Musketeer Space

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  Musketeer Space

  Tansy Rayner Roberts

  Musketeer Space.

  Copyright © 2015 Tansy Rayner Roberts.

  All rights reserved.

  Second edition.

  This story first appeared on the tansyrr.com blog in serial format in 2014-2015, thanks to the generosity of my Patreon supporters.

  Published by the author

  http://tansyrr.com

  PO Box 345, Kingston TAS 7051

  tansyrr@gmail.com

  Front cover illustration © 2014 Katy Shuttleworth

  ISBN: 978-0-9953651-2-4

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  I. These Valiant Stars

  1. Reasons to Hate Moths

  2. Paris, At Last

  3. Shouting at Musketeers

  4. How They Met And Other Minor Tragedies

  5. The Mending of Athos

  6. The Wrong Sort of Duel

  7. A Royal Reception

  8. The Nesting Habits of Musketeers

  9. Madame Su’s Bed and Board

  10. The Weight of the Solar System

  11. The Friand of Aramis, the Espresso of Athos & the Convenient Boyfriend of Porthos.

  12. Assignation at the Mecha Graveyard

  13. Conspiracy is Bad For the Blood Pressure

  14. The Madness of the Duchess of Buckingham

  15. Whatever Happened To Madame Su?

  16. Cinquefoil For Beginners

  17. Portrait of a Marriage

  18. Kissing at Airlocks

  19. How they Lost Porthos and Aramis

  20. Pieces of Athos

  21. Crashing and Burning

  22. The Making of Alix Charlemagne

  23. Something Political

  24. Hover-Chandeliers are Forever

  25. A Love Letter To Absent Friends

  26. Rendezvous at the Fountain of Tranquility

  27. Paying for Porthos

  28. For Love of Aramis

  29. The Husband of Athos

  30. In the Cellar of the Gilded Lily

  31. Musketeers at War

  II. A Miracle of Spaceships

  32. Chasing Spaceships

  33. The Hotel Coquenard Deluxe Bathroom Experience

  34. The New Aristocrats

  35. Is it Love or Just Paris?

  36. Sexting the Enemy

  37. Concerning The Questionable Life Choices of Dana D’Artagnan

  38. All Cats are Grey (in cyberspace)

  39. Milord, and his secrets

  40. Tea, and the Cardinal

  41. Driving the Arquebus

  42. Space Jump

  43. Fleet United

  44. The Boys From Auster

  45. Anjou Wine

  46. Dovecote Red

  47. Athos in the Walls

  48. Cake Under Fire

  49. I Just Called To Say I’m Grounded

  50. Sunrise at the Siege of Truth

  51. The Comte de La Fere Is A Ghost Story

  52. Five Days of Captivity

  53. The Many Deaths of Milord

  54. Mission to Valour

  55. Snow and Star Nuns, But Mostly Snow

  56. Two Kinds of Winter

  57. A Drop of Water

  58. Cold Hands, Red Cloak

  59. The House of Athos

  60. Judges, Jury and Executioners

  61. Tell Me About It, Stud

  62. We’ll Always Have Paris

  About the Author

  Joyeux

  It’s Raining Musketeers

  Sheep Might Fly

  Also by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  Acknowledgments

  Part I

  These Valiant Stars

  You are not mine

  But in your eyes I see a constellation,

  Each star a gleaming promise

  Braver than you or I

  These valiant stars draw us deeper

  Into a love-madness

  That would burn the steel walls of the world

  “Fragment on Photo-silk,” Collected Poems of the Musketeer Aramis © Solar Imperial 39822.paris

  1

  Reasons to Hate Moths

  Dana D’Artagnan nosed her musket-class dart into the mechanic’s bay on Meung Station, in orbit around the planet of Valour. She hadn’t even glanced at the planet on her approach – planets held little interest for her. This station was the last (and cheapest) recharging stop before she reached her destination.

  Not for the first time, Dana wished that her Papa had chosen a colour other than bright yellow when he retooled Mama’s creaky old ship for her journey. Dana had a fat enough credit stud that she could pay to have the dart resprayed, but only if she didn’t worry too much about paying the rent for her first month in Paris.

  Paris was more important.

  Of course, the ship she landed next to in the bay had to be a brand new Moth fighter, so sleek and silver that everything around him looked extra shitty. But Dana wasn’t going to let that bother her.

  She jumped down from the hatch and slid under the belly of her dart, releasing the power spheres one by one. All six of them needed recharging. As she carted the large spheres two by two to the charging console at the back of the bay, she heard boots ringing against the metal floor, and then laughter.

  “Oh, what is that thing?” said a woman. “Do spaceships even come in that colour? Would anyone seriously walk into a shipyard and say sure, I’ll have the canary yellow one.”

  A male voice spoke lower, in a similarly mocking tone. Dana couldn’t catch the words. Cheeks hot with embarrassment, she stalked back to her ship and climbed under to get the next two spheres.

