Musketeer Space

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  This face was so close to that of his own Auden that it devastated Athos. Why would a shape-changer hold on to the face of a dead man?

  Milord’s surprise bled away, leaving behind a more professional demeanour. “How lovely to catch up with old friends,” he said, closing the door behind Athos. “Shall I print coffee, so we can gossip about the good old days?”

  Auden had always been good at turning on that slick, artificial charm. He had used it on professors, on girls trying to flirt with him, on authority figures and members of the close-minded aristocracy who disapproved of their union. He had never before worn his false face at Athos when they were alone together.

  Wasn’t that a colossal joke? Athos kept forgetting it had been a false face all along, every second, because the memories jumped between what he knew now, and what little he had known then.

  Husband, criminal, traitor, assassin.

  “Are you a devil after all? You’re supposed to be dead.” Athos meant it as a threat, but it came out half sad, half frustrated. “Why are you still here?”

  “That’s rich, coming from you,” snarled Milord. “There’s a grave marker on Valour with the Comte de la Fere’s name on it.”

  “Yes,” said Athos. “But the difference is, I actually remember killing you.”

  Milord smiled, with that familiar twist of his pretty mouth. “Surprise!” he said, deadpan.

  “My condolences,” Athos drawled after gathering his dignity around him like a coat. He had to regain control of this conversation, despite his old insecurities. “On the death of your most recent spouse. Delia de Winter, wasn’t it? Was your wife aware that you were still contracted to me when you put the ring on her finger?”

  Milord gave him a new smile: one Athos had never seen before. “Death ended that contract, sweetness.”

  “You didn’t die,” Athos ground between his teeth.

  “You have no idea what I did,” his husband retaliated. “What I have done.”

  That made Athos laugh. “I know more than enough. You have crept back and forth from Paris for months, running errands for the Cardinal. Stealing diamonds, drugging the Duchess of Buckingham, kidnapping Conrad Su, and oh yes, attempting to poison Dana D’Artagnan. Not to mention, five minutes ago, you accepted a commission to assassinate a member of the New Aristocracy peerage, in exchange for the Cardinal turning a blind eye to a murder of your own. Did you think I wasn’t paying attention?”

  Milord’s eyes widened, as the list – barely a footnote, surely – of his crimes spilled out from Athos’ mouth. “You called me a devil,” he said finally, with a tilt of his head. “I rather think you are one.”

  Athos needed to pace, to punch something, to hold a sword in one hand and a drink in another. He held himself still because if he moved, they would be fighting, and he would get none of the answers he needed man. “Is your ego so fragile that you kill a child out of revenge for a spoiled plot or two?”

  Milord laughed at that. It didn’t sound like Auden’s laugh at all – it was bright and cold and bitter. Athos’ husband had been all of those things at one time or another, but he had not laughed like this. “Do you mean Dana D’Artagnan? She was a full-grown woman when I took her to my bed. Would you like details?”

  “She’s barely twenty,” Athos ground out. “I don’t give a damn about your seductions, but if you hurt her, there will not be enough pieces of you left to stage a second miraculous return from the grave.”

  Milord leaned back in his chair, humming beneath his breath. “It’s killing you, that you don’t know how I escaped your murder.”

  “It was an execution,” Athos replied coldly.

  “Tell yourself that, sweetness, if it helps you sleep at night.” Milord’s grey eyes glittered fiercely. “You severed my head from my neck, and you still couldn’t put me down. It’s eating you up inside.”

  The only known method for killing one of the Sun-kissed is to sever his head from his body, and burn them both. I did that, it nearly killed me in turn to do it, but I did. What did I do wrong?

  Athos threw his arms up in the air, losing the temper he had been forcing down for this entire conversation. “Why are you here? Why are you pissing about with the Cardinal’s plan to expand the Fleet, of all things? Shouldn’t you be with your friends on the other side of the war, ready and aiming to shoot us out of the skies? Or are you still nothing more than a common or garden spy?”

