenges of St Girard and Serpentin captain Millefleur, I think we know where he’s going, don’t we?
ARTOIS: Millefleur isn’t going to let her chevalier get grabbed that easily, look at her hauling Olivier back down into third quadrant and away from his target… and she’s used BOTH HANDS, that’s a foul. Meanwhile, Anjelique ‘the Angel’ Anjou just used St Girard as ballast to rocket her halfway across the tank, and she’s the first of the Mousers to get a tip challenge on Degas.
OLYMPE: They’re in formal jousting mode now, jet packs engaged, and OH THAT’S NASTY!
Dana could not stop glancing over at the royal box, not only because it kept her eyes averted from the upsetting violence of the cinquefoil, but because Conrad was there, in a bright sky-blue jacket that matched his hair. He sat with the Prince, the two of them watching the game avidly, pointing out every move and player to each other with grins and laughter.
Aramis dropped her head to Dana’s shoulder, nursing her wounded heart from seeing Dubois on such good terms with her husband. Even in a morose state, she was far too observant. “I hope it’s not the Prince that you can’t take your eyes off, little one,” she said in a low voice, her mouth brushing Dana’s ear. “We only just finished cleaning up the last scandal in the making…”
Dana elbowed her, turning her eyes back to the game, just as two Serpentin players slammed themselves hard against the Mouser captain, one from above and one from below. The entire audience sucked in a sympathetic breath in unison, and the Mouser supporters around Dana and the others started booing and yelling angrily, some of them physically banging their hands on the tank in protest.
“Of course not,” Dana hissed back at Aramis. “Don’t even think things like that!”
Aramis chuckled to herself. “Such pretty men, these New Aristocrats. Not my type, of course,
but I see the appeal.”
“Can you stop right now?”
“I’m only teasing, Dana,” Aramis said seriously. “I know it’s the tailor you have eyes for.”
“I hate you!” Dana muttered, slumping lower in her chair.
Aramis reached over her shoulders to catch Athos’ attention by smacking him on the head. “Athos, Athos! Dana likes a boy.”
“They grow up so fast,” Athos said without missing a beat, though he was ordering another drink, and wasn’t properly listening. “Is the game over yet?”
“Quarter time,” said Aramis as the whistle went and the players retreated to have the worst of their wounds bandaged.
“Give me strength.”
The second quarter was just as vicious, with both teams down to four players each by the end of it, and at least four poles swapped out due to breakages. The zero-gravity well inside the tank had to be sluiced with air pressure to remove all the globules of blood and floating splinters before the next round.
Athos wasn’t interested in anything but drinking, and Aramis continued to dart searching looks at Dubois and her husband, so it was down to Dana to fetch supplies from the noodle stand down on the main deck. She returned with her hands full of damp paper containers and egg rolls, to find that the audience had quietened down to hear a royal speech.
“Just in time,” Aramis groaned, snatching at the food. “I will bury my heartbroken melancholy in sticky prawns.”
“There aren’t enough sticky prawns in the world to bury your heartbreaks,” Athos drawled.
They hushed as the Regence stood and began her speech.
Dana was impressed all over again by the Regence’s grace and beauty. Lalla-Louise Regence Royal had an extraordinary public presence, her charisma shining out of her face. It was easy to see how she had won the propaganda battle, and why the people believed every promise that she made to hold the system together instead of allowing it to fracture into a series of planetary rulerships.
“You should know, my people, that I would never lie to you,” she said, her low and melodic voice picked up and piped into every chair, every comm channel, so it was as if she spoke directly into every row of seats. “Many of my advisors suggested that I deny the rumours that have arisen in recent days. Rumours that the Sun-kissed are on the move, and that recent provincial attacks might well be the work of our old enemy.”
Dana felt the reactions of Aramis on one side of her, and Athos on the other. Their backs straightened, and their chins lifted. There was a tension to them, as if they were about to be called to arms.
“…no matter the distress and panic it may cause, I need you to know that I trust you all with this knowledge. If the Sun-kissed try to march against us again, let them come, for we are strong. Strong in faith and strong in arms. The Sabres, the Musketeers, the Mecha Squads, the Red Hammers: regardless whether they are Royal Fleet or Church Fleet, all serve the Crown and the Solar System. We will always defeat those who test our faith, whether they come from within or without our own species.”
The Cardinal stood with the Regence, and the Prince Consort on her other side. It was a powerful image of unity in strength.
Dana felt something soft drift past her shoulder blades and realised that Aramis had reached around her, one hand brushing lightly against the back of Athos’ neck. His eyes bore fiercely into the Regence and her supporters.
Had they fought against the Sun-kissed in the war? It ended eight years ago. Dana did not know how long it was since her friends had joined the Musketeers. They could have been in the service, fighting against the aliens who almost destroyed the Solar System.
Athos’ hands trembled. Dana pretended not to notice.
The Regence lightened the mood with a joke, and a merry smile. The audience relaxed around her, responding to her upbeat tone.
