“Behold the beauty and glamour of the prettiest planet in the Solar System,” said Alek with a wave of his hand.
“I’d prefer desert and eucalypts any day of the week,” Conrad muttered as the hatch slid open. Valour smelled wrong. It was all grass and buttercups. Elemental, yes. The planetary gravity was heavy and welcoming. But this whole sunshine and rolling green pastures business was going to take a lot of getting used to.
“You’re so fucking spoiled,” Alek laughed. “Go braid some daisies.”
“Such a productive use of my skills,” Conrad sighed. He didn’t want to go. Alek might have pod babies to protect, but he was terrible at looking after himself. “We should go on to Paris together.”
“Nope,” said Alek, leaping up from the pilot’s chair and physically manhandling Conrad out the hatch. “Embrace the dirtside. I hear they grow their own vegetables down here.”
Conrad butted his head lightly against that of his prince. “Vegetables are overrated. You’re going to end up assassinated, and badly dressed. You need me.”
“Yeah,” Alek said, his voice dropping its usual archness. “I need you, mate. So keep yourself alive until that cute Musketeer of yours comes to rescue you.”
“She’s not a Musketeer,” Conrad muttered. “And she’s not cute, either. She’s – kind of amazing.” Dana D’Artagnan. He could wait a long time for a woman like her. “Fine, I’ll lock myself in another fucking tower, start growing my hair like the damsel I obviously am.”
Alek’s eyes danced with amusement. “Or find some decent fleur-de-lis players to practice against while you’re here. They’ve closed the league for the war, but next year – next year is OURS, baby.”
Conrad grinned at that. “I’ll work on staying alive, you grow some fetuses and arrange to get Chevreuse transferred back to Paris. We’ll have the old team back together by next year.”
They exchanged manly punches, and then Prince Alek stepped back into the Jacaranda and flew away.
Conrad stood on his own in a green field, surrounded by dandelions and bluebells. In the far distance, he could see a large estate that had to be Buck’s formal residence.
“Right,” he sighed to himself, beginning to walk. “A package holiday on the wrong planet, in the middle of nowhere, with the Duchess of Buckingham. Could be worse.”
Buck swam. She hadn’t used this pool in years, except as a site for decadent parties, and even then she preferred to swan around in amazing outfits instead of actually getting wet.
Over the last few days she had come here regularly, to swim methodical laps. The ritual of it was comforting, and made her think that maybe she could get through this.
If she held her breath too long, allowed herself to flirt with the possibility of drowning herself, the first thing she saw when she burst clear of the surface would be Winter.
Slate. Winter. She had watched footage of the real Milord de Winter, Minister for the Interior, and while he was similar to her parasite in so many ways, she knew that he was a different creature.
Weapon. Creature. Weapon.
If Buck swam hard and fast enough, until her limbs shook with exhaustion when she finally clambered out of the pool, then sleep without dreams became a possibility.
Not today. Today, there was a pretty young man with amber-brown skin and dark eyes, grinning at her from across the pool. His hair had been electric blue last time she saw Conrad Su, but it had grown out to its natural shiny black with blue at the tips. A pattern of gleaming gold scales ran down the side of his neck and under his shirt.
“Hey,” said Buck, spitting out a mouthful of water, because she was cool like that.
“Thanks for letting me crash here,” said Conrad, shielding his face against the bright sunlight. “You sure it’s okay?”
As Buck stared at him, she saw Winter approach Conrad on his silent bare feet. His hair blazed silver in the same sunlight. Winter leaned in and licked the side of Conrad’s neck.
Conrad did not react because he could not feel the touch of the other man – Winter did not exist except inside Buck’s head.
That did not mean Winter was not a danger to them both.
Buck shivered, the sun-warm water around her body dropping in temperature. “It’s fine,” she said. “Glad to have you. We’re going to have some fun together.”
