Musketeer Space

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “That does sound like Bonnie,” Dana agreed. “I wonder why they need so much credit.”

  Planchet frowned. “Isn’t Grand St Martins a casino?”

  Dana did her best not to beat her forehead upon the dashboard of the smooth-talking ship. Somehow, she had fallen into the trap of thinking that Porthos was the sensible one of the three. That certainly wasn’t true when gambling was involved.

  Even a sensible Musketeer was still a Musketeer. Ratbags and reprobates, all of them.

  Dana missed them so much.

  “We’ll see soon enough,” Planchet said cheerfully. At least she was enjoying herself.

  Chantilly Station was very different to Meung Station. Meung was primarily a refuelling stopover, packed with engies and mechanics and seedy, one-night entertainments. Chantilly was a high-end tourist zone and shopping hub. Dana was no longer surprised at the size of Porthos’ ransom – the number of digital stings and adverts that poured into her comm on the short walk from the space dock to the central plaza was so overwhelming that she wouldn’t have been shocked to find Porthos stuffed and mounted in a fancy department store.

  Everything was for sale in Chantilly.

  Grand St Martins was not a casino. Worse: Grand St Martins was, quite obviously, the most expensive hotel on the station. It oozed class, and charm. You could practically smell the price tags rolling off it in a perfumed haze.

  The windows were made of real stained glass, and the entrance door was original polished wood. Dana was starting to think that the ransom for Porthos was suspiciously low.

  They stepped into the hotel lobby, and Planchet let out a short breath of amazement. There was another pertinent detail about this place that had not been evident from the outside. It wasn’t for humans.

  Oh, the staff were human enough, for the most part, but every guest from reception to the dimly-lit bar restaurant at the far end of the foyer was a Mendaki. Dana had always got along rather well with the aliens she had met in pilot bars and similar dives, on Gascon Station as well as on her various stopovers across the solar system. But they had been comrades, able to speak the common language of ships and beer and spare parts.

  These Mendaki were from the richer end of the intergalactic alliance. They wore flowing robes and jewelled piercings instead of flightsuits and pornographic tattoos. They spoke their own language in bell-like trills instead of using dodgy translator units to approximate speech in Standard.

  The staff waited on them hand and foot, with the kind of polite servitude that always irritated Dana, no matter who was doing the serving and who was being treated better than everyone else. Still, there was no getting around the fact that this was a hotel for the Mendaki and their comforts. What on earth was Porthos doing here?

  “Brilliant,” whispered Planchet. “I’ve never seen so many all in one place. Aren’t those outfits amazing?”

  “Let’s stroll towards the sphere-lift,” Dana said quietly, her eyes on the circular door to the left of the front desk. “As if we’ve been staying here all week. Casual as you can.”

  “Oh we won’t stand out at all, do you think?” asked Planchet, and it took Dana a moment to realise that the young engie wasn’t even being sarcastic.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Dana sighed. Shoulders back, they headed for the sphere-lift.

  They didn’t make it. Two staff members in tailored uniforms cut them off and led them back to the front desk with such deference and politeness that Dana was hardly aware it was happening.

  “Can we help you, madame and madame?” asked one.

  “Are you guests of the hotel?” asked the other.

  Dana lifted her chin. “We’re visiting a friend on the third floor,” she said, using a tone of relaxed confidence that reminded her of Aramis and how she was always wrapping complete strangers around her little finger.

  It didn’t work so well for Dana.

  Both staff members sucked in a breath and looked at her with suspicion. “And the name of your friend?” said one.

  “For security reasons, you understand,” said another.

  Their voices were not nearly as deferential.

  Dana’s smile came out as more of a grimace. “It would be most indiscreet of me to tell you.”

  “Ah,” said a soft voice behind them. “You would be Madame Porthos’ friends, I think.”

  Dana and Planchet turned to see a tall blue-green Mendaki approach. Her head was smoothly puckered, and her tendrils fell from the lower part of her face down almost as far as her knees. She wore a smart suit in the same colours as the staff uniforms, though better tailored. Most importantly of all, she spoke excellent Standard rather than relying a translator unit.

