* * *
Khema’s home was an imposing structure in the Martian quarter of Fort Augusta town, which also housed the akhmok of several other tribes. Three stories tall and formed of smooth fused sand, it rose like a great swelling gourd above the smaller buildings around it. From its peak fluttered the colorful banners of the many tribes and clans of Saint George’s Land, all of whom were represented here either directly or indirectly.
Arabella and Captain Singh took tea with Khema in the council chamber, a large oval room which filled the house’s highest story. Rounded windows overlooked the town, providing an inspiring view of Fort Augusta itself on one side and the vastness of the desert on the other. The silvery thread of the great Khef Shulash canal cut through the red sand, straight as a cannon-ball’s flight.
Khema sipped her tea, her lightly faceted eyes spread gently in contemplation. The delicate tea-cup, imported from China via England like the tea itself, might have seemed ludicrous in her massive fingers but for the assured dexterity with which she handled it.
“I thank you for the intelligence which you have brought,” she said, setting down her cup. And that was all.
“I do not believe you understand the severity of the situation,” Arabella said, after waiting a moment longer. “This is, perhaps, the greatest threat that Mars has ever faced! The Prince’s fleet of armored first-rates will make short work of your every defense if you do not take steps immediately! Now, what I have in mind is—”
But Khema raised one thick and stony finger, silencing Arabella immediately. “I do not underestimate the severity of the situation. This is, indeed, a very serious threat, and I assure you that we will take very serious steps to counteract it. However, this is far from the greatest threat that Mars has ever faced.”
“Do tell,” said Captain Singh, leaning forward over his own tea-cup.
“The greatest threat Mars has ever faced,” Khema continued mildly, “began with a single ship. The Mars Adventure, commanded by one Captain William Kidd.”
“I scarcely think—!” Arabella began to protest. But Captain Singh, she noted, nodded slowly in dawning comprehension, and she swallowed her objection.
“I do believe that Mars eventually adapted to that threat,” Captain Singh remarked. “However, the English are still here. And may I humbly suggest that this new threat, while not as completely without precedent as that one was, is perhaps of greater magnitude.”
“I take your point. However, with the warning you have very kindly provided, I believe we have sufficient time to prepare a defense.”
“But you have no aerial ships!” Arabella blurted out. “No cannon! No firearms! And no ability to produce them, certainly not in time!”
Khema rose from her seat then—an imposing figure indeed, eight feet tall and nearly half as broad, with prongs and spines extending from every joint—but her voice continued gentle. “I feel I must remind you,” she said to Arabella, “that the only reason we lack ships and firearms is the treaties imposed upon us by the English.”
It was the same voice of tender rebuke she had used when, as a small child, Arabella had broken the mainspring of her father’s automaton dancer and tried to hide the evidence, and Khema had explained to her the Martian concept of okhaya, or personal responsibility. And Arabella felt now the same shame she had felt then.
“And the reason we have no ability to produce them,” Khema continued, “may be found in our schools, also imposed upon us by the English, which for some reason give greater weight to the skills needed by servants and majordomos”—here she gestured to herself, reminding Arabella that, even when Khema had taken charge of the Ashby household during the rebellion some years earlier, she had done so in a subordinate role to the absent owners—“than to those of artisans, engineers, and natural philosophers.”
“I … I see,” Arabella said, bowing her head. “But what can be done about those limitations now?”
“Treaties can be … quietly contravened. Perhaps they already have been. And schools … well, that is perhaps an area where you can assist us.”
Arabella blinked. “I?”
“Your talents with automata, navigation, and manufacture are well known. And, as I recall from your youth, you showed little hesitation, and some skill, in explaining your latest discovery to any one who would listen … and even a few who did not wish to.” At this Arabella could not suppress a small smile. “If you were to turn these impulses to the education of Martians in science and engineering, who can say what might be possible in a year?” For it was, indeed, approximately one Martian year until the Prince’s fleet was expected to arrive.
“I … I would be honored to serve the cause of resistance in any way I can,” Arabella said, chastened.
“And you are very welcome to assist. But this is the Martians’ struggle, never forget this.”
“I shall endeavor to keep this in mind,” said Arabella, quite sincerely.
“As for myself,” Captain Singh put in, “I am privy to some of the Prince’s plans of conquest, and I may be able to offer some strategic assistance.”
“Thank you,” Khema replied, inclining her head. “Do you have any specific suggestions at this time?”
“We do,” Captain Singh said, nodding to Arabella. The two of them, along with Lady Corey and Fulton, had discussed strategy for many long hours in Diana’s great cabin on the voyage from Mercury to Mars. “We propose the construction of an entire fleet of armored ships, sufficient to match or better the Prince’s fleet. But in order to produce this fleet, an iron refinery and ship-yard must first be built. The American inventor Fulton, who is with us, designed and built a similar facility for Napoleon, which was entirely successful.”
“The location must have iron, coal, limestone, and khoresh-wood in close proximity,” Arabella continued, “and a sufficient population of workers. Saint George’s Land is well supplied with khoresh-plantations, of course, and I know of several coal mines. But are you aware of any limestone quarries in the vicinity? The reference materials we had aboard Diana were silent on this matter.”
