Porthos and Aramis, who had either won an argument with House or benefited from the red mother’s ability to talk sense into AI, came clattering up the last flight of stairs to join them.
“Dana, what did you do?” Porthos yelped.
Aramis gave the fallen Athos a brief once-over and moved past him into the library. “Where’s the real one?”
The room, which must have been beautiful once, was a wreck. Silk wall hangings were torn and blood-stained. Pieces of broken vase littered the floor. Books were scattered everywhere. The window was broken.
Athos stood shakily in the middle of it, blood crusting over his hands and a ragged slash in his jacket sleeve showing a nasty cut. He only had eyes for Dana. “How did you know that wasn’t me?”
She shrugged. “You were wearing a different shirt, holding a different sword, and you didn’t call me D’Artagnan. So.”
“He also got your beard slightly wrong,” said Aramis, kissing him on the cheek that was not smeared with blood. “It’s a very distinctive beard.”
Porthos shrugged. “I would have totally fallen for it. Can we get out of here? No offence, Athos, but your House is moodier than you are.”
“Not quite yet,” said Athos, his bloody hands still grasping the hilt of his pilot’s slice. Slowly, he walked past them all to the corridor where the stunned Milord still lay.
He looked mostly like Athos, though his skin was a shade or two pinker, now Dana came to compare them. Athos with a mild sunburn.
The real Athos leaned down, allowing the tip of his pilot’s slice to scrape against the throat of the unconscious alien.
Dana realised what he meant by ‘not quite yet.’
“Athos,” she said, barely able to find her words. “We need him alive.”
“I have to finish what I started,” her friend said, colder than she had ever heard him. He looked broken.
“No, you don’t,” said Porthos, stepping forward. “You can’t go back to that, Athos. You’ve been blaming yourself for this death for too many years. The guilt was killing you even before he turned up like a bad credit check. You don’t have to be judge, jury and executioner this time around.”
“She’s right,” said Aramis, nudging Athos’ arm. “We’re going to give him back to his own people, let them take some responsibility for his bullshit. And hey, we’ll stop a war at the same time. Everybody wins.”
Athos pressed the tip of his pilot’s slice a little more firmly into Milord’s flesh, near the collarbone. “What do you think, sweetness?”
Milord’s eyes flickered slightly, and opened. “I’d rather you killed me than sent me home,” he said, his words slurred from the stunner.
Athos looked thoughtful. “One of us should get to go home,” he said after a long moment, and drew back his blade. “Why not you?”
A sombre party stepped out of the house of the d’Auteville family. Milord, his wrists and ankles hobbled by magnetic cuffs, had reverted to the face he knew best, young silver-haired Auden.
Dana noticed that Athos looked at Milord as little as possible, busying himself by soothing House and making some changes to the AI’s menu of ‘trusted family members.’
Special Agent Rosnay Cho waited for them in the garden, surrounded by engies and darts. Athos had pulled down the security forcefield specifically to let her bring in the ships, and was remarkably unfazed by the resulting destruction of several flowerbeds.
Ro was her usual snarky self. She had changed into a violet flight suit, with matching boots. “They’re sending a royal transport to escort us back to the Bastion,” she reported. “Finally the powers that be have stopped underestimating our prisoner.”
Dana nodded. “Are you all right?” Ro hadn’t been in good shape last time she saw her.
Ro nodded stiffly. “Your Planchet hacked Winter out of my brain.”
Dana blinked at that. “She – I’m sorry, she what?”
Planchet bobbed up out of the Buttercup, pleased as punch. “It’s not so much a drug as a micro-stud that burrows into the brain stem. Once I figured that, it was easy enough to hack into the right frequency and deactivate the Winter program from having control over or ability to communicate with its victims. I’ve sent the instructions to the Countess of Clarick, so they can free Marshal Felton. The stud keeps a record of all activity under protected passwords, so it can serve as evidence in court.”
Dana stared at Planchet, impressed.