  “And you would be?” Dana asked sharply, not even caring if she came across as rude. She wanted to see Porthos alive and well. Pretence had never come easily to her.

  “I am Madame Gsaoid, manager of this establishment,” said the Mendaki. “May I assume that you are here to take custody of Madame Porthos?”

  Take custody was an odd phrasing. “I am here to see her,” said Dana. “Is there any reason that I should not visit her room?”

  “Not at all,” said Madame Gsaoid with a quick bow of her head. “I would be most pleased to escort you there personally if I did not fear for the life of myself and my staff.”

  “Excuse me?” Dana said disbelievingly. “Who has threatened you?” Did this have something to do with Porthos’ ransom? What the hell kind of trouble had her friend got herself into? Thoughts of space mobsters and casino crime, or the Red Hammers, or something worse than that, all flitted through her head at once.

  “Why, Madame Porthos,” said Madame Gsaoid, with a jerky inflection of her mouth that Dana had learned in her experience with other Mendaki not to mistake for a smile. “She has threatened the safety of any of my staff who attempt to approach her room.”

  Dana folded her arms. “What did your staff do to her, to provoke such a threat?”

  “There is the matter of the bill,” said the manager. “Madame Porthos has firmly discouraged any attempt to negotiate on what is currently owing. I very much hope that your presence will smooth these matters over.” She gave that totally-not-a-smile expression again.

  Dana hesitated. She could probably cover the bill right now, but she wanted to hear what was going on with Porthos first. “I will visit with my friend,” she said. “And then I shall discuss her account with you. In about an hour. How does that sound?”

  “That would be most satisfactory,” said Madame Gsaoid. This time, when she made the expression that was not a smile, her tendrils all stood to attention as if everyone in the hotel should be very, very afraid.

  “Dana!” howled Porthos in delight, grabbing her friend around the neck to haul her into the hotel room. “You’re here! Finally. Something to eat?”

  For a moment at least, Dana put aside her worries and enjoyed the fact that Porthos was alive and in one piece. “Are you drunk?” she asked as Porthos tugged her on to a couch made of several circular tiers. Perhaps it was designed that way so the Mendaki could rest their tendrils across multiple levels.

  “I am so drunk it’s not even funny,” Porthos announced, burying Dana in a deep, bosomy embrace. “There is nothing else to do around here, and the food printer keeps making these lovely cocktails just for me.”

  “Hi, Bonnie,” Dana said, barely able to disentangle herself from the hug with Porthos. Her friend wore bright green silk pyjamas, and a slightly askew beehive wig with jade hairpins.

  Porthos’ engie, sprawled out on an enormous heart-shaped bed, glanced up from her clamshell. “About time,” she said. “I want to get back to my kitchen and my real life. Have you paid the bill yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Dana. “Porthos, what in space happened after the Calais?”

  Porthos immediately pulled up her pyjama top to show off a flawless, round brown stomach. “Got stabbed,” she said proudly. “Twice, with swords. And arc-ray burn here, under
the ribs. Hurts like a bastard, arc-ray burn.”

  “You look all right now,” Dana said, reaching out to tug Porthos’ clothes back into some semblance of order.

  “The hotel sent up medipatches,” volunteered Bonnie. “Our credit studs were scoured by the Red Hammers in the fight, so we couldn’t pay for an official medicentre.”

  Porthos nodded, looking sadly around the hotel room. It was obviously designed for Mendaki and not humans – the surfaces were smooth and cool. The bathroom that Dana could see through the doorway was twice the size of the bedroom, with a sunken pool. “A close friend of mine used to own this place,” she said. “Thought we could hole up for a week or two, and not have to worry about the bill.”

  “By the time we realised it was under new management, we already owed them too much,” Bonnie chipped in. “It didn’t help when Madame here slipped out to an underground gambling den and ran our debts up even higher.”

  Porthos looked guilty. “Champagne?”

  “No more drinking!” Dana chided. “Or gambling. We’ve got work to do, and two other Musketeers to find.”