“Because cheer is as important in times of peace and faith as it was in our darker times, I have a joyful announcement to share with all of Paris!” the Regence announced. “At her Eminence’s suggestion, we are to hold a ball for my wedding anniversary to my beloved Prince Alek.” She squeezed her husband’s hand, and smiled adoringly at him. “It shall be televised live to the populace, and I’m sure you will be greatly entertained by our frivolities and our costumes. The theme is Diamonds and Peacocks!”
Dana spat out a mouthful of her drink. Athos automatically confiscated her cup, and swallowed half of its contents.
The royal couple were besieged by applause and well-wishers, as their assorted hangers on demonstrated their pleasure at the idea of a ball. Reporters were let loose to ask questions about which celebrities were expected to attend.
The Prince Consort’s smile, however warm it was in the presence of his wife, lacked something as he turned away from her. The cams captured his faltering face, throwing it up on the larger screens. Conrad, sitting right next to the Prince, looked as if his world had ended.
“Damn it all,” Dana murmured beneath her breath.
Aramis and Athos turned to her. “Trouble?” asked Athos as if a distraction was exactly what he needed.
Dana nodded. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The Regence – or the Cardinal – or both of them, knew about the peacock coat and the diamond studs and the Duke of Buckingham.
“Trouble,” she said grimly. “But I don’t think there’s anything we can do to stop it now.”
“Haven’t you heard?” said Aramis lightly, tossing a food carton from hand to hand as if there had been no discussion at all today of aliens and war and a possible return to the darkest time that their people had ever faced. “We’re Musketeers. Trouble is what we do best.”
17
Portrait of a Marriage
Dana had been thinking about Conrad Su and his employer ever since yesterday’s cinquefoil game, and the Regence’s announcement.
It was none of Dana’s business. She had no right to involve herself. And yet – the safety of the realm might well depend on how the Prince Consort chose to handle the matter of the coat and the diamonds and the ball.
If the Sun-kissed were returning, if it was really true that another intergalactic war was on the horizon, then this was the worst possible time for the government to take a hit.
Dana flopped down on her narrow bed in the room above Madame Su’s workshop. Sleep. She needed sleep. But every time she closed her eyes, there was a clanking noise from below. The rooms were heavily soundproofed, which meant the noise must be fearsome indeed.
Finally, she let herself out of her room and leaned over the balcony to see what was going on down there.
The workshop had been half-cleared of its usual printers and other paraphernalia, to make room for three large mecha. They were basic orbital suits, designed for space repairs and other basic tasks outside the station. They were also, for the most part, in bits.
Another pallet of limbs and casings arrived on a packing trolley steered by two Pigeons, and Madame Su directed the lot to be unpacked on the workshop floor.
Planchet sat among the mechanical debris, looking as if all her birthdays had come at once. When she saw Dana, she waved merrily up at her. “Look what we got!”
Madame Su darted a glance up at Dana and looked away again. She had been doing that since her release by the Red Hammers, as if she didn’t want to acknowledge that they even knew each other. If it meant Dana would not be included any new Palace plots, she was okay with that.
Madame Su turned swiftly and withdrew into her rooms.
“You have to see this!” Planchet squealed, diving into the new pile of mecha bits.
Dana came down the steps to her. “Where in space did you get it all?” Her thoughts flitted to the mecha graveyard on Luna Palais and that odd night she had spent out there with Conrad, Chevreuse and Dubois.
“Auction,” said Planchet, diving into one of the pallets and pulling out handfuls of circuits. “Madame Su has a contract to supply cheap mecha for the Calais,” she added, referring to the solarcrawler civilian t
ransport that ran regularly between Honour and Valour. “I’m going to build and fix them from this lot, and she’s paying me a percentage!”
Dana frowned at that. “I hope it’s a big percentage, if you’re doing all the work.”
Planchet’s expression fell slightly. “It’s… a percentage,” she said.
Dana sighed, and patted Planchet on the arm. “Do you really think you can get entire mecha suits up and running from scrap?”
“Oh yes,” said Planchet, brightening. “Look at that one, the chassis is mostly complete, it’s only the internals that need to be completely remodelled, and that one over there will be solid once I get the head reshaped and buffed down to size, and find it some new internal circuits. And arms.”
Dana should go back to her room and sleep. She really should. Rest was important. But this looked like fun. Taking things apart, putting them back together and recycling scrap into working tech had been a massive part of her life back on Gascon Station, and while she appreciated the ease with which you could access anything you wanted here in Paris, she did love a challenge.
Besides, if she worked a mecha from the inside out, she might do better with the damn things in the field. She needed all the help she could get on that score.
“Can I help?” she asked, and was rewarded by a brilliant grin from Planchet.
An hour later, Dana sat inside the most complete of the broken mecha suits. The pilot’s nest was the easiest position from which to run a full diagnostic. Next to this bucket of bolts, the mecha that Dana used for her work with Commandant Essart was looking pretty damned shiny.
“I have to deliver some contracts for Madame Su,” said Planchet, speaking loudly from outside the casing. “It’ll only take half an hour. Are you all right in there?”
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