“Fuck,” said Conrad.
“I know.”
“I mean, fuck. We took on new security today, Dana.”
“He’s not there yet,” Dana assured him. “He can’t be. He was on Chaillot Station less than six hours ago. Even if he uses jump, even if he switches ships at Peace so there’s no waiting, it will be at least another day before he gets to Valour.”
“But when he gets here,” Conrad said sombrely. “He could look like anyone, and he’ll be gunning for Buck.”
Dana could see his brain working behind his eyes. He was already figuring out the best way to keep the Duchess safe. Conrad had spent his whole life doing this for Alek, and now he had another selfish, privileged New Aristocrat to babysit.
“Get out of there,” Dana urged him. “Hop a transport for Paris, you’re not his target yet.”
If Milord turned up at Villiers House and found Conrad Su there, so soon after Prince Alek had freed him from captivity… it was impossible to believe that he wouldn’t take a moment to enact a personal revenge.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” said Conrad with a biting smile. “Anything else I should know?”
Dana hesitated. There was something else, something that had been churning around in her head since her own first trip to Valour. She hadn’t articulated it to Athos and the others. She wasn’t sure if it was too crazy for even them to accept.
“When I met Buck,” she said slowly. “You know, when I went to collect – that mission you sent me on.” Secured line or no secured line, she was not going to say the words ‘Prince Consort’s diamond studs’ aloud.
“I remember,” said Conrad, his mouth curving into a smile that made Dana feel warm all over.
“She was having a breakdown. She seemed to think – she called him Winter. She said that a version of him, the scary silver-haired assassin version of him, was actually inside her head. Watching her. She kept herself drugged or drunk or both, to keep him at bay. And – it could just be paranoia…”
“But she could be compromised,” Conrad said slowly. “I get you.”
“I mean, a person can’t just climb inside another person’s brain…”
“Can’t they?” said Conrad, his dark eyes fastening on hers. “I get it, Dana. You’re saying that I can’t trust that Buck’s decisions will be in her own best interest.”
“Yes,” said Dana, blowing out a sigh of relief. “That’s what I’m saying.”
“Good to know.” He gave her a smirk. “When can I expect you to ride in to save the day?”
“You can’t.” Guilt rose up in her. “We orders to stay here. Hopefully – he won’t even get near the house. But keep your guard up.”
“Always do.” Conrad winked at her. “Don’t suppose you have a personal comm code I can use? To keep you in the loop.”
Dana hadn’t even thought of that – this was how unsettled she was, just from seeing him. She leaned in and pressed her wrist to the transmission screen, giving Conrad the code of the Prince Consort’s opal that she still wore. She and Athos had pawned the La Fere sapphire to fund the restoration of the Pistachio and the Buttercup, so she was free to hang on to the opal for the time being.
It felt appropriate for Conrad. It made sense to keep him off her general comm, from which she received Fleetnet communications.
Conrad grinned as he received the code. “I like the jacket, by the way,” he observed. “The Musketeer look is so hot this season.”
Dana felt her cheeks grow hot. “It belongs to Aramis. I – haven’t had a chance to print one of my own yet, and she didn’t want me to wait.”
“I assume that means congratulations are in order,” Conrad said slyly. “Captain D’Artagnan. I knew you were going places the first time I laid eyes on you.”
“Oh?” Dana teased. “Was that before or after I tackled you to the ground?”
“Definitely during.” He kissed his palm and pressed it to the screen. “Take care of yourself, Dana. With that whole interstellar war thing you’ve got going on over there. Come home in one piece, yeah?”
“You too,” she said, her throat feeling dry. There was something so intimate about him asking her to ‘come home’. Slowly, she leaned in and brushed her lips to the screen. “Keep in touch, Conrad.”
“You too, babe. Bring me back something pretty from the war.”
End call.
50
Sunrise at the Siege of Truth
Athos was wrecked after his private call to his former (current?) dead husband’s sister-in-law. Dana was equally wrecked after the conversation with Conrad, followed by the emotional tennis match that was her call to Mama.
Every silence between their words was heavy with the loss of her Papa, and how Dana hadn’t been there, not only for the disaster on Gascon Station and the medical fallout that came after, but also the hard work that was going on right now, to restore the station and save the community.
They were all so far away. Truth was technically closer to Freedom. But there were whole hours, entire days, when Dana’s chaotic life had distracted her so sufficiently that she forgot that her Papa was dead and her childhood home in ruins.
Because of the Sun-kissed. It always came back to them.
Even with the good news to share about her promotion (your Papa would be so proud, your Papa always believed you would make it) to the rank and status of ‘proper Musketeer,’ Dana felt a stab of guilt as if her Mama knew that Dana did not spend nearly enough time thinking about home.
When they emerged from their respective privacy booths, Athos and Dana looked at each other, and both said ‘you look like shit’ in unison. They calculated the time, and decided that since they were officially off duty until this meeting with the Sun-kissed, they could afford two hours to get filthy, stinking drunk and another six hours to sleep (if sleep was even possible) in the basic bunks Treville had assigned them on the Bastion, before slapping on all the Sobriety patches in the Solar System and pretending to be respectable members of the Royal Fleet.
