Musketeer Space

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “Some battles, you have to let yourself lose,” D’Artagnan told Porthos, patting her on the shoulder.

  “He’s hideous,” Porthos whispered back, as if the ship was physically hurting her with his unfashionably retro appearance.

  “On the bright side,” Aramis said, blowing Athos a kiss. “Our boy will probably crash or explode him within a few months.”

  “That is no consolation!” Porthos wailed.

  “How much work does he need?” Athos asked Grimaud.

  “All the work,” she said with a wry smile. “Give me four days, and I’ll make you a miracle.”

  The Great Restoration took over everyone’s lives. Dana suspected that Planchet was hiding her return to Paris from Madame Su so that the other engineers wouldn’t get to have all the fun. The Pistachio challenge had swallowed all the engies – not only Grimaud and Planchet, but Bonnie and Bazin too.

  This period, between the declaration of war and the shipping out date, was what Musketeers called ‘the chase after outfits.’ Each of them had to get their helm and harness (AKA their entire equipment for war) in good order. While most were lucky enough to have an intact ship, there were still weapons systems to install or upgrade, repairs to be made, and so on.

  Dana had none of this to worry about, which left her far too much time to worry. Not only about her friends who would be seeing direct action in the battles to come, but also about the disaster back on Gascon Station. Messages from her family were few and far between, and she had only managed to speak to her Papa for a couple of minutes, in between his burn treatments.

  The news cycle was all Gascon Station all the time, because the images were more constructive and dynamic than the silent, unmoving siege of alien ships around the orbital cities of Truth that occasionally punctuated the media feeds.

  Waiting was a quiet agony that was never openly discussed.

  Today, Dana found Athos in the storage yard. He lounged in a low-slung deck chair sipping the largest cup of coffee she had ever seen, as he “supervised” the work of the engineers. He wore over-sized safety goggles and had his feet up on an antique computer bank.

  Dana pulled up a jettisoned slab of air ducting and perched beside him. “What’s the pink line about?”

  It was drawn in chalk, a wide shape around the work-in-progress that was the Pistachio. A second chalk line encircled Athos and his deck chair.

  “Grimaud and I have come to an agreement,” he said, taking a slurp of his coffee.

  “Are you not allowed to cross the chalk lines?” Dana realised. “Not at all? I mean, I understand her not wanting you poking your nose into the ship…”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “But why aren’t you allowed to leave the yard, either?” Surely Grimaud would prefer Athos to be anywhere but here.

  “We needed some new parts – the harness in particular, but other bits and pieces that we couldn’t reclaim from the yard.”

  Dana didn’t like the cagy tone in Athos’ voice. “And?”

  “And the budget that Treville gave me for a replacement ship shrunk somewhat when she found out about the expenses from The Gilded Lily back on Valour.” He winced. “There was shouting.”

  Not undeserved, Dana thought, but did not say aloud. “How did you get the parts?”

  “I played for them against a bunch of Mendaki smugglers.”

  Dana blinked several times. “I thought Porthos was the problem gambler.”

  “We don’t all keep our vices in separate boxes, D’Artagnan,” he said sharply. “Sometimes Aramis drinks too much. Sometimes I fuck people I shouldn’t…”

  “Okay, I get the picture. Did you win the parts?”

  “Eventually.”

  “So -”

  “Grimaud found out that I used her as a stake in the betting,” he grumbled. “She’s taking it personally.”

  “You are the worst,” Dana said, smacking him in the chest.

  “She’s the most valuable resource I have. Everyone wants her as their engie.”

  “That’s not a good excuse for putting her up as a stake, Athos. That is the complete opposite of a good excuse!”

  He lifted his safety goggles so she could see the swelling black eye he was sporting. “Grimaud agrees with you.”

  “I’m not even slightly sympathetic,” Dana told him sternly.

  They fell into a long silence together, Athos sipping from his coffee. “I owe you an apology,” he said after a moment.

  Dana almost fell off her temporary seat. “You what now?”

