Arabella of Mars

by David D. Levine

  “I’m very glad to see you up and about, sir,” Arabella said. Though this small expression of sentiment seemed entirely inadequate, it was, she thought, what Arthur Ashby the captain’s boy would say. “If you please, sir, I could fetch you some broth from the galley.”

  “Thank you, Ashby,” the captain whispered. “I should like that very much.”

  14

  PAEONIA

  Diana was soon safely moored at the asteroid Paeonia.

  Arabella had never seen an asteroid before. Asteroids, she knew, were the islands of the air, great floating mountains of rock ranging in size from less than a mile to hundreds of miles in diameter. Thousands of them drifted in the skies between Earth and Mars, yet so great were the distances involved that to encounter even one in a voyage was a rarity. If not for the French attack, Diana would not have come close enough to this one to make it out with the naked eye.

  Paeonia proved to be a highly irregular sphere some ten miles across, but from where Diana floated nearby it seemed more a ball of foliage than of rock, the solid surface entirely invisible beneath a tangled canopy of branches and leaves at least fifty yards deep.

  “I thought asteroids were rocky,” she said to Stross one day after she had assisted him in sending off a work crew. Eight men pedaled an aerial launch—little more than an open wickerwork frame with a small pulser at the back and a pair of sails for steering—away from Diana toward the great green expanse of Paeonia.

  “Most small asteroids are entirely barren,” Stross explained, “but the ones over five miles or so carry a small force of attraction, and draw drops of water and bits of organic matter to themselves from the atmosphere. Over time these build up into a layer of soil, loose and sandy to be sure, but if any seeds should happen to be carried into the air from the surface of Earth or Venus they may find purchase there. Once established, they generally colonize the entire surface.” He gestured to Paeonia. “Fortunately for our purposes, this one bears a fine crop of oak and elm, both of which make tolerably good charcoal.”

  Arabella herself, unlike the rest of her mess, was not detailed to charcoal-making duty—as captain’s boy, she was tasked with caring for him through his recovery. Though she would have liked to visit the asteroid, with its endless net of twining branches playing host to twittering birds and birdlike things, she was not too sorry to be missing the work of sawing, stripping, and hauling vast quantities of wood, the piling up of damp sandy soil around a stack of logs, or the endless pedaling of the air-pump which kept the slow-burning logs in their caul of soil just barely alight. The work crews returned at the end of each shift weary, exhausted, and filthy.

  She had to admit that she took a certain malicious pleasure in seeing Binion covered with soot and half-dead from fatigue. When he saw her smirk, he spat “bum-boy” at her, but seemed too exhausted to do any thing else.

  Richardson continued as acting captain. But with the real captain now awake and improving, he seemed paradoxically less concerned about asserting his own authority, and his relations with the other officers grew much more cordial. It was as though the weight of the mantle of responsibility had caused him so much discomfort that he’d snapped at his subordinates.

  * * *

  Though conscious, the captain was still extremely weak, and even in a state of free descent he could not bear to remain on the quarterdeck for more than an hour or two. He spent most of each day in his cabin, slowly building up his strength and sleeping frequently. From time to time Arabella noticed him gripping his head with an expression indicating severe headache, but she never once heard him complain of it.

  Arabella continued to tend to the captain’s needs, changing his bandages, bringing him soup from the galley, or doing any other thing he required. But, paradoxically, now that he was conscious their relations became more distant than they had been while she was caring for his unconscious body. For as long as he was awake, she must work to maintain the fiction of Arthur Ashby, captain’s boy. It was only while he slept that she could gaze upon his face and entertain fancies entirely inappropriate to her supposed sex and station.

  And so they discussed the theory and practice of aerial navigation, the workings of Aadim and automata in general, and the sights he had seen during his travels. But though she gently inquired into his personal history, the captain proved as resistant as Arabella herself to discussing his family and his early life. All he would say was that he had joined the Honorable Mars Company at the age of eighteen, sailing on Swiftsure as navigator’s mate.

