Arabella of Mars

by David D. Levine

  The captain immediately reminded them of that, using the full-throated command voice that carried through storms and brooked no disobedience, ending with “and belay that lollygagging at the rail!”

  Immediately the dozens of heads that had been peering over the rail vanished, the men returning to their duties.

  From within the hull came clatters, clanks, and muffled thuds, along with occasional cries of despair from Quinn the purser.

  “We should return aboard,” the captain said, “to supervise the inspection.”

  * * *

  The Martians were extremely thorough, but they worked quickly, and when they were done nearly every thing had been returned to its original place. Most of the Martians retreated, leaving the original four on the quarterdeck along with Diana’s officers. “We thanks you for inspecting,” the one in the purple hat told the captain. “We welcomes you visiting our plantation.”

  At that statement of ownership a cold anger seized Arabella’s heart, but she pushed it down—it might merely be an error in the Martian’s imperfect English, or reflect their current, temporary occupation of the property.

  “Thank you,” the captain replied. “May we impose upon your hospitality? My crew require food, drink, and exercise. And we hope to negotiate for the purchase of coal, and the use of the furnaces in your drying-sheds, or else our visit here may well be of indefinite duration.”

  The Martian conferred with the other members of her rukesh and replied, “For this you must speaking akhmok.”

  The captain raised a questioning eyebrow to Arabella, who shrugged to indicate her ignorance of the word’s meaning.

  “Very well,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “Take us to this … ‘akmok.’” Like most Englishmen, he could not properly pronounce the Martian kh.

  The purple-hatted Martian stiffened in indignation. “Not ‘us.’ Not all. Only rukesh may speaking akhmok.”

  “Only our leaders,” Arabella quietly translated.

  “Very well.” He turned to the other officers. “Richardson, Stross, with me.”

  Arabella, too, stepped forward, but the captain leaned down and took her hand. “I must insist that you remain behind,” he said gently, “for safety’s sake.”

  “I appreciate your concern, sir,” she replied with as much confidence as she could muster, “but for that very reason—for the safety of yourself and every other man on this ship—I must insist that I accompany you, as translator and adviser in matters Martian.” Her knowledge of Martian languages and culture had its gaps, to be sure, but it was certainly better than that of any other man aboard, and she knew enough of the history of the English on Mars to know that even small misunderstandings could lead to fatal outcomes.

  The captain considered her for a long moment, his brown eyes steady on hers. “You pose me a difficult choice,” he replied, “but I suppose I have no reasonable alternative but to acquiesce.”

  The four Martians led the captain, the two officers, and Arabella below. Stross favored Arabella with a withering glance as the two of them fell in behind the captain.

  It was not easy to keep her step steady as she descended the ladder. She knew that she must accompany the captain, not only to increase the chances of his safe return but also to learn the fate of Michael and the other occupants of the house. But she feared that the captain had been correct in his initial assessment of the situation—that she was putting herself firmly in harm’s way.

  What, she wondered as she stepped onto the gangplank, was an akhmok?

  And what had she gotten herself into?

  * * *

  Arabella’s heart nearly broke as she and the officers followed the rukesh through the dispersing crowd of Martians. The oval lawn of English grass, lovingly tended and watered twice daily, that had once stretched proudly before the manor house now lay brown and neglected, trampled under many hard Martian feet. The house, too, had suffered grievously—in addition to the entire wing lost to fire, most of the main house’s windows were shattered and its clapboards bore many bullet holes and the twinned scars of forked spears. Approaching still more closely, she saw that the front doors had been smashed to flinders, with only one brave board still clinging to its hinges. The stink of smoke lay like a pall over every thing.

  How could this have happened? Father had always treated his servants, English and Martian alike, with the greatest of respect, and she could not imagine Michael changing that policy. Even at times of unrest, the Ashby plantation had always before escaped harm. What could possibly have enraged the Martians sufficiently to justify this wanton destruction?

  And who had survived it?

  Martians armed with swords and English rifles—she feared she recognized her father’s favorite hunting-piece—stepped aside as the rukesh approached the front door, closing behind Richardson as the humans passed.

  Arabella feared the worst as they entered the house proper, but though the damage in the hall was severe, with shattered plaster and shredded carpets everywhere, there were no bodies lying about, nor even pools of blood. And as they moved deeper into the house the destruction lessened, until by the time they reached her father’s office most of the furnishings, even her mother’s paintings, were still intact.

  One Martian stood guard at the office door, but as they approached he bowed and opened the door as smartly as any butler. So familiar was the motion, in fact, that—despite his garish clan colors and the steel blades fixed to his carapace—she recognized him immediately. It was Hoksh, who had been her father’s footman!

  She did not know whether to be reassured or dismayed by his presence among the insurrectionists, but in either case her heart pounded as the rukesh stepped aside, leaving the humans to enter the office without them.

  The office itself seemed completely undamaged. Even the automata above her father’s desk looked down as serenely as they always had. Which was all the more astonishing because, seated behind the desk, Arabella beheld the most enormous Martian she had ever seen.