Khema thought for a moment before replying. “I am, myself, ignorant of this issue, but I believe there are more important considerations. Saint George’s Land is not large, and all of it is very much under the English eye. I cannot imagine any place in the territory where such a large operation—and I gather from what I have read of your adventures on Venus that it would be very large indeed—could possibly escape English attention.”
“The facility would be several acres in extent, at least,” Captain Singh admitted.
Khema thought still further, her eye-stalks downcast in concentration and concern. “Sor Khoresh…” she began, then paused.
“Why do you hesitate?” Arabella asked. “Tura would make an excellent ally, and we did her a very great service not long ago.”
Sor Khoresh, a powerful Martian satrapy which bordered Saint George’s Land to the north, was well known to Arabella. Rich in iron, coal, and other minerals, it was ruled by Tura, an intelligent and aggressive potentate. No other satrap in the hemisphere controlled so much territory, or carried so much influence with her peers, and the proximity of Khoresh Tukath, her capital city, to Fort Augusta would make it an excellent headquarters for operations against the invasion.
Tura’s strategic and diplomatic expertise were, admittedly, equaled by her mercurial temper. After a recent conspiracy against Sor Khoresh by one of her neighboring states had been revealed, Tura had gone so far as to execute her own daughter—who had, to be fair, been one of those involved in the plot. But Arabella herself, along with Captain Singh, had been key to the exposure of that scheme. “I am certain,” she continued, “that Tura would at least be willing to entertain an entreaty.”
“I agree,” said Captain Singh. “And we would be happy to convey you to her upon Diana.”
Khema still seemed unconvinced. “Relations between the Martians of Saint George’s Land and those of Sor Khoresh have var
ied in cordiality over the years,” she replied rather darkly, “and Tura and I have not always seen eye-stalk to eye-stalk.” She considered a moment more. “Still, I suppose we must make the attempt. I will be happy to accept your offer of conveyance”—she politely inclined her massive head to Captain Singh, who replied with a nod of his own—“as soon as certain obligations have been discharged here. Please return to-morrow afternoon.”
After a few more details had been worked out, Arabella and Captain Singh took their leave. “Before we meet with Tura,” she said to him as they descended the steps to the street, “I must call upon my brother. We could arrive at Woodthrush Woods by coach in time for dinner.”
* * *
Michael came out from the manor house as they descended from the coach which had carried them from Fort Augusta. “Dear sister!” he cried as he stumped toward them.
“Michael!” she said as he embraced her, his crutch falling to the ground. “It has been too long.”
She could not help but notice how heavily he leaned upon her, even two years after the loss of his leg. She would love to fit him out with a clockwork limb like her own, but she could not do so without committing to perform the constant maintenance and adjustments the sometimes-temperamental device required. Perhaps some day it would be possible to manufacture these limbs in quantity, she thought, and make them as simple and dependable as a spring-wound lantern.
Michael released Arabella, retrieved his crutch, and shook her husband’s hand. “Captain Singh,” he said with a cordiality just a bit shy of brotherly. He had never quite reconciled himself to his sister’s choice of husband, she knew. “I trust you are well?”
“Very well, sir,” the captain replied with genuine warmth. “Unfortunately, we are not able to remain here long.”
Michael hesitated momentarily, then said, “Will you join me for luncheon, sir?” It was plain his heart was not in the invitation.
Arabella looked to her husband, attempting to indicate with her eyes the sentiment at least he is trying. He caught her gaze, bowed, and said to Michael, “I am happy to accept your hospitality, sir.”
Michael offered his elbow to Arabella. “May I?” he said … looking to Captain Singh, not Arabella.
“That choice belongs to the lady, sir,” Captain Singh said with cold civility.
Arabella accepted Michael’s proffered elbow before her brother could form any reply. “The pleasure is mine, dear brother.”
To argue with him now risked souring him on the request she intended to make of him. But she would call him to account later for his presumption.
* * *
The luncheon Michael’s staff laid out was every thing Arabella could have hoped for, with khula and gethown for dessert—both among her favorite dishes of her childhood, and delicacies she had not tasted for years—and the conversation was joyous at first, with Arabella bearing the news of the final defeat of Napoleon, the victory celebrations in England, and the good health of their mother and sisters. Michael, too, had done well since Arabella had last seen him, having acquired several hundred prime acres from a neighbor and built several more drying-sheds, increasing the plantation’s production of kiln-dried khoresh-wood by nearly fifty per cent.
But as the dessert dishes were being cleared, and before Michael could take Captain Singh away for port and cigars in the drawing-room, Arabella finally raised the issue which had brought her back to the family plantation.
“The Prince Regent,” she explained, “intends nothing less than the utter and complete conquest of Mars. As a child of Mars, I must oppose this, and I hope that I may depend upon you to do so as well.”