  She wished that he would reveal more details about his inner life. Perhaps, she sometimes dared to hope, beneath his smooth professional veneer he might harbor some warm feeling toward herself. But though she must respect the captain’s desire to keep his life private—he certainly offered her the same courtesy—she realized that his reticence only made him more intriguing and mysterious, and seemed to draw her into wanting to know more.

  The man was already intriguing enough, with his deep brown eyes, his musical accent, and his charming and very polite mannerisms. Some of the crew, she knew, considered him little more than a sort of performing ape, resenting his rise to the position of captain. But though she’d encountered this attitude toward foreigners as much on Mars as she had in England—her own mother harbored a particularly virulent strain of it—she herself had spent so much time among Martians that she held no predispositions against any thinking being, no matter their birthplace, color, or shape.

  Indeed, so far was she from prejudiced against Captain Singh because of his race that sometimes, in idle moments, she found herself musing on what sort of life they might build together. He was in every way, she reflected, far superior to the foppish dandies to whom her mother had insisted on presenting her back in England.…

  She shook herself and returned her attention to her duties. Such a gulf separated them—a gulf of status and breeding and, of course, hidden gender, as well as of color and creed—that such a notion could never be any thing more than a distracting fancy.

  She needed to bend her thoughts toward Diana. All her efforts must be dedicated to getting the ship, captain, and crew back into peak operating condition, so as to resume the journey to Mars with all possible dispatch. Every day that passed put her further behind Simon.

  Above all, she must not despair. Even if Simon arrived at Mars days or weeks before she did, it would take him some time to convince Michael to leave off the running of the plantation and go hunting with him. There was still time for her to warn her brother of the deadly danger their cousin posed. But that time was slipping away with every turn of Diana’s spring-wound glass.

  * * *

  Arabella was far from the only one who felt the pressure of passing time. Diana and all her sister ships of the Honorable Mars Company made their money by speed, by the swift conveyance of cargo from the place where it was produced to the place where it was needed. The officers and crew, too, must be fed and watered, and the ship’s stores were far from inexhaustible. Every man knew in his bones that Diana must finish her repair and resupply and be on her way as soon as ever she could, and the officers drove them hard.

  So it was that the men, exhausted though they might be from their labors at charcoal-making, grew restive, muttering direly to each other about short rations and lost bonuses. The exhilaration that had followed the corsair’s defeat bled away, as day by weary day the men pedaled back and forth to Paeonia with load upon load of charcoal. They ate their diminished meals in sullen silence, and whispered complaints passed from hammock to hammock among the watch below.

  Even the charcoal, the very substance that ensured their survival, served only to worsen the crew’s foul mood. The filthy stuff, far bulkier than the coal it replaced, soon overfilled the coal room, and lumpy burnt-smelling bags of charcoal had to be stowed in every unused corner of the ship. Every man and every thing smelled of it; greasy black powder drifted into every corner and begrimed every bodily crease. The biscuits and salt beef c
ame from the galley seasoned with the gritty stuff. It crunched between Arabella’s teeth.

  The very air, it seemed, tasted of charcoal, and the weary, filthy, red-eyed men smoldered beneath its smoky pall.

  As the mutterings increased, Arabella’s earlier concern about a possible mutiny returned. Though she had neither heard nor seen any further sign of dissent in the ranks since that overheard conversation in the head, she feared the conspiracy had continued unseen. But who were the conspirators?

  She tried to investigate without seeming to do so, asking veiled questions and straining to overhear muttered conversations, but learned nothing concrete—if there was a plot in train, the plotters were very good at keeping quiet about it. And though she kept an attentive ear open at all times for that grating voice she had overheard in the darkness, never did she hear it upon the deck or below it.

  Perhaps, she thought—she hoped—the rumblings of mutiny she’d overheard had been nothing more than talk.

