Arabella the Traitor of Mars

by David D. Levine

  * * *

  “Here, let me show you a thing,” Kiernan said to Arabella one day. She had just escaped the billiards-room, where a tedious billiards tournament among the more enthusiastic gentlemen threatened to extend all day and well into the night. “It had just arrived from Germany when the snows came down,” he said as he led her to the arena, “and it strikes me as just the sort of thing you might appreciate.”

  The item was a peculiar contrivance, a sort of half-carriage—it had a wooden frame and two iron-shod wheels, but unlike any gig or curricle she had ever seen the wheels were set in tandem, one behind the other, with a padded leather saddle for a single rider between them. It also lacked pole, yoke, traces, or any other visible means to attach a horse or other animal. “How is it drawn?” she asked.

  “It is not drawn at all!” Kiernan replied with a laugh. “It is pushed, with the driver’s feet!” He demonstrated by swinging his leg over the saddle—once seated, his toes barely touched the ground—and pushing himself forward with a sort of extended walking motion. Amazingly, the two-wheeled device did not immediately tumble over on its side, but remained upright, albeit in an extremely precarious fashion, as Kiernan drove it in a great circle around the arena.

  “How does it not fall over?” she marveled aloud as Kiernan returned to his starting place.

  “I do not entirely understand it myself,” Kiernan confessed, “but it has to do with the angle of the front wheel.” He moved the tiller which controlled the wheel to one side and then the other. “It requires considerable practice to keep the thing upright, a skill which I have as yet barely begun to acquire. But, once the knack is acquired, a skilled operator can stride with the speed of a trotting horse!”

  Arabella inspected the machine carefully, noting that the wheels rode on brass bushings to reduce friction. The device was called a Laufmaschine, German for “running machine,” by its inventor, one Baron von Drais; in his honor—and preferring to avoid the harsh German consonants—the English called it a Draisine. “May I try it?”

  “By all means. I will walk along with you until you catch the trick.”

  Arabella’s dress proved rather an impediment to her mounting the device properly, but she soon abandoned decency and tied up the excess fabric with leather laces, girding her loins like an ancient Philistine. Kiernan, an older gentleman with much experience of the world’s vagaries, took this impropriety in stride. Once mounted, though, her first few attempts at driving the machine ended quickly and awkwardly, with Kiernan catching her as she began to tumble over. But after a little practice, she reached the point that she could wobble along for a few feet by herself. The sensation was exhilarating and a bit frightening, the lightness and smooth rapidity of the motion—not to mention the roiling of her stomach—reminding her in some ways of her first experience of free descent. “My goodness!” she gasped after her longest voyage, a distance of some fifteen feet, during which Kiernan was compelled to jog to keep up with her. “I believe that is quite enough for one day. But I hope to repeat the experience before departing Brighton, if I may.”

  “You are always welcome in my workshop, ma’am,” he replied with a bow. “I am grateful to find in you an appreciative audience for my enthusiasms.”

  Arabella rearranged her clothing—her dress had become rather badly wrinkled and soiled, but she considered the experience well worth the cost—and took her leave. But as she walked the long tunnel back to the pavilion, her mind whirled with practices, methods, and possible improvements to the device.

  * * *

  Upon returning to the main pavilion—its surfeit of counterfeit Vénuserie, its glaring gas lamps, and its suffocating heat even more oppressive to her after her clean exhilarating flight on the Draisine—before she could ascend the stairs to her bedchamber she was met by none other than the Prince. “Ah, there you are,” he said as his conveyance chugged up to her. “I was told you had gone to the stables, and was just going thence to meet with you.” Unusually, he was alone, lacking the crowd of sycophants and hangers-on which generally accompanied him.

  “I am in no fit state to meet with a Prince, Your Royal Highness,” she said, managing to gesture to her soiled dress and execute a tolerable curtsey at the same time.