45
Anjou Wine
The support vessels Frenzy Kenzie and La Konstantina remained in position at the edge of Truth Space, close enough that ships and personnel would be able to reach them for medical assistance and supplies, but not so close that they were at risk of being taken out by long range shots from the Sun-kissed fleet.
Dana had known when she chose this assignment that she would not be going into battle herself, but she had not realised quite how far she would be stationed from the front line.
Communications were patchy at best. Assuming that the Sun-kissed would not be able to tap into their most secure military frequencies was a mistake made during the last war. Never again. Fleetnet and personal comms were blocked for everything but official notifications from the command posts. The flippant chatter of Dana’s Musketeer friends had driven her up the wall on the journey, but this silence was worse.
She would do anything for a snarky tweet about Porthos’ love life right now.
Dana learned that the first shots of the war had been fired when three sabre-class darts arrived unannounced, their hulls scarred with laser burn, to be taken on board St Konstantina for medical attention and repairs.
What followed was eight days of hell.
Ships – mostly darts of sabre and musket-class – might appear at any time of the 24 hour clock, often in packs of at least three, sometimes with multiple crews crammed into them, depending on how badly other ships had been damaged.
Bass and his engie interns, and Chantal with her supplies assistants, were run off their feet, printing and fixing Musketeer hardware to send ships back into the field. Dana, left with little to do but monitor the Frenzy Kenzie’s drift, found herself conscripted into the medibay to help Wheels to manage and monitor the wounded alongside her squadron of medical androids.
The technology did most of the work, but an extra pair of human hands was always useful, and Dana’s main responsibility quickly became supervising the movement of damaged pilots from the airlock to medibay so they didn’t keel over in a corridor en route.
The Frenzy Kenzie and the St Konstantina weren’t the only support vessels – there were at least two others based on the far side of Truth Space – and that meant that even if the Musketeers Dana knew well were injured or dented, they wouldn’t necessarily end up here.
As much as a base for supplies and repairs, the Frenzy Kenzie quickly became an unofficial gossip hub, with every tale of Sun-kissed action passed on to the next wave of patch-jobs. One wall of the main airlock was given over to scrawled messages from the pilots and engies to their loved ones and comrades because it was assumed that everyone would come through here sooner or later.
Dana saw all manner of familiar faces on her ship, including Amiral Treville at one point, escorting the Regence herself after a nasty sortie. Lalla-Louise Renard Royal had flashburns down one side of her face, and was discreetly lodged in a private room behind the medibay while she healed up.
“Are we winning?” Dana could not help but ask Treville in a low voice, as she handed over fresh supplies for the flagship, including a crate of meal bars and fresh-printed uniforms for the Regence to wear in public.
Treville was exhausted. She downed a whole tube of chilled water without pausing for breath. “We’re not losing,” she grunted, which wasn’t the same thing at all.
On Day 6, Dana found herself climbing into a familiar dart to slice Captain Tracy Dubois out of her helm and harness, after the metal had been fused to the dashboard by an unknown Sun-kissed weapon that scared the hell out of everyone.
“I saw Aramis two days ago,” Dubois reported. Dana would have hugged her, if
she wasn’t busy trying not to cut her skin off along with the melted cables. “She was doing well – the Morningstar’s barely been grazed. I saw the Hoyden at a distance this morning, Porthos was in the thick of it. Took out three Teardrops in under a minute. Athos’ wretched green thing has been all over the place, he’s impossible to miss.”
Small fragments of information like that were better than nothing, Dana told herself. But ‘alive two days ago’ didn’t mean safe and sound today.
Dana worked, and she worried. One day melted into another, as the Siege of Truth wore on.
On the Day 8, a Musketeer that Dana barely knew handed her a package. “I had it from Juillet, who had it from Valentin, who had it from Borlois who had it from Treville,” he said, barely glancing at Dana as he stepped into the bright white medibay. “Hey, Wheels, here I am again.”