  “I have no friends,” said Milord, unblinking. “I am not who you think I am. I never was.”

  Athos stepped towards him. They were an arm’s length apart. Then a hand’s span. He stopped with barely an inch between their knees, looking down at the seated figure. Milord tipped his head up to maintain eye contact, silver hair falling back over his shoulders. “The teardrops. The alien ships. Your people are at war with ours.”

  “But you are assuming a lot,” Milord whispered. “To think that I am working for them.”

  It was a lie. Of course it was a lie. Athos slid the arc ray from his belt and pointed it at his husband’s face at close range. “If you have no loyalty to your people,” he said, allowing a sense of dangerous calm to flood through his body. “Then all you have to bargain for is your safety. Shall we find out how many methods of execution you really are immune from?”

  Milord’s eyes flickered, but only a little. “I don’t fear you, sweetness.”

  Another lie.

  “Give me the stud,” said Athos. This was an order he was more than comfortable to make.

  “What?” Milord was surprised at that, his eyes still fixed on the weapon.

  “The sealed stud that the Cardinal gave to you,” Athos elaborated. “The contract. I want it.”

  Milord hesitated. Athos pressed the barrel of the arc-ray directly between his eyes. The alien spy made a frustrated sound and held out his wrist.

  There were a dozen or more studs along the pale skin near the vein (did Sun-kissed even have blood in their veins? There had been so much blood when Athos severed his head from his body, but perhaps that was a trick). The one from the Cardinal was obvious – a flat bead of platinum with a red fleur-de-lis stamped into it. Athos peeled it from Milord’s wrist, and let it burrow into his own, before activating it with a finger swipe.

  Words glowed in the air above his arm:

  It is by my orders and for the good of Crown and Solar System that the bearer of this stud has done what he has done.

  Cardinal Richelieu, timestamp 987398Red, identity sealed.

  Athos nodded, and stepped away from Milord. “Bite us all you like, snake. You will face judgement for your crimes, like everyone else in this damned war.”

  Having the last word was enough for now. He had realised five minutes ago that he was not capable of killing his husband for a second time, and it was important he not make that weakness too obvious.

  Athos, formerly Olivier d’Auteville, the Comte de la Fere, left the seedy hotel room and walked away from Milord de Winter without looking back.

  48

  Cake Under Fire

  Porthos was worried about Athos.

  Porthos always worried about Athos. It was a familiar background noise ever since she and Aramis found the miserable drunkard clinging to the side of a mountain, half-dead and drenched in the mud of Valour so many years ago. Not worrying about Athos was like not sonic-cleaning her teeth – uncomfortable and itchy and wrong, somehow.

  Having said that, there were times in her life when she had particular reason to worry about Athos. His recent brush with a stims overdose in the middle of a battle was a fine example, not to mention the many ships he had managed to crash and burn since becoming a Musketeer.

  He was made of steel, but fragile. Porthos had seen Athos at his lowest ebb last Joyeux, when he fell victim to a terrorist drug that gave him hallucinations of his dead husband and drove him near suicide.

  Now that the husband in question was still alive, and an enemy alien – it should have broken Athos harder than
ever.

  Porthos was still waiting for evidence that it had not.

  When Athos returned to their back room rendezvous in Dovecote Red, his eyes alight with energy and a goddamn smile on his face, the last thing she expected him to say was “I know where Milord is going next. And I know how to stop him. Where’s the boss?”

  “Hang on,” said Porthos, wanting to get this straight. “You saw him?”

  “Yes, we had a lovely chat. Seriously, where’s Treville?”

  “She couldn’t make it,” Aramis said. “Sent a brief coded message by Fleetnet – she’s stuck on the Bastion for the foreseeable future. They’re under extreme fire from the Sun-kissed, and no shuttles can safely go back and forth.”

  “Fine,” said Athos, grinning like a lunatic. “We’ll go to her. Pack a picnic. It’ll be fun.”

  Aramis blinked. “They’re under extreme fire from the Sun-kissed right now, no shuttles can safely go back and forth,” she repeated with greater force.