“Yeah, you’re really not paying her enough,” Ro said in a tone that made it clear she wanted to change the subject. “How are things here?”
“Emotionally devastating.”
“Sounds about right.”
Dana cleared her throat, feeling awkward. “Look, I’m really sorry that I… that I thought… I mean, that I assumed…”
“What, that I was on Milord’s side after the whole murder at the convent thing?” Ro said easily. “Don’t sweat it, buttercup. I’ve been underestimated by better people than you.”
“Thanks, I think.”
An unreadable expression crossed Ro’s face, and she punched Dana’s shoulder lightly. “Sorry about your boy.”
Dana swallowed, feeling sad all over again. “Yeah. Me too.”
The ship that arrived to escort them back to Truth Space – and to the Sun-kissed delegation awaiting delivery of their prisoner – was an eagle-class venture: The Stars Divine, which Aramis knew belonged to the Cardinal herself. It had a gold veneer with star field tattoos on the fin, and the interior was lushly designed with red and gold in every room.
It was beyond extravagant, but no one was complaining.
There was room in the hold for all of the darts, sabres and moths belonging to their group. Once the ships, prisoner and passengers were loaded on board, there was nothing for any of them to do.
Like any decent pilot, Aramis hated being a passenger. It sucked. Normally she might occupy herself with books and poetry, or finding a Fleetnet forum in which to spark off a theological debate or two. She was feeling uninspired right now, they were on limited comms, and besides, she had friends to keep an eye on.
There was a fully stocked bar on board The Stars Divine, in which Dana had taken up near-permanent residence, drinking steadily through her heartbreak. It was often Rosnay Cho keeping her company, though Aramis herself, Porthos and Athos all hovered around Dana as well, making sure there was always at least one of them nearby.
It occurred to Aramis that for all the watching of Dana that they were doing, they should be keeping a close eye on Athos too. He was working hard to act as if nothing of any importance had occurred.
On the third day, not long before they were due to arrive at the Bastion, Aramis cornered Athos in the bar. He sat some distance from the others, who were holding an elaborate cocktail-naming contest.
“You’re sober,” Aramis noted. “Also you’re due for another haircut.”
“Maybe I’ll let it grow out again.”
“Liar.”
Athos gave a short huff of a laugh, but his eyes were distant as he glanced at Dana, then back to his own drink, a large mug of black coffee. “If I start drinking now, I won’t stop. Maybe when I’m not sharing a ship with him.”
Milord was locked in a cell in the heart of the ship, guarded by a heavy rotation of Hammers, Sabres and Musketeers. Aramis knew she wasn’t the only one who slipped down there occasionally to check he had not escaped.
“What do you think they’re going to do to him?” she asked. “His own people, I mean.”
“From what Treville told us, they consider him a traitor and a murderer,” Athos shrugged. “But they’re aliens. For all we know, their highest punishment is a cuddle and a slice of birthday cake.”
Aramis slid a look over at Dana, who leaned miserably into Porthos, trying not to make it obvious that she was crying. Rosnay Cho was pretending that she hadn’t noticed, ordering more drinks. “I want to tear the bastard limb from limb,” Aramis whispered.
Athos s
aluted her with his coffee cup. “Welcome to the club. But you and Porthos were right. I got to be judge, jury and executioner before, and that was hell. Time to try something new.”
Aramis gave him a hug, and slipped behind the bar to pour herself a drink. Champagne, she thought. All the better to toast the downfall of their enemies. “When was the last time you were sober in a bar?”
“Far beyond recorded memory,” Athos said solemnly. “Do they usually smell this bad?”
Aramis wrinkled her nose. “That’s the carpet. This ship must have been in mothballs for years.”
“It’s too fancy for everyday.”
Aramis poured herself a glass of bubbles from a suitably labelled flask, and clinked the glass against Athos’ cup. Time to change the subject so hard that there was no going back. “At least we get to skip the drunken confessions part of the evening. That was getting old.”
