Arabella of Mars

by David D. Levine

  Fitting herself into the dress in the tiny space had proved a considerable challenge.

  The dress was quite fine, she supposed, though it was too short and the sleeves were entirely too tight. But after so many weeks in trousers, she found it nearly impossible to manage female costume in a state of free descent. The skirts billowed up and had constantly to be pushed down. On her previous trip from Mars to Earth, she had been given a sort of large garter to keep her skirt decently constrained at the bottom, but as no female passengers had been expected on this voyage Diana did not carry any thing in that line.

  The other men—the men, she reminded herself—were more embarrassed by the sight of her legs than she was. They were the same legs as before. All of the men had seen those legs many, many times. Yet now that her sex had been revealed, the sight of them had suddenly become scandalous.

  Watson knocked at the hatch of the great cabin, announced her presence, and was bidden by the captain to send her in. Watson opened the hatch and bowed her in, bending himself at the waist in midair as he gestured her to enter in a most gentlemanly way.

  “Miss Ashby,” the captain said, and he too bowed.

  The whole situation was so very strange to Arabella’s sensibilities that her eyes stung with tears. The great cabin, so familiar, compelled her to salute and snap a crisp “Reporting as ordered, sir.” But the captain’s deferential attitude seemed to demand a demure curtsy.

  She did neither. She hung stupidly in the air and said, “You … you desired to see me, sir?”

  She realized that her heart was pounding. Was it simple concern over the unknown reason for her summons to the great cabin?

  Or was it fear … fear of what she might find in those dark, intelligent eyes of his?

  Now that her sex had been revealed, would he think less of her, or dismiss her from his consideration entirely, as a mere girl? Or might, instead, the high esteem in which she believed he held her—in which she fervently hoped he held her—develop into another type of regard, one warmer and perhaps more intimate?

  But the expression in those brown eyes did not address her concerns in either direction, showing nothing but polite respect. “Thank you for coming, Miss Ashby. Will you take tea?” He proffered the tray which she herself had prepared for him so many times, the little teapot fitted to its slots with its lid screwed on tight, a sweet biscuit held beneath the silver clip. She wondered who had laid it out for him in her absence.

  The thought of Captain Singh preparing a tea tray for her, with his own hands, was too strange to contemplate.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, if only to be polite, though as she nibbled the biscuit she realized she was ravenous.

  Even so, she found herself taking gentle, ladylike bites rather than wolfing the whole thing down as she would have done when she was Arthur Ashby. How quickly expectations can change one’s behavior, she thought.

  “I called you in,” the captain said, “to thank you for your actions during the recent mutiny.”

  “My actions?” She blinked. “I failed, sir. I did not even manage to get you free of your manacles before I was captured by Binion.”

  “I am referring to your actions on deck,” the captain replied mildly.

  Arabella dropped her gaze to her feet. “I suffered my shirt to be removed, and then collapsed in a blubbering heap.”

  “After which, according to the reports I have received, you faced down Binion’s pistol, rallied the men, and recaptured the ship from the mutineers. No small accomplishment.”

  Her cheeks began to burn. “I … that description vastly overstates my role in the action, sir. It was Gowse who set upon Binion, and Watson who tackled him. After that, all the men took a hand. I did very little of my own accord, and nothing that any other loyal man would not have done in my place.”

  “Any loyal … man,” he repeated, with slight emphasis on the last word. His dark eyes regarded her seriously. “It was Gowse and Watson themselves who told me what you did, and neither of them is of a temperament to minimize his own accomplishments. Your actions would be a credit to any officer, never mind a boy second class, and are a truly extraordinary achievement for a girl.”

  The captain’s words raised deep and contradictory emotions in Arabella’s breast. She should be proud of her actions, she knew, yet she had failed—failed to expose the mutiny before it occurred, failed to free the captain, and failed to keep her sex hidden, and now she worried about the consequences of that failure. She had lied, through omission if not explicitly, and taken employment under a false identity. Would she be punished for that deception, now that it had been exposed? “I’m concerned about the men,” she said, approaching the question indirectly. “What will happen to those who took part in the mutiny?”