  The bootsteps came closer. “A daffodil,” said the woman. “No… better. He’s a buttercup!”

  Dana counted silently to ten, and then scooped up the power spheres and marched to the charging console again. The hatch of the Moth fighter closed as she passed, which meant at least that she didn’t have to face the owner of that mocking voice.

  As she returned for the final spheres, the hatch re-opened, and a woman leaned out of the Moth. She was at least a decade older than Dana, with long black hair that swung over her shoulder.

  Not a pilot, not with hair like that. She had to be a passenger. A wealthy, entitled, sarcastic passenger.

  “Nice ship,” said the woman, almost sincere. Almost immediately, her mouth twisted up into a smirk and it was then that Dana noticed her scar, a long jagged line that started a little above the corner of her eye, and slashed down her jawline. “What do you call that colour?”

  “Buttercup,” Dana said, and continued with her work.

  As the spheres hummed away in the charging console, the station report on Dana’s dart came through. The last leg of her journey hadn’t done too much damage to the hull, despite the meteor storm they had weathered near the Daughters of Peace, but it was going to take six hours for new software to upload into the navigation system, and for the spheres to fully charge.

  Time enough to have a drink or three, and maybe rent a room for a sleeping shift.

  Dana took a quick sonic shower, buzzed her black hair even shorter against her scalp, and changed into a fresh flight suit. She hesitated about the jacket. It looked smart, especially with the three platinum studs at the collar. But while it was the fashion to wear identity and credit studs publicly, she wasn’t sure if she should be so cavalier about the third, which contained her formal application to the Royal Space Fleet on Paris Satellite.

  Would it be any safer if she left it here on the ship?

  She straightened her jacket. It was blue with gold trim, and made her flight suit look more official, like she was already a Musketeer.

  After a moment�
��s thought, she popped the three studs off the collar of the jacket and pressed them one by one against the side of her neck. They burrowed in with a tingling sensation, glittering brighter against her brown skin than they had been against the jacket. Old fashioned to wear them this way, but if she lost the jacket, she would still have everything important to her. Her credit, her identity, and her future.

  She had a photo silk tucked into one of her pockets, an extravagant gift that Mama had pressed on her – it displayed images of Mama and her old pilot friends from the golden days, including a certain Treville who was now Amiral of the Musketeers.

  “That will put her in a good mood if nothing else,” Mama hissed, before kissing Dana quickly and all but shoving her into the flight deck of the ‘Buttercup’. “She’s a hard nut, Treville, and I don’t imagine she’s softened with age. This might blur the edges a little.”

  Dana looked at the photo silk now, with its rotation of vintage images. Musketeers smiling, laughing, playing pranks on each other. A life so very different from the dull monotony of Gascon Station. It was everything she had always wanted.

  She kissed the edge of the silk, and shoved it back in the pocket of her jacket, for safekeeping.

  The bar was crowded and noisy. Dana was glad she had her studs securely on her neck where it was harder for people to brush against them, and rather less glad for the formal jacket. She wouldn’t be able to stay in this stuffy bar for long, not without losing some layers.

  The beer helped. It was cold and fresh and real, unlike anything her ship’s food printer could make. The first one went down fast, and she ordered another.

  All the software in her head was jangling up a storm, not happy about the separation between pilot and ship. Dana wanted, needed to be flying again. Alcohol dulled those senses for a while, gave her half a chance of relaxing away from her metal shell. But it didn’t help with her general desire to kick and punch things.

  A couple of Mendaki pilots introduced her to a game of Pharaoh, and while their trailing tendrils meant they could spin the cards suspiciously fast, they were also generous about buying rounds of moonshine shots. Dana was basically wasted by the time the Milord walked into the bar.

  She would have known he was a New Aristocrat even without a closer look at his identity stud. Every inch of him was gene-modified and glowing with artificial health. White skin, silver hair and piercing eyes. It almost hurt to look at him.

  He did not belong in a grotty place like this, with the grease-stained engineers, gambling aliens and the handful of pilots lured in the cheap price of moonshine.

  Which might explain why the Milord did not purchase a drink, but instead allowed himself to be guided into a back room.

  Dana lost her stake, and then another. Her fellow punters snickered at her, if that was what the shivery, mocking sound they made with their mouth-tubes meant. The dealer shuffled, and dealt again. More drinks miraculously appeared on the table. The room became hotter.

  A false breath of cool air flooded the bar as a new pair of rogues swaggered in. One was the woman from the Moth, her shining sweep of hair pinned back with decorative combs, to show off the scar that cut through half her face. She had a dreadlocked lad at her side in coveralls. He must be an engineer – no self-respecting pilot would venture out in such scruffy gear even in a crap-hole like this. The engie stayed at the bar and ordered himself a beer while the woman headed past the Pharaoh table to the back of the bar.

  Dana pulled her gaze away, but not fast enough. The woman saw her, and raised a hand in a mocking salute. “Ho there, Buttercup.”