He gave her an odd look. “What exactly do you have to confess?”
“Not me, you.” She waited until he had a mouthful of coffee before explaining. “You know, the drunken conversation we keep having, where you beg my forgiveness for sleeping with Chevreuse two days after she and I broke up.”
To his credit, Athos did not spit out the coffee, but it took quite the effort for him to swallow. “What the hell, Aramis?”
She laughed at him. “You are cute when you’re guilt-ridden.”
“I – wasn’t aware that was a conversation I had allowed to exist outside my own head.”
“Six times, Athos,” she told him firmly. “Since Joyeux. For what it’s worth, I forgave you five times out of the six.”
Athos nodded, looking as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders. It was really quite endearing. “Good to know.”
Aramis tapped him on the nose with the cool edge of her champagne glass. “Not everything has to be a melodrama or a tragedy.”
Athos had thought he was prepared for this. He had made so many sensible life choices all week. He had given House a more appropriate lockdown procedure when they left Valour, and he fully intended to make proper arrangements for the manor and the estate. He had remained a sober companion for D’Artagnan as she worked through her grief and guilt about the boy that Auden had murdered in order to hurt her.
Athos had even composed a sensible report for Amiral Treville, on the grounds that it was nearly her birthday, and he liked to surprise her now and then.
He trusted his friends to regularly check on the prisoner so that he did not have to, because he was content never speaking another word to that man.
Really, Athos was proud of how well he had handled everything.
They were twelve hours away from Truth Space and the Bastion when the aliens arrived.
Athos was on the flight deck, because his friends were drunk and maudlin and he only got to be one of those things. He hated travelling through space as a passenger (all decent Musketeers felt the same way) but it was easier when standing up here at the business end, watching the stars through the view screen.
The venturer flight crew were Sabres, politely pretending he didn’t exist and that none of them had fought duels with him in the last six months; a comfortable falsehood.
“What the hell’s that?” uttered Captain Tybalt, a sentence no one ever wants to hear from their pilot.
Athos looked at the blaze of brightness that streaked across their view screen. “That’s… not good,” he managed, before the blaze became too fierce to look at directly. “Fuck. It’s the Sun-kissed.”
“They’re not shooting!” shouted Magellan, the co-pilot, but that wasn’t as comforting as it might have been.
“I don’t think they have to shoot at us to destroy this ship,” said Athos. He was already running, slapping his comm stud as he went, opening a frequency that alerted everyone on their original extraction team – not just Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan, but Cho, L’Etoile and Ducasse too. “Get to the prisoner hold now. Ambush!”
When he reached the corridor outside the hold where Milord was imprisoned, Athos saw the first bodies: two unconscious Hammers, sprawled out by the door.
Aramis and Porthos, their eyes watering from the rapid effect of Sobriety patches, reached him around the same time. Both drew their stunners, allowing Athos to take point.
Inside the hold, four more guards lay unconscious or dead on the ground. At the far end, Milord sat on a bench, electro-cuffed to the wall and surrounded by a forcefield, alert and awake. Still wearing the face and body and bright silver hair of young Auden d’Auteville.
The red mother, who had insisted on travelling with them for Milord’s trial, stood facing down six figures with bright red skin, with light pouring out of their eyes and mouths.
“This is Athos the Musketeer,” she said gravely. “He was one of the victims of the prisoner.”
The six Sun-kissed delegates turned their bright faces to Athos, and he did his best not to cower under their fierce intensity.
“Friends,” he said in the calm, diplomatic tone he had learned from his father, long before he was old enough to use it. “Do we have a problem here?”
One of the six aliens opened her mouth, and a garble of light and sound poured out. She stopped, tilted her head, and allowed another of her companions to step forward.
“Our lost child is to be collected,” that one said. “It was an agreement with your people.”
Special Agent Rosnay Cho shoved her way into the cell with L’Etoile and Ducasse. She stood beside Athos with a look of grim determination on her face. “We are charged with delivering the criminal to the Cardinal and the Regence,” she said. “They are the ones who made the agreement with you.”