  “Binion and the other leaders are now manacled in the hold, along with a few more who injured other men during the mutiny.” Arabella cringed inwardly at the remembered sound of the topman Westphal’s knees being crushed by the water cask. “The rest of the men who sided with them have sworn their loyalty to the Company and returned to their stations, though there will be an inquest and possible disciplinary action upon our return to Earth.”

  “And what will become of…” Again Arabella’s gaze was drawn to her feet. “… of me?”

  “I will be putting you in for a commendation from the Company. There are, of course, no guarantees, but I think your chances are excellent.”

  She looked up in shock. “A commendation? But … but I’m not even a…”

  “You are far from the first to obtain employment on an airship of the Honorable Mars Company by pretending to qualifications he does not actually hold, Miss Ashby.” Now it was the captain whose eyes drifted downward. “Some of these have even gone on to distinguished careers.” He seemed to shake himself from an inward reverie then, and his gaze returned to Arabella’s face. “There is, to be sure, the unavoidable matter of your sex. You will not be allowed to continue as captain’s boy.”

  Though the news was not unexpected, Arabella’s heart fell. “I understand, sir.” But she knew that Diana was a tight, efficient machine with no room for nonfunctioning parts. “So what will be my position on board ship?”

  “Captains in the service of the Honorable Mars Company are permitted a certain number of paying passengers as personal dunnage, so long as they can be accommodated in the captain’s quarters. I do not usually exercise this privilege myself, but in this case I have instructed the purser to list you as my passenger. Although,” he added parenthetically, “I have never before heard of a passenger joining the voyage in mid-air.”

  “Thank you, sir. At what rate?” Passage to Mars, she knew, was frightfully expensive.

  “Captains are permitted to set their own tariff for passage, at whatever rate the traffic will bear.” He raised a finger. “I am setting your rate at three hundred pounds. Plus forty for food and wine.”

  Arabella swallowed hard at the size of the sum, though Michael would surely pay it … if he yet lived.

  “Furthermore, I am hiring you, out of my own purse, as a consultant on matters of clockwork and navigation, at a rate of one hundred and eighty pounds per week.”

  Her jaw dropped at the idea, then dropped still further at the impossible generosity of the compensation. When multiplied by the number of weeks remaining in the voyage …

  She closed her mouth, a small smile appearing on her face in acknowledgement of the captain’s cleverness. “Which leaves me with twenty pounds in credit when we arrive at Mars.”

  “Exactly. Minus the cost of your clothing, of course, including the rather fetching frock you are wearing now.” He consulted a paper. “Two pounds, one shilling, and eightpence, all told.”

  “Of course.”

  “Mr. Quinn insisted.” He shrugged.

  Mind reeling from her many recent reversals, Arabella was left with one question. “Could you not have done this when I first signed on?”

  He shook his head. “To take on
a ragged, beardless boy as a consultant at such an exorbitant rate would raise questions on my judgement. But a well-bred, well-read young woman of quality?” Again he shrugged. “Such an appointment is within the purview of a captain’s eccentricities.” He steepled his fingers. “So … is this arrangement acceptable to you, Miss Ashby?”

  “Yes, sir.” She folded briefly in the air, a sketch of a curtsey. “Thank you, sir, for your generosity.”

  “You are welcome, Miss Ashby. Now”—he took a breath and straightened himself in the air—“I am afraid I must impose upon you.”

  “Sir?” Her heart began to flutter in her throat, and she chided herself for girlishness.

  “The wretched business just concluded has put us several days further behind in our already delayed voyage, and we must proceed to Mars with all deliberate haste.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said, ducking her head to hide her foolish disappointment. She turned to leave, wishing nothing more than to escape the great cabin as quickly as possible.