“But he is our lord and sovereign!” Michael protested. “Born on Mars we may be, but we are still English subjects! If you should happen to have been born in a boat upon the sea, would you swear fealty to Neptune above your own King?”
A boat upon the sea, Arabella reflected, was a thing Michael had never in his life even beheld; unlike Arabella and her sisters, he had not been transported back to Earth by their mother. How curious—and very English—it was that he, a denizen of the sand for his entire life, should choose a watery metaphor. “This is not merely an accident of birth,” she protested. “It is a matter of simple humanity. Can you not see how unfair—how cruel—it would be for England to seize control of an entire planet, merely because the Prince has more and better ships?”
“I cannot agree at all! Surely it is not ‘unfair’ for a more civilized, more advanced nation to offer guidance to a less developed one, even if that nation should happen to span an entire planet. And as for cruelty … England’s civilizing influence upon Mars might cause some pain, yes, but it is not in the least cruel! It is the same sort of pain that a loving parent may inflict upon a disobedient child: proportional, deliberate, and entirely justified. And the child will, as it grows to maturity, understand this, and indeed come to appreciate the lesson learned.”
Arabella held her voice level by an effort of will. “Comparing Mars, whose history is some thousands of years longer than our own, to a child does nothing more than display your own ignorance.” Captain Singh, she noted, sat rigidly, allowing Arabella to take the lead in argument with her brother, though his sentiments were plain from the scowl that creased his brow. Seeing this, she realized that her own brow was furrowed with anger—which, knowing Michael, would surely not help her cause. She took a deep breath and strove to relax her features. “Be that as it may … we may disagree, but as even Mother eventually realized, you cannot prevent me from doing what is right. And as your sister—and, I must point out, as the one who rescued the family fortune from our dear cousin Simon—I hope that I may impose upon you, out of family loyalty if nothing else, to support the cause of Mars with a share of that same fortune.”
“You have ever and always done what you thought was right,” Michael acknowledged. “And, whatever our current differences, I know that we have always supported each other in our … unconventional adventures.” He smiled slightly then, obviously recalling some happy memory, and Arabella’s heart lightened. But then his smile collapsed, and with it Arabella’s hopes. “But I cannot support you in this. I will grant you an allowance of … let us say two hundred pounds per year, so long as you are on Mars. But I will not open the family purse any further than that.”
Two hundred pounds was exceedingly generous for an allowance—she must give him that—especially for a married sibling not living under the same roof. But it was a mere pittance by comparison with the vast sums that would be required to fund any sort of organized resistance, and far less than she had hoped for. “Is that your final decision?”
“No,” he replied coldly. “If your behavior requires … I may reduce it.”
* * *
Two days later, Arabella peered ahead from Diana’s forward rail, where she soon recognized the distinctive silhouette of Khoresh Tukath, the capital city of Sor Khoresh.
Even at this distance, it was clear that the inner city alone, ringed by a substantial wall, was larger than the entire town of Fort Augusta, the largest human settlement on Mars. With the outskirts included, Khoresh Tukath was more than five times Fort Augusta’s size, and that larger area was thickly clustered with tall towers, dense blocks of habitations, and the magnificent municipal buildings fitting the capital of a major nation. But still more impressive than the city itself was the palace that rose above it.
Tura’s palace stood atop a vertiginous, craggy hill at the center of the inner city. The hill itself, a single massive block of deep red Martian stone, loomed high above the city; the palace mounted still higher above its peak, a soaring arrogant gesture of steel and stone. Every corner was anchored by a gleaming curve of steel, rising like an upthrust sword from the red rock at its base; the walls between those shining steel arcs were of stone, carefully formed and artfully fitted. Even from very close, she knew, the gaps between those stones could barely be discerned; from this distance they seemed a single mass, solid and imp
enetrable.
As Diana and Touchstone drew nearer the palace, more details came into view: pinnacles, minarets, balconies, and monumental sculptures of khoreshte warriors loomed above those massive walls like a forest of upthrust spears. Yet for all their elegant splendor these features were not fanciful at all—instead, like the ornately carved figureheads of English and French men-of-war, they projected a power so confident that no amount of ornamentation could reduce their effectiveness.
By now they had approached so near the city that the port—a vast expanse of flat, smooth sand densely forested with masts—was plainly their destination, and indeed within the hour they would be above it. “Ease off pulsers!” came the command from behind Arabella, and the constant drumbeat from belowdecks slowed to half its previous pace. Curious as to why the command had been given so much sooner than she had expected, she looked about … and saw several balloons rising toward them from a fortress below. Beneath each balloon hung a small ship, or rather a boat, of a design she had never before encountered. Flat-bottomed and angular in construction, they were exceptionally lightly built and carried but two masts, extending horizontally to larboard and starboard. Three-sail pulsers drove them toward the English ships.
“What are those vessels?” she asked Edmonds, the chief mate, as the captain was occupied. Khema, who might also know, had retired below; for all her size and strength she was possessed of a remarkably delicate stomach, and the motion of the ship through even quite gentle breezes made her rather air-sick.
Arabella the Traitor of Mars Page 13