  “Pish pish,” he replied, gesturing negligently. “We are all friends here. Come, I must have a word with you.” He puttered off down the long gallery, forcing Arabella to walk at a brisk pace to keep up. Her thighs immediately reminded her that they had just recently undergone an unusual exertion, and did not enjoy being called upon for this additional task so soon.

  The Prince led her to an anteroom she had not visited before, and shut the door behind her. Her heart hammered at the sudden isolation—not so much because she feared impropriety as because she had no idea what the Prince Regent might ask of her and, as he was her acting sovereign, she knew that she could not deny him any request.

  “Pray take a seat,” the Prince said. Arabella did so, recognizing even as she did that this was not only a generous offer of comfort but also brought her down to the Prince’s level, removing her advantage of height. “This regards your husband, as well as yourself.” He paused, tapping his fingertips together. “How old are you, if I may ask?”

  “Twenty, Your Royal Highness.”

  Again he waved away the honorific. “As I thought, exactly the same age as my dear daughter, the Princess Caroline. You remind me of her in many ways. She, too, is headstrong and irrepressible … though at least, unlike you, she has never run away to Mars, ha ha!”

  “Indeed she has not,” Arabella temporized.

  “It is perhaps because of this resemblance,” the Prince continued, “in addition to your heroism and great service to the Empire, that I feel very kindly toward you. And so I wish to grant you and your husband a great boon.”

  “A boon, sir?” Arabella’s heart pounded still harder.

  The Prince sat back in his chair, looking down his nose and across his steepled fingertips with what she imagined he thought was a benevolent expression. “Now that Bonaparte has been definitively defeated, England finds herself the sole decisive power in the entire solar system. But other nations—and not only human nations!—will soon attempt to fill the spaces vacated by the Great Tyrant, like rats moving in after the dog has chased the cat away. I have been approached by a coalition of men from the Admiralty and the Honorable Mars Company, who intend to take the battle to these rats before they can attain a foot-hold!”

  “What has this to do with me?”

  “Mars!” the Prince shouted, striking the arm of his chair with his closed fist. “Mars will be one of the chief battle-fields in this coming war. Did you know that Saint George’s Land covers less than seven per cent of its surface area? Seven per cent! The entire remainder of the planet belongs to those filthy Martians.”

  Arabella pressed her lips together, rather than angrily correcting His Royal Highness on the topic of Martians as was her first impulse. It was their planet, after all, and the English colony merely a guest thereon. But if Lady Corey were here, she would certainly advise Arabella that to contradict the Prince Regent in his own home on a topic clearly dear to his heart would be both impolite and impolitic.

  “Mars is the only source of the special wood of which our aerial ships are constructed,” he continued, lecturing her upon a topic with which she was intimately familiar, “and Martian steel is the finest in the solar system. England must control Mars, for the sake of her future!”

  “But surely, with Napoleon’s defeat, England no longer has any significant rivals in this?”

  “The Martians themselves, my dear,” he said as though addressing an ignorant child. “They are our rivals. You may think them primitives”—she did not, not by any means—“but they are warlike and ambitious, and some of them are most exceedingly shrewd! And now that we have dealt with Bonaparte, we can devote our full energies to bringing them to heel.”

  “But why, Your Highness? We have traded w
ith the Martians quite amicably for generations. Surely there is no need for this to change?”

  “They have been content to leave the defense of their planet from Napoleon and suchlike warlords to us, and now that that threat has been removed they may feel free to move against us! It is only by dint of treaties, and lack of expertise, that they lack aerial ships of their own … and we cannot rely upon this situation to continue if we do not take measures to enforce it.”

  “Your argument makes no—no difference, Your Highness.” She had been about to say no sense. “The Martians have no ambitions to empire!”

  “Nor have I, child, nor have I. But I am assured—I am assured by both the Admiralty and the Honorable Mars Company—that the possibility, indeed the likelihood, exists. Furthermore, the profits to be realized from English dominance of Mars are well-nigh incalculable.”