  A hulking dark-red brute nearly eight feet high and almost half that broad, the Martian’s carapace bristled with spiny protrusions both natural and artificial. Wide stripes in every clan color painted the massive forearms, and a sharp-edged steel mantle of office rode atop the shoulders. Incongruously, the huge ungainly fingers gripped a feather pen, which scratched away in a ledger-book, over which the Martian was hunched in a posture of deep concentration.

  As the door opened the Martian looked up.

  The black, subtly faceted eyes immediately focused on Arabella.

  “Arabella?” the Martian boomed in a deep, cultured voice. “Could that be you? My dear tutukha?”

  Arabella’s jaw dropped.

  “Khema!?”

  20

  KHEMA

  “My dear tutukha!” the giant Martian repeated, and with surprising agility and grace he—no, she—bounded out from behind the desk and took up Arabella in her arms.

  “Khema, is it really you?” Though many Englishmen said that Martians all looked alike, Arabella had never had much difficulty distinguishing between them. And now that she looked more carefully at the Martian’s broad face she could see that, beneath the heavy protective brows and prominent cheek-spines, it still bore the familiar lines of her beloved itkhalya. And there was a crack in the carapace of the left temple, imperfectly healed, which Arabella herself had inflicted one day in a clumsy sparring incident. “How is this possible?”

  Khema set Arabella down and sighed, the air whistling through her spiracles in imitation of the human expression. “It is a long story, tutukha, and I regret each and every day the terrible circumstances which have brought me to this state.” She rapped on the carapace of her thorax with her prominent knuckles, making a sound like two stones striking together. “But, regrets or no, I am akhmok now.” Her attention widened from Arabella to take in the three officers. “Tut, tut, I forget my manners. Who are these fine gentlemen?”

  “This is Captai
n Singh of the Honorable Mars Company airship Diana, his first mate Mr. Richardson, and his sailing-master Mr. Stross.” Then, to the officers, “This is Khema Shuthkari Tekeshti, who was once my itkhalya—my nanny, my protector, my instructor in all things Martian.” The men bowed to Khema; she replied with a curtsey of such astonishing grace that it abolished any comedic effect that might otherwise have resulted from such a formidable figure attempting the maneuver.

  “I will always be your itkhalya, Arabella, and you my tutukha.”

  The captain bowed again. “We regret imposing upon you at this unsettled time, but my men require food and water.”

  “I am given to understand that you have obeyed the proper forms of greeting in time of conflict, and therefore my people will extend to you all reasonable hospitality.” At that, Richardson’s lips pursed, his eyebrows rose, and he inclined his head to Arabella in a silent gesture of acknowledgement. “I am sure that some of our foodstuffs palatable to you can be found.”

  “We also hope,” the captain continued, “to negotiate with you for coal, and the use of the furnaces in your drying-sheds.”

  Before Arabella could protest that his request, understandable though it might be, was directed to the wrong party, Khema said, “The stores of the manor house, including the coal-sheds as well as the larder, are not ours to share. We occupy this property only temporarily, in the absence of its legal owner.”

  “Where is Michael?” Arabella burst out.

  Khema went down on one knee, bringing her enormous head level with Arabella’s, and took her hands quite delicately in her own large, stony claws. “I am sorry to be the bearer of sad news, tutukha, but your brother is a fugitive from justice.”

  Arabella blinked rapidly, incapable of forming any reply to this astonishing statement.

  “We are holding this property in protective trust until he either surrenders himself or is apprehended. After justice has been done, we will turn over control to his heirs, in accordance with English law.”

  “His heirs?”

  “Do you not remember your lessons, tutukha? We are a civilized people, and obey English law in respect to the property of English persons.”

  Arabella forced her gaping jaw shut, and had to swallow several times before continuing. “Of what … terrible crime is he accused? Surely there has been some mistake!”

  Khema sighed, settling back on her haunches and seeming to compose her thoughts before addressing the four humans. “Eleven days ago, the firstborn egg of Queen Thukhush was abducted from the Royal Ovary. You would not remember her, tutukha, as she ascended after you departed for Earth, but she is a very popular queen, well-liked by all the clans as well as the humans, and as such the Ovary was but lightly guarded. Rumors pointed to your brother, and when the empty egg-box was discovered in the stables here the Rukesh Kthari descended upon the property to apprehend Michael for questioning. But he refused to surrender himself, denying all knowledge of the crime. He and several other members of the household escaped in the fighting that followed, and have barricaded themselves at Corey House.”

  Corey House, Arabella knew, was a very substantial manor house high in the hills above the city of Fort Augusta. It had been built in the early days of colonization, when relations between English and Martians had often been unsettled, and its situation and construction made it highly defensible in case of any attack.

  The captain’s expression was nearly as grim as the one Arabella knew her own face must be displaying. “Was this the cause of the native uprising?”

  “Sadly, yes. When my people demanded that the English authorities compel Lord Corey to surrender Michael, they refused, claiming that the evidence against him consisted only of hearsay and speculation. A protest at Government House was forcefully suppressed by the King’s Guard, which led to further violence. Soon there was rioting in the streets, and I…” She gestured to her enormous, hard-edged body. “I became as you see me. An akhmok.”

  Arabella was having difficulty taking this all in. “I don’t understand.”