It was not the most responsible decision Dana had ever made, and she was well aware of her hypocrisy at enabling Athos in his self-destructive behaviour, when she had been so very angry at him back on the Frenzy Kenzie.
But damn, she needed it.
They woke up tangled together in a single bunk, fully clothed and feeling like death warmed up.
“Why didn’t we use the Sobriety patches before we went to sleep?” Dana groaned with her head pressed underneath a fresh-printed pillow so stiff it might give her a paper cut.
“Wouldn’t have slept if sober,” Athos grumbled.
After a brief tussle in which they discovered that old age and treachery was indeed superior to youth when it came to fighting over who got to use the sonic shower first (who knew that Athos had quite so many elbows?) they dressed themselves in flight suits and jackets. Dana still had the one from Aramis, while Athos had to suffer a newly printed garment after some sort of mishap at Dovecote Red that he would not discuss. They buzzed each other’s hair short, and stepped back to examine the results in the mirror.
“The pride of the Royal Fleet,” Athos said with grim satisfaction.
Dana trod on his foot. “Don’t be bitter. We scrub up okay.”
The first day of intergalactic diplomacy was dull. Athos and Dana were relegated to a side gallery where they could observe and be called upon if necessary.
It was not necessary.
The Regence, the Cardinal and Amiral Treville sat together at a central table. Surrounding them were what turned out to be a team of expert linguists, xenobiologists and code-breakers, all there to aid communication between the Sun-kissed and the representatives of the human Solar System.
Three Mendaki were present among the ‘alien experts’ presumably because they were aliens themselves, though Dana was not sure how that meant they had any perspective on the psychology of the Sun-kissed. Still, they had brought a hefty array of translation units with them.
Dana was not even surprised that it turned out to be Agent Rosnay Cho, with her usual sweep of hair tucked under a black Raven cap, and a black flight suit to match. Dana was used to the idea now that Ro might turn up anywhere, at any time.
“What are you doing here?” Dana asked nevertheless. “Who’s in command of the Frenzy Kenzie?”
“Classified,” said Ro, placing a finger to her lips. “And also, I don’t remember. A Sabre, I think. Jussac?”
“That’s worse than you,” said Dana in horror.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” preened Ro.
“The Frenzy Kenzie is a Musketeer supplies transport, why would they put a Sabre in command?”
Ro lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Perhaps the Regence has finally accepted that the Solar System would be more efficient if the Church ran everything?”
“Let me guess,” Athos drawled. “You’re in here because you’re another member of the ‘I have intimate knowledge of Milord de Winter’ club.”
Ro smirked as she took a seat a little way from them both. “Well,” she said. “Not as intimate as you, as it turns out.”
Athos glared at her. Ro stared back, her mouth still curved up, and the two of them faced off against each other in a long, silent challenge.
The only thing that stopped Dana beating her head against the wall was that she was starting to worry about brain damage.
It didn’t get better once the Sun-kissed delegation appeared on the bright digital screens of the meeting room, largely because they refused to communicate in any known language.
There were sounds, and bursts of light, and some kind of static chatter. The experts all scrambled to identify the language, but it was harder than they had imagined.
“Nowwe know something new about the Sun-kissed,” Athos said quietly as he observed the chaos in the main gallery.
“Yes, they’re arseholes,” Ro said, deadpan.
Athos gave her a look that was half surprise and half appreciation.
Dana stifled a laugh. “How do you figure that?”
“They speak our language,” said Athos. “We know they do. Aud – Milord isn’t the only one. The last war saw at least forty or fifty spies dropped among the Fleet itself, and seeded in the various planetary communities – and that’s the ones we know about. They looked like us and they damn well spoke like us. They can do it any time they like.”
“The Amiral and the Cardinal were both active during the last war,” Ro observed. “They’re well aware of this.”
“Must be why her Eminence is twitching so much,” said Athos.
“She’s big on the value of time,” said Ro. “Wasting time is up there with Elementalism on her Eminence’s list of personal hates.”
“It’s not a waste, though, is it?” Dana mused. “Surely it’s better for us to learn how to communicate with them properly if we’re going to have any kind of long-term diplomacy with their people.”
Athos and Ro exchanged a weary look.
“She’s so young,” Athos said conversationally.
“Tell me about it,” agreed Ro.
Dana was indignant. “I don’t need you two ganging up on me! You’re only cranky because you know I’m right.”
Six days later, Dana was admitted that she was wrong. She still believed that it was important that humans learned to communicate with the Sun-kissed in their own language. On the other hand… was there seriously no way to hurry the process up?
Some progress had been made. The last two days had featured more muttered, excitable conversations among the translation team, and less of the glazed eyes and desperate panic that had characterised the early sessions.
For Dana, Athos and Ro, it had been an interminably dull week in which lights flashing on screens and experts getting excited about sound frequencies were not the focus of their attention.
No, their focus was on the tournament of noughts and crosses betwee the three of them, and the elaborate system of rewards, forfeits and handicaps they had devised to make the game more of a challenge.