  The Prince Regent delivered that last sentence in an offhand manner, but the expression on his face as he uttered the word “profits” showed that it was more significant to him than he let on. The effect was subtle, but suddenly she suspected she understood the real purpose of the Prince, the Mars Company, and perhaps even the Admiralty in this scheme. And she was horrified.

  Her first impulse was to rise, spit in his face, and stride from the room. But she must confirm her suspicions. Recalling the words of Lady Hertford, regarding the Prince’s sense of self-importance, she leaned forward and smeared a smile across her face. “Oh, but Prinny, you have so much money already! Surely mere profit is of no significance to you.”

  “Ah, that is where you are wrong, my dear,” he replied with a matching smile—causing her to wonder just how sincere any of his previous smiles had been. “I am, in fact, most grievously constrained by Parliament—grievously! My position, my responsibilities … they require, absolutely require, me to furnish myself and my household in accordance with my station. But given the paltry pittance provided me by my father, with the collusion of Parliament, I have been forced to borrow the necessary funds, to such an extent that I am now burdened with a truly mountainous debt. But with the assistance of my friends in the Mars Company, who in exchange for my help in this matter are prepared to share with me a portion of the funds realized, I will be able to discharge this debt and return my full attentions to the grandeur and glorification of England!”

  “But what of the Admiralty? Surely they care nothing for mere capital?”

  “Indeed they do not. But a soldier, or an airman, deprived of the opportunity for glory—cast ashore on half-pay, as the Navy men say—is an unhappy creature indeed. With Napoleon’s defeat, they find themselves staring idleness in the face. A new campaign, such as one to pacify the Martians, would give them reason to live.” And, Arabella reflected, continued income, and authority within the government. “Which brings me to my original point,” the Prince continued. “This scheme requires, absolutely requires, a man to lead it—a very particular kind of man. And with your Captain Singh’s long experience in the Mars Company, and with his demonstrated and quite innovative military mind, he is the very man for the job. But, for some reason, he seems reluctant to accept the position, despite the many emoluments we have offered.”

  Arabella’s sense of love and pride in her captain swelled at this evidence of his strength of character in the face of considerable persuasion from above. “It is, of course, his decision to make,” she said in a neutral tone.

  “So it is. Ah, but no man is immune to a woman’s charms.” He raised one finger. “Especially a lovely young woman such as yourself. And so I approach you with an additional enticement: if your husband agrees to participate in this scheme, and if it is successful, I shall create him the First Duke of Mars, and you his Duchess.” He smiled benevolently. “You have your Prince Regent’s word on this.”

  The offer was breathtaking in its magnanimity—it promised land, riches, and influence for herself and her posterity, forevermore—and yet Arabella found her heart shrinking to a cold hard lump in her chest. “I thank you for your generosity, Your Royal Highness,” she said, bowing her head in deep respect—and to conceal the expression on her face. “I shall convey this offer to my husband.”

  “Pray encourage him to give it the most serious consideration. But we must move quickly. If he does not accede before we return to London, we will be forced to approach the next most satisfactory candidate.” He shook his head in anticipatory disappointment. “I do hope he will agree.”

  * * *

  “A generous offer indeed,” Captain Singh said, turning away from her to regard the three-quarter moon shining upon the snowy drifts outside their bedchamber window. “I have asked for more time to consider this opportunity, but apparently he felt that he must apply additional pressure on me, through you.”

  She stepped up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her cheek upon the warm buff fabric of his jacket. “He seems to place great faith in the persuasive abilities of women upon their men.”

  He turned and embraced her in return. For a time they breathed together, each with their own thoughts.