“Didn’t I just patch you up, Mikhail?” complained the stern, grey-haired medic, spinning around in her hover chair.
Dana didn’t open the package until much later, as she lay down in her bunk at the beginning of a regulation six hour shift, hoping something like sleep might happen.
The box contained two vacuum flasks of well-packed wine from Anjou, one of the finer vineyard countries in Honour, north of the equator.
Dana wasn’t sure who had sent them at first. Her first guess was Chevreuse, given her recent habit of mysterious communications. Maybe even Conrad, who was supposed to be staying with her? But the package included a holo-card that made Dana grin ridiculously.
It was a pic of Porthos, Aramis and Athos, squeezed into the same bed in an unknown medibay – aboard the Sherwood, perhaps, or the Belizze – with medipatches wrapped around every visible limb.
They were alive and recuperating. The message on the back read DRINK IT FOR US, WE’REBANNED.
Dana considered it. God knew she was unlikely to sleep without some kind of chemical assistance. She packed the flasks under her bunk to keep them safe, and let the feeling of relief wash over her like a blanket.
All three of them were alive and safe, for at least a couple more days by the looks of those medipatches. She could breathe.
It would all be over soon enough. Waiting to drink the wine with her friends would be no hardship.
Over the next 24 hours, Dana thought about that Anjou wine a lot. She was dragged out of her bunk when a dozen or more darts appeared all at once, and it was all hands on deck to separate the damaged ships from the damaged pilots.
An hour later, another six ships turned up. Then another wave, the hour after that.
Dana was practically hallucinating about the Anjou wine at that point. She promised herself that as soon as there was a lull, she would drag Planchet or Chantal or anyone she could find back to her room and make them drink with her until their skulls were ready to float into space.
The next wave of ships included the Pistachio.
Dana didn’t realise at first. Bass was on a sleep shift, and so his assistants and Dana were run off their feet fitting out several darts to be spaceworthy again, so they could free up space in the cavernous docking level.
Dana and Planchet waved the last of these into Airlock One and watched them punch out in military formation, only to turn and watch three more power slowly into Airlock Two, ready to be rolled inside.
One of the ships was green.
Planchet moved first, calling for support droids to crack open the other ships, and for the other engie assistant – Dana couldn’t even remember her name, something beginning with Z? – to check their crews for medical triage.
Planchet herself went straight for the Pistachio, beating one fist on the chassis before hunting for the external lock release. The hatch folded open, and an exhausted-looking Grimaud hovered at the top of the steps.
“Superficial damage to the ship,” she reported. “Minimal repairs needed to get her back in the field.” Then she turned her head and shouted: “UNLIKE THE PILOT, WHO IS A COLOSSAL ARSEHOLE!” in a furious voice.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” said Dana, running up to her. “What’s wrong with Athos?”
“See for yourself,” Grimaud muttered, and started discussing technical specs with Planchet. She clearly had no interest in talking to pilots today.
Dana let herself into the Pistachio and found Athos in the cabin stretched out on his bunk, too pale to be healthy.
His eyes were open, but he didn’t seem aware of her presence. “Are you drunk?” Dana demanded, leaning in. His pupils were blown wide. “Are you high?”
Nexus. Of course he was still taking pilot drugs. But this reaction was too heavy for that. She went back to the hatch and called Grimaud. “So, how many different stims is he on right now?”
The engie stared back at her, silent.
Dana was prepared to wait all day if necessary. “Medical treatment is confidential, you know that. Tell me.”
“You use automated medical systems on this base,” Grimaud said. “During military operations, all medibay computers and androids automatically report inappropriate drug usage found in patients.”
Dana winced. “Shit. Is a Sobriety patch going to make a difference if I give it to him first?”
“He’s had two already. They reacted badly to the caffeine implant. And that’s not taking into account the three different strains of pilot drugs he has been bouncing between for the last two days.”