  Rage blistered behind Dana’s eyes. She turned back to the game, just in time to hear the dealer sing “Bank!” Every player leaned in to have their credit stud scanned, to update the wins and the losses.

  She had lost too much. With her debt settled, she pushed away from the table. Time to piss, and then get back to the ship to sleep off the drink. No comfortable room for her now.

  Paris. Think about Paris.

  The bar blurred around her as she took a few steps. Damn it. At this rate, she’d have to take a dose of Sobriety from the vending slot at the door, and that only meant she had wasted more money on this stupid night.

  Dana staggered out the back of the bar and made her way along a small grey corridor until she reached the convenience stalls. Someone had charmingly painted the words ‘Sea of Tranquility’ over the door. Safe in a stall, she leaned her head against the cool surface of the wall and peed every drop of liquid out of her body. It took some time.

  Doors banged, nearby.

  “This is classy, sweetness,” said a mocking voice. Male. Fancy accent. The Milord, perhaps? Or another like him.

  “Last place anyone would expect to find you,” said a voice, female. Sarcastic enough to be the woman from the Moth, but Dana would not be prepared to testify to that. For all she knew, the voices came from inside her own skull.

  “Break the news to me gently,” said the Milord with something like a laugh. “I’m so close to Valour, I could kiss it, so it’s too much to hope that’s where you’re sending me. Some other planet – the dregs of Freedom? God, don’t make it be Freedom, I haven’t a thing to wear for the arse end of the solar system.”

  “Truth.”

  “I hate getting my feet wet.”

  “With the amount the Cardinal is paying you, I think you can buy new boots. It won’t be for long, gumdrop. You’re to integrate yourself into the minister’s staff, and make sure you’re with her when she leaves for Valour – that will put you in perfect position to plant a suggestion where it can do the most good -” A soft sound, which could have been a kiss, or an information stud burrowing into skin. “Think you can handle that?”

  “I live to serve, Ro my darling.”

  “You’d better. Don’t fret, you can go back to your Valour project as soon as this wraps up. Wouldn’t want to keep you from that respectable family of yours.”

  Doors banged again as more noisy drunken customers came in. The voices of the conspirators were drowned out.

  Dana stood. Still drunk, but able to walk. She tidied herself, washed her hands in the sonic spray, and finally headed out to the bar.

  Her Mendaki pals waved their tendrils at her as she passed, but she gave a rueful smile and shook her head. No more of that.

  At the door, she hesitated by the vending slot. Sobriety felt like giving up, and besides, she was nearer pleasantly drunk than she had been. Surely she could make it back to her ship in one piece without deleting tonight’s consumption. On the other hand, a capsule of Hydrate would not be a bad idea.

  Someone shoved her from behind, and she banged her forehead on the vending slot.

  “Sorry, sailor,” said a cheerful voice, and when Dana turned, she saw the woman from the Moth, far from apologetic. “All a bit much for you, is it?” she smirked, with a nod to the vending slot. “No shame in that, Buttercup.”

  Dana breathed faster. She felt her hands tightening into fists.

  The woman noticed, and her smile widened. “Oh, please,” she said. “Try.”

  Dana hit her. That was her first mistake. The woman from the Moth leaned away from the blow so fast it barely tapped her jaw, and then with one thudding motion had Dana on the floor, an elbow jabbed hard into the soft skin of her bared throat.

  The floor hurt. Everything hurt. Dana stared up at the woman, and wondered if it counted as cheating if you threw up on someone during a fight. At this angle, she was more likely to throw up on herself. Best keep it down.

  “Now then, citizens, take this outside, shall we?” declared a burly bartender, marching over to them. “Or upstairs, if you’d prefer, no questions asked,” he added in a lower voice, where it could only be heard by Dana, her opponent, and the dreadlocked engie who was there now too, tugging at his boss’s arm.

  “Ro, don’t,” he said in a pleading voice. “That’s enough.”

  “Well, Buttercup?” the woman from the Moth asked, still smili
ng as she pressed her elbow more forcefully against Dana’s collarbone. “Fancy a duel? I don’t make this offer to just anyone.”

  The engie swore quietly, and walked away, washing his hands of her.

  Dana blinked up into the face of her enemy. “Yes,” she said. “Yeah. Bring it on.”

  Before Dana D’Artagnan left home, her Papa had some advice for her. As he ran Mama’s old ship through that last coat of (ugh) colour and polish for the journey, he said: “Fight as much as you can, lovey, it sharpens your reflexes. The best pilots are demons with their fists. Just look at your mother. She was a menace in every bar fight, and there was no one faster than her at the helm of a dart. Everyone knew it.”

  “That was why I crashed so many,” laughed her Mama. “Fight if you must, Dana. Pilots are all half crazy, thanks to all that shit they wire into our heads. If you want them to take you seriously, you have to embrace the crazy. Let go a little. Kick some heads in on your day off. But for fuck’s sake, don’t duel.”