  “You misunderstand, Miss Ashby.” She paused, hand on the latch, and turned back to face him. His expression was serious. “I require you to work out a course for us, a minimum-time transit from our current position to Fort Augusta, whilst I appraise the readiness of the ship and remaining crew. I expect a sailing order within the hour.”

  To her own surprise, Arabella felt her face break into a broad grin. “Aye, aye, sir,” she said—then, with a start, she ducked her head and covered her mouth. “I mean, certainly sir, I will endeavor to comply.”

  “Carry on, Miss Ashby.” He nodded to her, then to Aadim. “Your navigator.”

  As was often the case, she was uncertain to whom that comment had been directed. But Aadim’s glass eyes seemed to glitter with mirth.

  * * *

  After the course had been worked out and the ship got under way again, Arabella found herself with something she had never before had on Diana: time on her hands with nothing to do. Lacking duties, a station, even a bunk—the carpenter had not yet finished fitting out a corner of the great cabin as a sleeping berth for her—she was reduced to floating in a corner of the weather deck and trying to stay out of the way.

  The only other time she had been a passenger, traveling with her mother and sisters from Mars to Earth, she had spent most of the voyage locked in her cabin, seething at the injustice of her imprisonment and her unwanted transportation. Lacking both information about and any particular interest in the airman’s life and duties, she had learned little and experienced nothing. But now, having been an airman herself for so many weeks, she understood much of the activity that streamed past her on all sides. Decks were holystoned, sails set, brass polished in a constant smooth pavane of industry that seemed to mock her inactivity.

  Though her life as Arthur Ashby had been brief, arduous, and often unpleasant, she found now that she missed it terribly.

  The ship’s bell sounded, eight bells in the forenoon watch, and the watch above divided themselves into their messes for dinner. With great fondness and sadness Arabella saw her former messmates—Gosling, Snowdell, Taylor, Young, and dear, dear Mills—gathering and laughing together as they descended the ladder. How she wished she could join them.

  They did not even seem to see her. She had turned into something like an officer or a capstan—a piece of the ship’s furniture, an obstacle to be saluted, polished, or worked around.

  But, she gradually realized, one of the men did see her, and was hanging back as the rest of the larboard watch descended to the upper deck for dinner.

  Gowse.

  The burly, broken-nosed airman removed his cap from his head, clutching and twisting it in his meaty hands as he drifted over to Arabella. “Ashby,” he said, and tugged his forelock like a footman. “Miss Ashby, I mean.”

  This was the first time they had truly seen each other since the chaos after the mutiny’s end. Arthur Ashby would have clapped Gowse on the shoulder, shaken his hand, and thanked him heartily for what he had done.

  “Mr. Gowse,” said Arabella, and acknowledged him with a nod.

  “I…” Gowse paused, mangling his already-beaten hat still further as he gathered his thoughts. He did not meet her eyes. “I suppose I should be shamed of meself, for bein’ beat by a girl.” Then he did look up. “But I’m not. Ye were very brave there, with Binion holdin’ his pistol on you and all, and ye were brave in that fight too. If that’s the kind of girl it takes to beat me, well then I suppose I’m still right enough.”

  Arabella smiled at Gowse’s embarrassed sincerity. “You are quite right enough as far as I’m concerned, Mr. Gowse, and I am honored that you treated me as a friend when I needed one.”

  Gowse crammed his battered cap back on his head. “Ye still are a friend to me, sir,” he said. “Ma’am. Miss.”

  “Ashby will do, I suppose,” she replied. “It is still my name, after all.”

  “Ashby then.” Gowse grinned and sketched a salute, then ducked down the ladder to join the rest of his mess.

  * * *

  With Gowse’s departure, Arabella found herself at a loss. Surely she could no longer mess with the men, yet she had no idea where she would eat. But Watson soon appeared on deck, saying, “With the captain’s compliments, Miss Ashby, you are invited to join the officers for dinner.”