Anger stabbed through Dana’s chest. “Is there a chance that me smacking him upside the head will make the situation worse right now?”
“That possibility is the only reason he doesn’t have a black eye from me.”
“Grimaud, I don’t know how you do it,” Dana sighed.
“Most pilots are idiots,” the engie said flatly. “The trick is finding one you’re willing to take stupid risks for.”
“Athos is that pilot?”
“He doesn’t make small talk. That goes a long way as far as I’m concerned.” Grimaud frowned. “It’s possible I have Stockholm Syndrome.”
“I’m taking him somewhere quiet for a proper med assessment,” Dana sighed. “I’ll keep the androids away from him if I can, but honestly – if he’s being this dangerous about stim usage, we should let them report him.”
Grimaud gave a short nod to concede the point.
The walls of Medici College were butter-yellow, as if they were doused in sunshine even on cloudy days. Olivier Armand d’Autevielle sprawled in a window alcove with a text-reader spread across his knees. He was paying little attention to the revision he had to do.
“You could come home with me,” he suggested.
Auden: a beautiful, too-thin boy with silver hair and cut glass cheekbones, leaned against the glass of the window at the other end of the alcove, soaking up the sunlight. “You want to turn up for the holidays hand in hand with a no-name scholarship kid and announce that we’ll be sharing your fancy four poster bed or whatever it is that rich families sleep on – gold-plated sheets and caviar throw cushions? That will go down marvellously, sweetness.”
Olivier hated that. He hated that Auden could be so cutting and funny while putting himself down, as if he was accustomed to thinking of himself as worthless but entertaining. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m the Comte de la Fere now. I don’t care what my family thinks.”
“You’ve been the Comte for years, and you’ve always cared.” Basking in melancholy was high in Auden’s skillset, up there with sarcasm and dead languages. These were all things that Olivier loved about him.
Love. So, there was that.
“Now I’m of age,” said Olivier, speaking lightly so that Auden would not catch on that he had been struck by a life-changing, lightning strike of a personal revelation. “They can’t stop me doing whatever the hell I want.”
When Auden smiled, t was like the sunlight of the ivy-draped courtyard outside was here in the room with them, warming the walls, lighting up the ancient bookshelves and wall portraits. “And you want me?”
Olivie
r grinned in return, pulling his boyfriend into his lap and to hell with the text reader, which fell to the floor. “I always want you,” he said honestly.
It was a dream. Of course it was a dream. Athos hadn’t let himself remember the good times in years, while he was awake, but his subconscious mind was a traitor and a lovestruck fool.
Other dreams weren’t nearly so pleasant.
Athos dreamed of his ship crumbling around him, of the gravity of Valour ripping through the Parry-Riposte on their way down to the surface. He dreamed of getting D’Artagnan killed in that stupid crash, while the pursuit ships fired upon them. He dreamed of Grimaud, wounded and limp in his arms.
He dreamed of the planet he had always thought would swallow him whole, and the mountain that he had once believed would be his eternal resting place.
Valour.
Athos.
The ship exploded around him, metal scattering in vicious shards. Athos saw Grimaud dead, and D’Artagnan dying. He could not save either of them.
He stared at his feet, where the soft green grass of Valour curled gently around his ankles. Bare feet. When he looked up, he saw the face of his husband, beautiful and sad, with bright silver hair tousled around his slender neck.
“You’re not going to do this,” said Auden in a low voice, the voice that had always made Athos – Olivier – shiver with want. “You’re not going to give up what we have. I love you. I trust you. I always have.”
Olivier Armand d’Autevielle, the Comte de la Fere, spoke without a hint of emotion. “There’s only one way to kill a devil.”
“Is that honestly what you think I am?” Auden’s voice was a howl, a screech, several octaves too high. An alien, unfamiliar sound.
Alien, oh yes. There was that.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Olivier ground out between his teeth. “I lost the right to happiness when I lay down with the enemy.”
Musketeer Space Page 42