  She should tell the captain, she knew. But the man had such a strong respect for personal responsibility—in fact, a nearly Martian sense of okhaya—that she knew any report of questionable behavior from a member of the crew would be met with sharp skepticism. And as she had no certain knowledge of which member of the crew it might be … serious charges should not be brought up lightly, and if she told him of her fears without absolute, objective evidence it might diminish her in his eyes. And that was something she devoutly did not wish.

  So she continued to wait, and watch, and listen.

  * * *

  At last the master and the purser judged that nearly sufficient charcoal had been chopped and burned and carried and stowed for a safe landing on Mars. The carpenter and his mates had long since repaired Diana’s battle scars; patches of pale fresh khoresh-wood gleamed on every deck and bulkhead, torn sails had been neatly stitched and patched, and fractured spars had been “fished” with splints and wrapped tight with cordage.

  The officers met each day in the great cabin, at six bells of the afternoon watch, to assess the ship’s progress. Arabella, now tacitly accepted in the officers’ company, filled and wound the lamps as they conversed.

  “One more load ought to do it,” Stross said, and sucked a great draught of grog from his drinking-skin. Weeks of unceasing labor had made him nearly as thin and weak as the captain, and great dark circles stained the cheeks beneath eyes reddened by the ever-present charcoal dust. “The last clamp should be well-cooked by two bells in the forenoon tomorrow. Figure another two watches to dig it out, haul it aboard, and stow it.”

  “Well done, Mr. Stross.” The captain looked around the floating circle of officers. “Is all else in order?”

  “Aye, sir,” they all replied in turn, though the boatswain added, “As long as we don’t encounter another corsair, nor any foul weather. Starboard mast’s nothing more than splinters held together with whipcord.”

  The captain’s already-drawn face grew still more serious. “We will do our best to avoid any untoward stress upon the masts.”

  * * *

  That night Arabella awoke with a filthy, charcoal-stinking hand pressed against her mouth. Though she struggled, it very quickly became apparent that she was outnumbered, her arms and legs and shoulders pinioned by several pairs of silent hands. The darkness around them lay still, save for the sleepy mutterings and snores of the exhausted, hungry men.

  “Hello, bum-boy,” came a voice in her ear—the same anonymous, grating voice she had overheard in the head so long ago.

  No … no longer anonymous! For though her assailant pitched his voice unnaturally low, and added a grating growl to disguise it, his use of that sneering insult revealed his identity.

  Binion!

  “We know you’ve been nosing about,” he said. “Trying to suss out who’s with us and what we’re going to do. Well, here’s the plan: We’re going to mutiny, sell the ship, cargo and all, on the black market, and split the proceeds. We’ll all be rich!” She glared in the midshipman’s direction, clenching her jaw, for all the good that might do. “We’re nearly ready to make our move. Soon’s we cast off from this d____d asteroid with a full load of charcoal, we’ll take the ship. We’ve more than enough men to do it.” The hand tightened on her cheeks. “But we’ve one small hitch. Kerrigan was our navigator.” A cold, sharp pressure appeared at the side of Arabella’s neck: Binion’s rigging knife, sharp as a razor. She tried to squirm away from it, but the imprisoning hands held her fast. “We need someone who can run the clockwork man.”

  Binion leaned in closer, his foul breath rasping in her ear. “You will work with us,” he said, the knife cold and hard against the vein that pulsed in her throat. “We’ll be fair—you’ll get the same share of the spoils as every other man.” The blade pressed still harder. “Now tell us that you accept our offer, or we’ll end you right now.” The hand clamped over Arabella’s lips loosened just enough to allow her to speak.

  “You can’t kill me,” she whispered. “You need a navigator.”

  Hands tightened all over her body, especially Binion’s, which gripped her jaw. “Don’t think we haven’t thought of that, lad,” he said, and she swore she could hear his malicious smile in the Stygian blackness. “We’ve seen how much you dote on that darkie captain. So once we take the ship we’ll keep him alive—but if you don’t cooperate, or if we think you’re steering us wrong, his journey will be cut short.” The knife slid a fraction of an inch along its length, and Arabella felt a trickle of blood begin to well up. “So … do we have an agreement? Just nod.”