Dana might or might not have lost too many matches because of the deeply unfair ‘lose a mark off the board if you smile at a cute text from your non-boyfriend in exile’ rule. She was dangerously close to earning a dread ‘truth or dare’ forfeit when Treville interrupted them.
“Fruit break already, boss?” Athos asked languidly, not even looking up from where he was sprawled on the bench. “You spoil us.”
Treville looked at the three of them with a mixture of impatience and resignation. “I don’t suppose you were paying attention to today’s work?”
“We did try,” said Ro, who had a startled school child expression on her face, obviously less accustomed to Amiral Treville taking notice of her, let alone disapproving of her behaviour. “But the effects of paying attention are so similar to the effects of a migraine, that…”
“Yes, I get the picture. What about you, D’Artagnan?”
“I wasn’t napping?” Dana ventured. “What was it you particularly wanted our feedback on, boss?”
It was the first time she had called Treville ‘boss’ since becoming a Musketeer, and it sent a little thrill through her.
Treville crossed her arms. “We’ve been making progress, and the latest breakthrough in communications has revealed something of our adversary’s motives.”
Athos looked at least slightly alert. “What about Truth?”
“They’ve promised us that they will open a channel to the planet to prove that the majority of the population are still alive down there.”
“That’s good,” said Dana. “Isn’t it?”
“That depends,” drawled Ro. “On what it cost.”
Treville flicked her gaze in Ro’s direction, and nodded. “They want something from us as a gesture of good faith.”
“Is it something within our power?” Athos asked, all seriousness.
Treville blew out a breath. “They believe we are harbouring a criminal who has been condemned to death in absentia by their government, and they are prepared to destroy us, planet by planet, to get him back into their custody.”
Athos frowned. “So why can’t we just…” and then he paused.
Dana was way ahead of him. Her own awkward pause joined his to join an epic silence of embarrassment.
It couldn’t be, could it?
“Holy shit,” said Ro, and started laughing maniacally. “I guess you two are here for a good reason after all.”
“We don’t know for certain,” said Treville. “There are – roadblocks to identifying this criminal.”
Athos squared his shoulders. “Show us what you have, and D’Artagnan and I will see if it’s who we all think it is – shut the hell up, Agent Cho, it’s not funny.”
“It really is kind of funny,” Ro gasped. “Because, come on. Who else is it going to be?”
Milord Vaniel de Winter stepped off the Matagot and into a cluster of assistants and bureaucrats ready to inform him about all the work he needed to catch up on between the space dock and Prime House, the centre of government on Valour.
He did love politics but oh, there were times when the paperwork seriously got in the way of being a covert assassin.
Vaniel was like a comfortable, finely tailored suit – Milord had something of a soft spot for this identity, who was kinder and wittier than most of the personalities he had developed over the years. More ambitious than Linton Gray, the soft-spoken diplomatic aide (and covert religious terrorist); more clever and careful than Slate the Raven (and occasional kidnapper); certainly saner than the wildly destructive Winter, who existed mostly as a hallucinogenic virus inside the heads of his enemies.
The mission prickled under his skin, a constant distraction as he signed forms, made decisions, and agreed to meeti
ngs he probably would never attend.
“First Minister Beautru wishes to receive you at your earliest convenience,” said Nonja, a flat-faced and humourless young woman who was excellent at scheduling but hell to share an office with.
Milord missed the snarky, glitter-strewn irreverence of Kitty and her space ponies. There were many reasons for which he wished to murder Dana D’Artagnan with his own bare hands, but depriving him of his favourite assistant was high on the list.
“Back at the office,” he insisted. “We’ll sort out a timetable for essential appointments.”
There was a government-issue skimmer waiting for him, to transport him across town to Prime House. Milord hesitated. If he got in, several of these hangers on would pile in with him so as to keep him signing and agreeing to appointments. He hadn’t intended to go to Prime House today, not with a Duchess to kill.
As he thought rapidly of how to express his intention to travel “to Prime House” alone and unaccompanied, a familiar voice broke into the buzz.
“Vaniel will be riding with me. Affairs of state are all very well but family comes first.”
The Countess of Clarick strode towards her brother-in-law as if she expected anyone and everyone to leap out of her path. She wasn’t wrong.
“Bee,” Milord said faintly.
“Vaniel, darling,” she said, kissing him on each cheek and then tucking her arm into his. “Come along. I have my own skimmer waiting and it will give us a chance to talk.”
He allowed her to steer him away. It solved the problem of government distractions.
What it didn’t solve was the problem of a sister-in-law. One did not take a sister-in-law along on assassinations.
Once they were both comfortably seated in the padded interior of the de Winter skimmer, Bee flicked a few autopilot options. The skimmer arced up into the air, and Bee leaned back to place her booted feet on the dashboard. “Time we talked, brother dear. I’ve had some fascinating chats with a Musketeer since we last spoke.”
“What are you talking about?” Milord asked, in his usual careless drawl. “Musketeers are like drones, sweetness, that’s like trying to have a conversation with a random piece of Palace furniture.”
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