  Porthos leaned against her happily. “Missed you, pup. Where’s my Aramis? Missed her too.”

  “I don’t know,” Dana sighed.

  “And Athos. Is he sad without us? He gets grumpy when he’s left alone too long. I bet he’s grumpy and sad.”

  “I hope not.” Dana extracted herself from Porthos’ octopus-like embrace and went to the door, calling up the final bill for the room. “This has gone up since the manager spoke to me in the lobby!”

  “Needed more champagne,” said Porthos, looking guilty.

  “What you need is a Sobriety patch.”

  “Way ahead of you,” said Bonnie, holding up an ampoule between finger and thumb. “I had this printed three days ago, ready for our exit. Got the good stuff because I don’t think a basic patch will hit her sides.”

  Porthos sulked. “I’ll take it when we’re about to leave.”

  “If we don’t leave right now, I may shoot you,” her engie replied.

  “Damages,” Dana read out of the extensive list of items. “Porthos, really? You damaged the lift, a mirror and a bar stool?”

  “They may have asked me to settle the bill at a tactless time,” Porthos admitted. “And my trigger finger was – triggery, after the Calais.”

  “You threw a tantrum in the sphere-lift when that rich boyfriend of yours refused to settle your bill,” Bonnie put in.

  “Shut up, you. I also owe ninety credits to a local loan shark,” Porthos said helpfully. “Harry the Hand. Lovely bloke. Showed me pictures of his kids and promised not to break any of my limbs for at least a month as long as I stick to the payment plan.”

  Dana finished reading off the damages, and sighed loudly. “I hope we’re not going to need much credit to get Aramis out of wherever she is. You’re blowing my budget.”

  “I tried contacting Bazin,” said Bonnie. “But all he sent me was some quotes about service to God.”

  Porthos’ eyes went wide and she held out a hand urgently in Bonnie’s direction. “You never told me that. Sobriety, now. Gimme.”

  Bonnie handed over the ampoule and Porthos snapped it open with her teeth, swallowing the dose hard. “Aramis is alone with Bazin, away from Paris Satellite,” she said, her eyes already more alert. “This is bad. We should have expected this, the little rat fink weasel.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dana frowned. “He’s her engie, and an android. Surely we can trust him?”

  “He’s had a week to work on her without the rest of us around,” Porthos hissed. “She’s probably a bloody Abbot by now.”

  Dana blinked. “Aramis wouldn’t throw away her service to the Musketeers to join the Church.” Her friend often talked about her time in the Musketeers being temporary, but Dana had assumed the day Aramis would leave was a long way off.

  “Not unless she was feeling especially sad and lonely and oh I don’t know, maybe someone else’s wife had broken up with her recently?” Porthos snapped. “When Aramis gets dumped, she wallows in self pity and theological poetry and then, if Athos and I aren’t around to stop her, she tries to quit the service to become a priest. Every. Single. Time.”

  Dana groaned. “Fine. I’ll pay the bill and we’ll get out of here as quick as we can. Planchet, do you still have that trace on the Morningstar?”

  “It hasn’t moved from Meung since I first located it,” said Planchet.

  Meung Station. Dana shuddered at the idea of returning there. But this time, she would have friends at her back. She had a sudden memory of Athos at the helm of the Parry-Riposte, with pursuit ships coming at them from all sides.

  “There are three cathedrals on Meung Station,” she said.

  “Bugger it,” said Porthos, pushing her aside from the door. “We’d better move fast, before Aramis gets herself all spiritually enlightened.”

  28

  For Love of Aramis

  Their plan to find Aramis ran aground on Meung Station. Dana, Planchet, Bonnie and Porthos searched the station, checking every cathedral and religious zone before admitting that she was likely not here at all. She had spent several days at a medibay on Meung, but disappeared off the grid shortly after checking herself out.

  “I’ll meet you back at the dealership,” Porthos said gruffly.

  They had located the Morningstar earlier that day, in a corner of a dodgy spaceship dealership reserved for crafts in hock. Aramis must have been in desperate need of funds to pawn it at such a disreputable establishment.