  Khema’s eye-stalks twisted in shame. “It is a … a relic of our savage past, one which we do not celebrate, and which has not occurred in living memory. In situations of great distress, certain females undergo this transformation. It is similar to the ascension of a queen, but the physical changes are, as you see, even more dramatic. An akhmok is a formidable fighter in her own right, and she also secretes certain substances that cause even warring clans to unite under her leadership against the common foe.”

  “The English,” Arabella said miserably.

  “Not in my case,” Khema reassured her. “I am as appalled by this violence as you are, and have organized my people here, away from Fort Augusta, to keep them and the plantation from any further harm. I have also sent emissaries to the other akhmoks, encouraging them to resolve their differences with the English peaceably. We are already having some success, and I anticipate that normalcy will be rapidly restored once Michael is brought to justice.”

  “Justice?” Arabella cried with considerable heat. “I cannot imagine that my brother would perform any act so … so barbaric as the theft of a queen’s egg. The accusations against him must be false.”

  Khema’s eyes drew together in an expression of sympathy, but she said, “His cowardly flight is considered by many as an admission of guilt.”

  “There must be another reason.” She set her jaw. “I will go and speak to him, and find out the true story.”

  “You will find it hard going. Corey House is under siege. Three akhmoks and seven thousand of their people surround the place.”

  Arabella thought furiously. “You said you are sending emissaries to the other akhmoks. Could you send me there under a flag of truce? If I appear at the gates, alone and unarmed, Michael will surely admit me and explain himself.”

  “No explanation could excuse the abduction of a royal egg. But if he has kept it safe and warm, it may still be viable.” Khema contemplated her, considering. “You and your brother are very close, I know. If you can convince him to release the egg alive and unharmed, the siege will be lifted, the violence will end, and the Rukesh Kthari may be persuaded to spare his life.”

  “All I ask is that you convey me to my brother.”

  Khema thought for a moment, then clacked her mandibles in assent. “I will provide you with a storek—a mark of safe conduct—that can get you as far as the gates. Every thing beyond that is up to you.”

  Arabella was both pleased and terrified at the prospect, but before she could manage to express her thanks another voice interrupted.

  “I cannot allow this.” It was Captain Singh, his deep brown eyes fixing Arabella with a stern fatherly captain’s gaze.

  “I must try to save my brother!” Arabella protested.

  “And so you must.” His gaze, still fatherly, now softened. “But I cannot permit you to go alone. I will accompany you.”

  “But sir!” protested Richardson. “The ship—!”

  “The ship will be safe here, under the protection of Miss Khema’s people; the men I entrust to your care. I feel I owe a personal debt to Miss Ashby, for the services she did me while I was unconscious as well as for her advice and assistance today. I will accompany her to Corey House and provide any protection and aid I can in rescuing her brother and bringing this unfortunate incident to a close.”

  Richardson seemed about to burst, but Stross laid a hand on the first mate’s elbow. “We’ll do well enough without him for a few days, sir.”

  At that Richardson sputtered and deflated, then finally said to the captain, “Very well, sir, if you must.”

  “I must,” said the captain, looking to Arabella, who was so overwhelmed that she could do no more than drop a curtsey in acknowledgement of his generosity. She hoped she was not blushing, but feared that she was.

  Richardson took the captain’s hand. “Take care, sir, and return safe. The ship needs you.”

  “I will do my best.”

 
Then Richardson bowed to Arabella, swallowed, and said, “Best of luck, miss.” A small smile then appeared upon his usually serious face. “Take care of our captain.”

  Arabella, too, smiled in her nervousness. “I will endeavor to do so.”

  Khema then clapped her hands together, with a noise like two sacks of coal colliding. “Very well, then.” She put her hands to her mouth-parts, then touched Arabella and the captain on the forehead. A cool moist sensation quickly dissipated into Mars’s dry air, leaving behind a strong scent reminiscent of cinnamon and horses. “This storek marks you as my emissary and should prevent you from harm by any Martian of sound mind. Do not wash or rub the spot.”

  “Thank you, itkhalya,” Arabella said, and she and the captain bowed to her in the Martian fashion. “I will do every thing I can to resolve this conflict with honor for all.”

  “I have every confidence you will, tutukha,” she replied, returning the bow. “You have already made me very proud.”

  * * *

  Arabella and the captain returned to the ship, where each of them packed a ditty bag with the necessities for a trip of some days’ duration. After one final exchange of instructions and best wishes with the officers and crew, they set off on huresh-back for Corey House, accompanied by three of Khema’s people.

  But the captain’s inexperience at huresh-riding slowed them considerably, and by the time they drew within sight of the house—the lights in its windows far outnumbered by the fires of the Martians camped all around it—full dark had descended. Arabella’s escort halted their progress at a sheltered canyon just outside the encampment. “It would be foolish to approach an armed camp in the dark,” said the escort leader. “They might loose their arrows before we are close enough for the storek to be smelled. We should make camp for the night here, and proceed at first light.”

  Not having come prepared for camping, they gathered and roasted hoktheth-roots over an open fire for their dinner, then lay themselves down on the huresh-blankets under the Martian stars.