  “The business in the cellar,” he said, waving a hand vaguely. “I said more than I should have. My past is not something I want to burden others with.”

  “What’s said on Valour stays on Valour,” Dana said lightly. “There was a lot of wine. I hardly remember what you said.”

  Athos gave her a narrow look. “You’re lying.”

  “You can’t prove it.”

  “Hmm.” He was unimpressed by her attempts at tact. “Anyway. I’m sure my vast wealth of miserable experience will serve as some form of useful life tutorial for you.”

  “Don’t trust pretty men who talk sweetly about politics?” Dana suggested lightly, thinking of her own recent adventures.

  Athos’ mouth twitched. “Damn straight.”

  Bonnie and Planchet went past, carrying lengths of cables and tubing. Planchet gave Dana a wave, delighted to be working on an actual musket-class dart. Athos stood for a moment, his feet brushing the very edge of the chalk circle that Grimaud had drawn around him. “Not the b-clips!” he called after them. “I don’t care if it adds to the authenticity of the model, I want silver connections in the harness.”

  A hand that must be Grimaud’s emerged from the hatch of the Pistachio, gave him a rude gesture and disappeared again.

  “Grimaud says she knows what she’s doing,” translated Planchet with an apologetic smile.

  Athos scowled, and dropped back into his chair. “What about you, D’Artagnan? I presume Commandant Essart requires you to outfit yourself for war? Hope that metal monster of yours is in decent condition.”

  “I’m not with the mecha squad any more,” Dana admitted.

  Athos tore his goggles off to stare at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Amiral Treville seconded me,” she said, trying not to grin too obviously. “Not as a Musketeer – supplies transport. But I’ll be in the middle of it all, not stuck back here on defensive detail, so…”

  There was something unfamiliar in his expression. Athos looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “If you really want to make sure you see action, there’s always the Cardinal’s Sabres, I hear they’re recruiting...”

  “Shut up,” Dana said gruffly, poking him in the knee with her boot. “I have some self respect.”

  Athos clapped his hands. “Speaking of self respect, dinner tonight at Hotel Coquenard. Prepare to witness awkward mating rituals.”

  “I – don’t even know how to reply to that sentence,” said Dana, dizzied by the rapid switch in tone. “Isn’t that a fancy hotel over in Gilles Section? How can we afford it?”

  “It’s who you know,” said Athos. He looked smug, which in retrospect Dana should have taken as a big neon warning sign.

  Dana was so out of her depth that she was practically floating in space. She had allowed Aramis to raid the suitcase of frocks borrowed from the Duchess of Buckingham, which seemed a reasonable way to get rid of the bloody things, but somehow this turned into them both playing dress-up. An hour later, here was Dana in a formal gown, including long lace gloves and uncomfortable shoes.

  This was not the plan. She hadn’t realised that there needed to be a plan, but if there had been a plan, it would have been everything that wasn’t this.

  Aramis wore Buck’s clothes as if she were a Duchess. She had re-inked her henna tattoos since their return to Paris, with an extra loop of stars and leaves painted on to the back of her neck, dipping down below th
e sweep of the gold satin of the dress she poured over her willowy body.

  Dana, shorter and more muscular than Aramis, and with a much flatter chest, had never attempted to wear that particular gown, as she was sure it would look indecent on her body. On Aramis, it was the graceful, awesome kind of indecent that she could totally rock.

  Aramis had forced Dana into a simple but devastating black cocktail dress that went past her knees. She insisted that Dana wear the Prince Regence’s opal on her cheekbone instead of hidden away near her elbow.

  The appearance of Porthos swept away any concern that Dana might be overdressed. Porthos was squeezed into a purple corset and layered tulle skirt, with a fierce collection of garnet and pearl jewellery wrapped around her neck, wrists and fingers. Her wig was high, as dark red as the jewels, and her face glowed with professional warpaint.

  “I’m missing something, aren’t I,” Dana said in a low voice to Aramis as they followed their friend into the fiercely expensive lobby of the hotel and made their way to a restaurant that belonged in a Palace. “Where’s Athos?”