  Arabella soon found herself at a table in the great cabin—a table she’d often set up, as captain’s boy, but had never seen set with food. The officers gathered round, each bowing to her with a deference that would have been entirely incomprehensible even one day earlier, then fitted their legs into the leather straps on its underside to present a semblance of seated manners. After some embarrassed confusion, the straps at Arabella’s place, to the captain’s right hand, were fastened together into a single, longer strap that passed beneath her skirted thighs.

  The cook’s boy, whom Arabella had never before seen in a buff coat, now served the officers their dinner. The fare was much finer than that given to the men, but the portions were smaller, the number of courses greater, and the ceremony entirely different. Rather than the current captain of the mess calling “Who shall have this?” the captain carved the joint and portioned it out himself.

  It seemed to Arabella that the system used by the men was actually superior. A captain who was less than scrupulously fair could easily create discord by apportioning the meat unevenly. But, as she’d known he would be, Captain Singh was unfailingly precise, and each one present received an equitable share of the meat, beans, and pudding.

  Some part of her, she realized, had hoped that she might have a slightly larger or choicer portion, as an indication of the captain’s feelings toward her. But to even hope for such a thing, she chided herself, was foolish. He was the captain of this ship, and as such could show no undue favor to any one.

  The conversation was strained, at first. The officers, recently freed from imprisonment by mutineers, had much of import to discuss, but plainly held themselves back for the sake of Arabella’s tender ears, restricting their talk to such safe topics as the weather and the set of the sails.

  Arabella did her best to make herself small and silent, to stay out of the way as she had when she’d been captain’s boy. She did not wish to interfere in the running of the ship, and she hoped by listening to understand it better. But the same frock that made her invisible to the men made her all too visible to the officers, and they continued to defer to her no matter how devoutly she wished otherwise.

  Finally she could stand the situation no longer. “Gentlemen,” she said, and set down her fork, fitting it into its clip on the table-top. “I appreciate your desire to respect my delicate sensibilities, but I must remind you that until very recently I served in your crew as an ordinary airman. I am just as eager as you are to see the mutineers dealt with, and as far as I am concerned you may discuss whatever topics you find necessary for the safe and efficient running of the ship without deference to me.”

  An uncomfortable si
lence followed her words. Finally Stross, the sailing master, spoke up. “Whilst we recognize that you were … formerly, under an, er, assumed identity, a member of this ship’s company, you must understand that the situation has changed.” He did not, she noticed, meet her eyes. “And we must all keep in mind that any … conversational liberties taken in your presence under that previous … pretense, were in fact inappropriate at the time, even though none of us were aware of it.” On that word “us” he did look pointedly, perhaps even accusingly, in her direction. “So I must, on behalf of the officers and crew, apologize to you for those previous improprieties.” He cleared his throat and returned his gaze to his roast. “Furthermore, I believe that we should continue to moderate our words and behavior in your presence … in deference to your sex, if not to your personal desires.” He looked around the table. “I believe I speak for all of the officers and crew in this?” No one contradicted him, though the captain’s face betrayed a great deal of discomfort.

  A quiet whir and click from the far corner drew Arabella’s attention. It was Aadim, whose head had tilted and eyebrows lowered in an apparent expression of negation or disapproval. But Aadim was only an automaton, and as such carried even less influence in this company than Arabella herself.

  If such a thing were possible.

  Arabella’s gaze fell to her own plate. Suddenly the lovingly prepared joint of beef and Yorkshire pudding seemed overly rich, and entirely unappetizing. “I am terribly sorry to have discomfited you,” she said, looking straight at Stross’s averted eyes, “and, on behalf of my sex, I accept your apology for any improprieties inadvertently committed due to my pretense.” She paused a moment to calm her breathing, though tension still clamped her teeth together. “Furthermore, I find that I am no longer hungry.” She undid the strap beneath her thighs and, with as much dignity as she could muster, extracted her legs and her floating skirt from beneath the table. “Good evening, gentlemen.”