  Arabella swallowed, the motion of her throat bringing a sting of pain from the knife blade. How could she possibly agree to help these harsh, cruel men in their campaign of mutinous larceny? But if she said no, or if she tried to struggle free, Binion in his self-centered cruelty would surely end her life. They’d kill the captain, too, no doubt, and without her warning Simon would do Michael in and leave her mother and sisters penniless. But if she acquiesced, they’d leave her alive—for now, at least—and she might have a chance to thwart the mutiny.

  Gritting her teeth, Arabella nodded, her head barely moving in Binion’s grip.

  “Now say it.” The hard fingers that pressed the bones of her jaw and cheek relaxed just slightly. “Swear on your life that you will join and support our cause.”

  “I swear.” Just for the moment she was glad of the darkness, which hid her expression of anger and disgust.

  “Well, lad, that weren’t so hard now, were it?” said Binion, and he slapped her cheek lightly like a doting uncle. “Welcome to the brotherhood of independent airmen.” He muttered to the other men, who released Arabella and melted away into the darkness, then leaned in close to Arabella’s ear. “Mind you, now,” he whispered, his foul breath assaulting her nose, “we’ll be watching you close. If you make one move to warn any one or interfere, the deal’s off, and you and your precious captain go over the side … in pieces.” He pressed the knife hard against Arabella’s throat, making her gasp. “Don’t think we won’t.” Then he pushed himself away, making her hammock vibrate like a plucked harpsichord string.

  She lay staring into the darkness for a long time, trying to calm her hammering heart. Her throat was dry, her head pounding with headache. Her clothing was soaked with sweat, now growing cold.

  What would she do now?

  What could she do?

  Tears came then, hot stinging tears of fear and rage and shame, and she stuffed her fist in her mouth to stifle the sobs.

  15

  MUTINY

  Arabella had not slept when the call to “rise and shine” sent her and all the other men tumbling from their hammocks. “Big day, boys!” cried the boatswain’s mate. “No more charcoal-makin’! Today we set sail for Mars!”

  At this declaration a weak, ironic cheer sounded across the deck, but a weary and fearful Arabella could not join in. Instead she peered about, examining each face in the guttering lamplight, trying to discern wh
ich men were conspirators in Binion’s mutiny. An overly cheerful expression might be as suspicious as one with hooded, shifting eyes. But in this light, to Arabella’s worried eyes the exhausted, red-eyed men all looked like potential mutineers.

  After breakfast, Arabella was called into the great cabin to observe as Captain Singh and Stross worked with Aadim to plot out the ship’s course to Mars. Her heart leapt up when she heard the call, thinking that this would be the perfect opportunity to warn them of Binion’s plot, but as soon as she arrived it sank again. Binion was there ahead of her, along with several other midshipmen, all seemingly attentive to the captain’s navigation lesson. Seeing the dismay on Arabella’s face at his presence, Binion favored her with a nasty smirk.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. She hauled on lines to raise sails, scrubbed black charcoal grit from decks and bulkheads, and spent weary hours slaving away at the pedals like any other airman, but all her attention was fixed on the officers and the men around them, alert for any opportunity to slip a word into Stross’s ear, or Higgs’s, or even Richardson’s. But whenever an officer was near, so were dozens of ordinary airmen—men whose hard eyes and set jaws marked them as possible mutineers. And if any of the traitors should overhear her imparting her intelligence, her life and the captain’s would be forfeit.

  She tried to leave a note in the great cabin where the captain might find it. But she lacked pen and paper to prepare such a letter in advance, and even the minute it would take to scrawl a note in the cabin was one more minute of privacy than she could obtain there. Binion was seemingly as inevitable as her shadow and twice as ominous, and when he himself was not present some other midshipman, one whom she’d seen Binion laughing and smirking with, was always nearby.

  Perhaps not all the midshipmen were mutineers. But she could not be certain who was a member of the conspiracy and who was not. The only thing she could be sure of was that no one with any skill in navigation was part of it, or else they’d never have need of her.