  “Athos was never going to turn up,” said Aramis as they were escorted to a table for three. “He hates these scenes.”

  Dana tried not to freak out about this, but it was difficult. “I also hate scenes,” she said in a desperate whisper. “Why did no one warn me there was going to be scenes?”

  Porthos gave her a lipsticked smile as the waiter fussed around them. “Because revenge is best served cold, possibly with a nice soup and salad to start,” she said, not bothering to keep her own voice down.

  “Porthos is here to make a point to one of her gentlemen friends,” said Aramis, perusing the menu. “You and I are here for damage control, in case things get out of hand.”

  Dana decided right in that second that Athos had to die. Slowly, by fork.

  33

  The Hotel Coquenard Deluxe Bathroom Experience

  Fancy restaurants in super fancy hotels were desperately uncomfortable for Dana. She was going to roast Athos in a pie for dropping her into this without warning, and without back up. He knew she would hate it. The bastard probably thought it was funny.

  Aramis and Porthos were both enjoying themselves amongst all the wealth and glamour. Dana was also going to roast them in the aforementioned pie.

  “Captain Porthos, how lovely,” said a voice that was both chilly and welcoming. It was an impressive feat. An older woman in a designer suit bore down upon them with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Always a pleasure to see the Royal Musketeers here at Hotel Coquenard.”

  “Madame, it’s been too long,” Porthos replied graciously. They kissed each other’s cheeks as if they were the best of friends.

  Creepy.

  “You remember Captain Aramis, and this is our friend, Arms-Sergeant D’Artagnan. My friends, this is Madame Coquenard, our host.”

  Dana blinked several times before remembering that indeed, her new position came with a new rank. Why was the name Coquenard familiar?

  “Delighted,” purred the evidently-not-delighted Madame Coquenard. “I shall send Remy out to discuss the menu with you.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” agreed Porthos with a gleam in her eye.

  As the manager moved on to another table, Dana leaned in to her friends. “What the hell have you dragged me into here?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about,” Porthos said, widening her eyes so much that her long lashes got tangled in her ruby-red wig.

  “It’s all going to be fine, and we get a nice meal out of it,” said Aramis, though it was obvious that her attention was elsewhere.

  Dana followed her gaze and saw a familiar figure sitting at a table at the far end of the restaurant. Captain Tracy Dubois, with what looked like several elderly relatives, and not a husband in sight. Their eyes met and they shared a long, slow smile across the length of the room.

  “Oh you have got to be kidding me,” Dana moaned.

  She was going to kill Athos so hard. He wasn’t even worthy of a pie.

  Chef Coquenard was a large, handsome man who approached their table with great trepidation, as if he expected to be greeted by his very own personalised Death By Pie. He greeted them, and managed to explain the more complex and artistic quirks of the menu in between a whispered argument with Porthos about why exactly he had failed to come to her aid back on Chantilly, while she was wounded and stuck for funds.

  Other bullet points of the argument included the inappropriate nature of tonight’s confrontation, under the eyes of Madame Coquenard who preferred to keep up the illusion that they were still married to each other, for business reasons. Yes, of course dinner was on the house, because Porthos was on the verge of causing the most spectacular Scene of Righteous Fury, and Chef Coquenard agreed that he mostly deserved it.

  Also, the beetroot foam was not to be missed.

  Dana could have lived without being asked to weigh in with opinions about the preferred sauce to be smeared alongside sashimi escargot, and how she felt about vintages from the islands of Truth.

  Aramis was so busy flirting with her girlfriend across the restaurant that she did not participate in the debate about Paris Gateaux versus Crème d’Honour.

  “I feel better now,” said Porthos as her lover returned to the kitchen to start their appetisers. “Good to resolve relationship issues before they fester.”

  “I’m so glad for you,” said Dana, viciously stabbing her bread roll.