  “The ambition of the Prince’s scheme is breathtaking,” he said after a time. “The consequences, should it succeed, are enormous; those if it should fail are beyond prediction. I must confess that it frightens me.” Arabella looked up into her captain’s face and saw no sign of fear, but his usual calm self-assurance was marred by a crease of worry between his brows. “My intuition is that this scheme is wrongheaded, misguided, or worse. But if the Directors of the Mars Company, the Lords of the Admiralty, and His Royal Highness command it, I cannot shirk my responsibility. When I received my Letter of Denization, I swore an oath of allegiance”—he straightened in her arms and spoke as though declaiming from memory—“to be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King George the Third, his heirs and successors, according to law, so help me God.” He relaxed then, though only slightly. “And the Prince Regent, whatever his other qualities, is the King’s heir and successor; the allegiance I owe to him, personally, is required by my most solemn oath.”

  Arabella felt the weight of the responsibility upon her husband’s shoulders as though it had settled upon her own. “You owe him nothing more than consideration. He has only requested your assistance, not commanded it.”

  “That is true. But still—it is clearly his strong desire.” He sighed. “On a previous occasion in my life, as you know, I defied my sovereign father. Though I cannot regret that choice—it brought me together with you, after all, among many other wonderful things—it also carried with it so much pain … I do not know that I have the strength to do so again.”

  “But you must! For England to impose its will upon the entire planet would be … unconscionable! We are guests of the Martians, no more!”

  “I cannot disagree. Yet if I decline this opportunity, the undertaking will surely continue, with some other man at the helm. Through my participation I may be able to prevent the worst excesses.”

  Arabella’s heart ached at his dilemma, surely only a pale echo of the pain her husband must be facing, but she felt she must stand up for the Martians. “This scheme is so abhorrent that no amelioration is sufficient. It must be nipped in the bud! And for you to take a principled stand against it, now, while you have the Prince’s ear, is our best—perhaps our last—opportunity to do so.” She embraced him tightly. “I have every confidence that you will make the right decision, despite all influences.”

  “I am not at all certain what the right decision is.”

  * * *

  At dinner that night, Arabella’s table companion was Lord Foley, whose youth and vigor—he had acceded to Parliament at the age of twenty-one—belied his staunchly Whiggish opinions. “Surely,” he said to Arabella after swallowing a mouthful of filet de boeuf en croûte, “your constant exposure to Martians, from such a young age, must have convinced you of their inferiority!”

  “Quite the opposite, sir,” she replied frostily.

  “But th
ey are savages!” he insisted, pounding the butt of his silver fork upon the damask. “They have no literature, no art or science, and no proper religion at all!”

  “They have many religions, each as properly constituted and regulated as any of our own, and can any mere mortal ever be certain which is the most valid, until we depart this life for the next? Their literature, I am assured, is extensive and profound, though my command of their written languages is insufficient to testify from personal experience. And their arts and sciences, especially the decorative and architectural, are beyond question. Are we not at this very moment dining in a pavilion built in imitation of their model?”

  “Imitation? Inspiration, at most. I am certain that it is far superior to any thing on Mars, in quality of construction as well as in beauty. I have seen colored plates of the best Mars has to offer, and this pavilion is far lighter and airier than those heaps of stone.”

  “Those heaps of stone, as you would have them, are evidence of the superiority of Martian architecture! Despite their beauty … and they are beautiful, sir,”—for her interlocutor’s face betrayed his incredulity at this statement—“they are built to withstand any assault, and many have stood unconquered for centuries!”

  “Against spears and stones, perhaps,” he sniffed. “Which are, of course, the best Mars has to offer. Against English cannon they would stand not a chance.”

  “I have myself faced both stones and cannonballs, and I assure you that Martian catapults are every bit as deadly as English cannon. In any case, the only reason the Martians are restricted to spears and stones—not to mention their lack of aerial ships—is the treaties we have imposed upon them. I am certain that, absent these restrictions, they would develop machineries of warfare equal to, or perhaps even superior to, our own!”

  “All the more reason they must be subjugated!” he cried, and the lady beside him glared at the eruption. “For their own good as well as ours. For if they are allowed to put these warlike ambitions into practice, they might be tempted to invade England! And should that catastrophe come to pass, they would inevitably be eradicated by our superior forces.”