All six Sun-kissed tilted their heads back and forth, as if trying to make sense of her words.
“The Cardinal is irrelevant,” said one.
“The Regence is irrelevant,” said another.
“Our lost child is to be collected,” said the original speaker.
“Will there be a trial?” put in a belligerent voice. D’Artagnan, of course. “Will he face judgement for his crimes? Will he be punished?”
Milord began to laugh, a harsh and angry sound. “Oh, sweetness,” he said, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes. “You're precious. Don’t ever change.”
“Our orders are clear,” said Special Agent Cho, holding firm.
“You are irrelevant,” said the main speaker. Light poured into the room, too intense for Athos to do anything but squeeze his eyes shut. When he opened them, Rosnay Cho, L’Etoile, Ducasse, Aramis and Porthos all lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.
D’Artagnan crouched over Aramis, checking her pulse. She nodded, her eyes wide and startled.
Not dead, then. Athos breathed out.
“What do you want?” he asked, since it was obvious the aliens could do anything they damn well pleased.
“Our lost child is to be collected,” the Sun-kissed speaker said, unruffled.
“Take him, then,” said Athos. “Be our guest. I can’t emphasise enough how little we care about his fate.”
D’Artagnan made a small noise of protest in her throat.
Athos rolled his eyes at her. “Do you imagine we have a choice here?”
The red mother addressed the Sun-kissed delegation again. “As the prisoner’s religious adviser, I wish to accompany him to your world to ensure he is treated fairly.”
As one, the six Sun-kissed turned expressions on her that could only be described as universal sarcasm. “Irrelevant,” said one, and the red mother dropped to the ground in a dead faint.
“Marvellous,” purred Milord. “My two greatest defenders are all that remain. I feel so blessed.”
“Burn in hell,” D’Artagnan shot at him.
“Meet me there,” Milord snapped back, but it was Athos he looked at, with a sad smile on his face. “No final words, sweetness?”
“Go in peace,” Athos breathed, and he meant it. He could not think about vengeance, not now.
A fierce bright light filled the room, dissolving the heavy cuffs on the prisoners wrists and ankles, de-activating the forcefield. For the first time, Milord looked afraid, pressing himself back against the wall.
“I did my duty!” he protested. “I did exactly what you sent me here to do. I gathered intelligence, I insinuated myself into a position of value in their society. I came this close to bringing down their government. I never stopped working for you!”
The main speaker of the Sun-kissed delegates reached out a crimson hand and touched his face.
Light blazed out from the delegation. There were images and sounds captured in that intense, burning light. Athos saw a ship crash, saw the shapeless creatures that emerged, and saw one die at the hands of another. He saw return to a glowing beacon in the snow year after year, and he saw him broken and angry, destroying that beacon.
Was this a trial? Did this count as evidence? Or was it an interrogation?
Were those crimes enough, to make an entire race turn against Milord, to wage a war in order to take him back? Or had that always been an excuse: an excuse to invade or an excuse to end the war?
The light burned harder, and Milord cried out in pain, in terror.
Athos had been willing to be the executioner again, if there was no other. Now as he realised what was happening, his whole body reacted against it. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, hands pressed into his mouth, holding him back. In the brightness, he heard a howling cry of protest that, in retrospect, must have come from him.
It must have been D’Artagnan who tackled him to the floor, kept him from hurling himself into the light.
Milord Vaniel de Winter, also known as Sister Snow, and Linton Gray, and Slate, and Auden d’Auteville and a dozen other names, dissolved in a burning ball of light that hurt the eyes. The Sun-kissed delegation bowed their heads, made a chattering sound that Athos did not understand, and vanished one by one, leaving two conscious humans and many unconscious humans alone in the hold.
Athos breathed in the scent of Dana’s uniform and skin because any distraction was better than thinking about what had just happened. He coughed, and D’Artagnan released him.
Musketeer Space Page 56