  Madame Coquenard returned to pour their wine with a politeness that made it clear she disapproved thoroughly of Porthos but was never going to publicly admit it. Dana made for the ladies room as fast as she could in stupid frock and stupid heels.

  As she swung around the grand staircase, she saw a table concealed in a far alcove, and almost stopped breathing for a moment as she recognised one of the occupants.

  Milord Vaniel de Winter. How was it that he kept crossing her path? Paris Satellite was a big place. Perhaps the universe was trying to tell her something – like she was running out of time if she wanted to rescue Conrad Su before she was sent off to war.

  She crept closer, keeping an ornamental shrub in a gilt-lined pot between herself and Milord. Perhaps she might overhear something of use.

  As she moved in, Dana realised that she recognised his dinner companion. Milord had finally won the attention of the Marquise de Wardes, that political candidate from Valour that had captivated his attention back on the train.

  Well, now she was practically obliged to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  The Marquise de Wardes was as effortlessly beautiful in person as in all the newscasts. She was a similar height, colour and build to Dana herself –her deep brown shoulders were surprisingly muscular for a woman who was famous as a fashion plate, not a kickboxer.

  Speaking of her fashion choices, the Marquise was all in silver for the fancy restaurant; poured into a sheath dress that looked like it had been welded from sheet metal. Her hair fell in black twists with silver beads that must have taken hours to set in place.

  Milord de Winter had gone to some trouble as well. His suit was grey, with a shirt embroidered with silver threads. Had he called ahead to make sure their outfits matched? That was disturbing. But if he really wanted to match colour schemes with the Marquise, why wasn’t he wearing his silver secret agent hair?

  Dana shifted closer, but couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other. The mood had shifted from politely flirtatious to something tense – Milord spoke too fast, leaning in. She tilted her whole body back, as if to make extra space between them.

  Finally, the Marquise de Wardes rose, speaking loud enough that Dana could hear her from her hiding spot. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for your interest, Milord de Winter, but I have so many political advisors already. I’m not sure you are making as strong a case as you think you are.”

  “Please, give me a little longer to convince you,” pressed Milord. “And accept this token of my pr
ofessional esteem.” He pushed a small, pretty object at her. It looked like a retro powder compact, decorated with a gleaming mother-of-pearl surface.

  The Marquise sighed, but accepted the gift. “I need a spot of fresh air,” she said coldly. She swept off in the direction of the bathroom. De Winter, left behind, looked like the popular boy in school receiving his first ever rejection, and not sure how to handle it.

  Dana hesitated for a moment before realising that as a woman, she could follow the Marquise without raising anyone’s suspicion. Aramis and Porthos gave her confused looks as she moved past their table and kept going, on a lap of the restaurant.

  The ladies bathroom of Hotel Coquenard was a gleaming treasure. It was like stepping inside a jewellery cabinet, or a hover-chandelier. Every reflective surface sparkled and gleamed.

  There was no hiding in here –Dana found her face staring back at her from a dozen different angles.

  At the enormous central mirror, the Marquise de Wardes touched up her makeup, swiping lipgloss across her mouth and turning a dial on her wrist to adjust the colour. “Honestly,” she sighed, meeting Dana’s eyes as if they were peers. “I think I preferred it when men were after me for my looks rather than my political value.”

  It occurred to Dana that the practiced charms of her alter ego Lexie Charlemagne might be of use here. “I noticed your gentleman friend,” she said lightly, joining the Marquise at the mirror. “If you think he’s not interested how you look, you haven’t been paying attention. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  The Marquise made an unimpressed huffing sound. “You say that, my dear, but believe me, he’s only thinking about my potential career in public office – and what he can get out of an alliance. He turns on the charm when he wants to, but everything beneath the surface is cold as ice.”

  Dana readjusted her neckline, since she had no more than half a centimetre of hair to primp. “I know what I saw.”

  The Marquise gave her a thoughtful look, trying to work Dana out. “What a darling gown you’re wearing,” she said after a moment. “I am sure I saw the Duchess of Buckingham wearing one like it last month.”