  “Darts are faster and more manoeuvrable than shuttles,” said Athos as if that was a reasonable response.

  “Athos,” said Dana slowly. “You spoke to Milord? Why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “He’s so far in the Cardinal’s pocket, she’d spring him before we had the handcuffs closed,” said Athos cheerfully. “But he’s already failed her once, with the diamond bullshit. If we make sure he fails his next mission, I think she’ll finally wash her hands of him. That’s when we can move in and nab him for good.”

  “And what is his next mission?” Porthos asked, seriously wondering if they needed to call in a medic to give Athos a shot of something. When had he last slept? When had any of them?

  “To assassinate the Duchess of Buckingham,” said Athos. “Come on, to the Bastion. I wasn’t kidding about the picnic. Treville’s always more amenable to crazy stunts if she’s not hungry. Is there anywhere around here that sells cake?”

  At least he was admitting that the stunt was crazy. “Athos, we can’t get to the Bastion,” said Aramis. Treville’s command ship, the Saint-Gervais, was referred to as ‘the Bastion’ because it had almost impregnable space armour. “We’ll get shot out of the sky by the Sun-kissed if we try to board her.”

  “I know,” said Athos. “But if we go AWOL in the middle of this war without Treville’s knowledge, it will be our own people who shoot us out of the sky. I say it’s worth the risk. Also, cake.” He nodded, as if he was making complete and total sense.

  “You’re going to get us killed,” groaned Dana. “Mercilessly. If not by the Sun-kissed, then by Amiral Treville.”

  Porthos sighed. “I can source the cake,” she admitted.

  There was nothing in the known universe more fortunate than hiring an engie who turned out to be a stress baker. Bonnie was easygoing most of the time – with her huge, sprawling family who genuinely seemed to like each other, and her no-nonsense philosophy on life, she was the most well adjusted person that Porthos knew.

  When they were setting the Hoyden up together, back when Porthos first joined the Musketeers, Bonnie’s one demand had been a bread oven along with the more standard food printer. When Porthos protested – because she hadn’t known any better – Bonnie devoted the next twelve hours to teaching her the difference between printed and freshly-baked bread.

  Porthos had never argued with Bonnie (about anything kitchen related) ever again.

  That was before she even realised that when under pressure, or stressed, or bored (or any combination of the three), her engie would bake her way into infinity and beyond.

  War, with its long waits between short bursts of terror and danger, was highly stressful, and allowed for a great deal of uninterrupted baking time.

  Porthos had no idea if Athos knew that her ship was basically full of cake at this point, or if he had subconsciously picked up the scent of chocolate ganache where it had infused into her uniform, but his request was, for once, easy to fulfil.

  At least, the cake part was.

  Two hours after Athos burst into the back room with wild eyes and a determination to crush Milord and the Cardinal in a bizarre cake-related scheme, Porthos stood on the bridge of the Saint-Gervais musket-class base, holding a covered basket and feeling like an idiot.

  Amiral Treville, her massive muscled shoulders expanding as she faced them down, vibrated with fury. “WHAT THE HELL KIND OF STUNT WAS THAT?”

  Athos gave Treville his wickedest grin, the one he saved for special occasions, like having to explain how he nearly got himself and his friends shot out of the sky while technically off duty.

  Not that special, once you started adding all those occasions up.

  “Boss, we had urgent intelligence and it really couldn’t wait…” he began, but Treville cut him off.

  “The four of you sailed directly through a barrage of enemy fire, during an active operation, to board a command vehicle without prior notification over the comms? Oh, and you did it in a bright green dart which is not yet cleared for battle. Nor is its stupid, foolhardy, reckless addict of a pilot.”

  Athos’s grin widened. “You forgot to mention the part where we brought you cake. Cake!”

  Treville’s eyes bulged. Porthos had never seen her angrier.

  “I’d like to interject at this point and let you know that I personally tested Athos’ blood readings before letting him fly us here, and he’s sober,” Aramis said helpfully.