  “The manager said he couldn’t release contact information,” Dana protested.

  “Yes,” said Porthos in a voice so chilly that it might have belonged to Athos. “And I was happy to respect that when I thought we might find her at one of the nearby cathedrals. But we’re running out of options.”

  Porthos slapped on pearls and a high scarlet beehive of a wig before returning to the dealership and spinning a yarn about a fake husband (whom she always called ‘my darling Coquenard’) who had promise to buy her the perfect spaceship. Dana trailed after her, making the occasional apology on behalf of her ‘boss’ as Porthos readjusted every screen and seat in the place, and managed to smear lipstick on nearly every smooth surface.

  The salesman, who was more junior than the manager who had been on duty last time they swung past, was very aware of his responsibility for any damage that this troublesome customer might inflict upon the vehicles.

  Porthos’ epic distraction prevented him from noticing Planchet and Bonnie as they broke into the back office with a handful of connection cables and a pack of empty data studs.

  “Let’s try the red one again!” Porthos shrieked, playing up an accent that tilted between ‘New Aristocrat’ and ‘Holo-soap Diva’. “My darling Coquenard loves to see me in red, and I have the perfect shoes to match.”

  “There aren’t any red ones, madam,” said the salesman, sounding desperate.

  “That’s a terrible state of affairs, my good fellow. Which ones can we make red?”

  The coffee printers on Meung Station made every liquid taste like they had a faint film of oil on their surface. Porthos refused to even try printing tea until they were back on the Hoyden.

  “Aramis used a false name to pawn the ship,” revealed Planchet, cracking open the clamshell to show the files she had cloned.

  Porthos placed a large, genuine china teapot and several small cups on the floor of the flight deck. “Oh no, sweet pea, R. de Herblay is her birth name.” A look of distress flitted across her face. “That’s bad.”

  “Why is that bad?” Dana asked, pouring tea for everyone. She was sure Porthos would have done it herself by now if she wanted it to be done perfectly.

  “Aramis hates her original name. If she’s using it, that means – she needs her legal identity.”

  “Probably to sign a contract with the seminary,” said Planchet, helping herself to a cup. She rocked back, startled as Porthos
and Dana turned identical looks of fury upon her. “Sorry, what did I say? Help?”

  Bonnie prodded both Porthos and Dana back a few inches so that they loomed less threateningly over the engie-in-training. “Breathe,” she commanded them all.

  Porthos took a few deep breaths, then swallowed half a cup of scalding tea. “Why did you say that about a seminary? What seminary?”

  “The contact information Aramis gave the dealership is Crevecouer Abbey,” said Planchet, shuffling back awkwardly to add more distance between them. Dana didn’t blame her. Porthos looked positively murderous. “It’s on Dover Satellite, attached to the university there. It’s a seminary for new priests.”

  The words that came out of Porthos’ mouth next were anything but religious.

  “Are we bad people?” Dana asked, a few hours later. They had flown the Hoyden from Meung Station to Dover Satellite and found a cheap dock to hire. Bonnie and Planchet elected to remain on the ship.

  Dover Satellite used almost as much Artifice as Paris Satellite, perhaps more. Dana and Porthos stood on a wide, grass-lined avenue underneath a starscape that gave the illusion of being dirtside, except for the visible rotation of the stars.

  Porthos had changed from her usual civilian glamour into Musketeer battledress –blue flight suit and fleur-de-lis jacket, with her shorn hair bare to the false sky. She had even wiped off her lipstick.

  Dana wore Athos’ not-a-Musketeer blue jacket over her own charcoal grey flight suit. Both of them wore their pilot’s slice batons slung from belts, and sensible boots. Ready for action.

  “I have no idea what you mean,” said Porthos. She leaned against a wall, staring at the pretty, fluted tower of Crevecouer Abbey. The Artifice was so detailed that it included green ivy clambering over the pale golden stonework.

  “I mean,” Dana sighed. “If Aramis really wants to sign herself up to the priesthood –she’s always talking about how she plans to someday – shouldn’t we let her get on with it? Are we bad people for stopping her doing something that might make her happy?”