  Treville took this new intelligence on board. “Is there some reason that should be a surprise to me, Captain Aramis?”

  Aramis thought about what she had just said. “No,” she said finally. “But it might also be of casual relevance to the conversation that he’s also not currently on any narcotics. Except coffee.”

  Porthos was trying to look like innocent accomplice but she thought it more likely that her own face currently said ‘looking for an airlock to jump out of.’

  “So this…” Treville said, waving vaguely at Athos’ chipper demeanour, and the way he was bouncing enthusiastically on his heels.

  “Natural high, boss,” Aramis informed her.

  “No,” Treville decided. “There’s nothing natural about that smile on his face.”

  Athos blew her a kiss.

  “Ready room, all of you,” Treville barked, marching towards her private quarters. “Lacois, you have the helm. Try not to get us blown up while I’m shouting at Musketeers.”

  “To be fair, boss, that is the way you’d want to go out,” and oh, Porthos had said that out loud. What the hell had got into her?

  Treville gave her a filthy look. “Bring the damned cake, Captain Porthos,” she ordered.

  The basket contained a warm orange honey cake that Bonnie’s grandmother had taught her to make, and something sticky involving chocolate and cherries, and a pastry arrangement with cinnamon custard that Porthos wanted to hug to her chest and defend from the rest of them.

  Since Athos had supervised the packing of the basket, there were also two flasks of champagne, and three of hot coffee. Under Treville’s judgy eye, while Porthos served out wedges of cake with napkins and tiny forks, Aramis poured the coffee and discreetly nudged the champagne back under the cloth for later.

  “So,” said Treville, once she had downed one and a half cups of powerful espresso, and fully appreciated several bites of the chocolate and cherries thing. “Athos. What the fuck.”

  “Sentiment echoed over here,” said Aramis, waving her own fork. “Assassinations. Milord. Conspiracies. Buckingham. Discuss.”

  “Right,” said Athos, who had not touched the cake in front of him, but held on to his cup of coffee as if he planned to live there forever. “This might be a long story.”

  “I will actually kill you,” Porthos remarked.

  Athos got to his feet and began to circle the room. This was bad. Athos always had trouble organising his thoughts when seated, and preferred to be active. If they weren’t careful, he might end up doing sword lunges in the middle of their impromptu c
ake party.

  Porthos stood up, went to him, unfastened the pilot’s slice from his belt, and returned to the table. “Continue,” she suggested, and saw everyone around the table give a small sigh of relief that he was no longer armed.

  Athos gave her a wounded look. “Fine. The Cardinal has hired Milord de Winter to assassinate the Duchess of Buckingham.” He glanced at Treville. “We’re going to need your official order to head to Valour at all speed and arrest the assassin, before he gets to her.”

  Treville considered this – chewed and swallowed a mouthful of soft chocolate sponge. “With all due respect to the Duchess of Buckingham, she has her own security. Explain why I am going to allow four essential members of personnel – because it’s too much to fucking hope that you don’t all expect to go on this mercy dash together – to leave the battle zone and play bodyguard to a pampered aristocrat from a planet about to secede from the Solar System any minute, which has barely contributed any resources to the war effort?”

  ‘Why I am going to,’ Porthos noted, not ‘Why should I?’ Honestly, none of them deserved the trust that Treville placed in them – Athos least of all, when he had pissed away so many second chances.

  “Because,” said Athos, circling the table full of Musketeers and cake as he arranged his thoughts, one foot in front of the other. He struggled to get further than that. “Because…”

  “If you could manage to explain without further maligning the reputation of her Eminence the Cardinal, that would help,” Treville added.

  “Yes, I can see that,” Athos mused. “It’s a challenge, but I’ll try. The Cardinal’s plan is well-intentioned. She blames Buckingham’s influence – and her recent well publicised breakdown and retreat from public affairs – for the lack of enthusiasm towards this war. Among the New Aristocrats on Valour, anyway. She believes that if carefully managed, Buckingham’s death would work as a call to arms.”