Arabella of Mars

by David D. Levine

  And not just any akhmok. Even at this distance, Arabella recognized her beloved itkhalya. Somehow, despite Khema’s transformation, she still moved in a familiar way. “Oh, dearest tutukha!” Khema called, her booming voice twisted with sadness. “I fear peace is no longer a possibility.”

  “Negotiation is always an option,” Arabella called back, “as you yourself taught me, dear Khema.”

  “Indeed, tutukha, but in this case the options are very limited. For the kidnapped egg was simply buried in cold sand like a cast-off shell, and by the time we found it … it had died.” A few Martians behind her wailed in grief and pounded their spear hafts upon the sand. “My people are beyond consolation, and I am afraid this regrettable violence must be allowed to burn itself out.”

  In the silence that followed Khema’s words, distant screams came to Arabella’s ears from the town beyond. Human screams.

  “Surely we can find some other solution,” Arabella cried—though, in truth, she could see no alternative.

  “I am sorry, tutukha.”

  “Get down!” shouted one of the men, and roughly hauled Arabella down from her perch. A moment later an enormous boulder flew past the parapet, so near that the roaring wind of its passage battered Arabella’s face and hair. The rock’s tremendous crash upon the crag behind the house was barely audible over her pounding heart.

  “That was too close!” said Mr. Morrison. “For your own safety, Miss Ashby, I must insist that you return to the drawing-room.”

  Though she protested this exile, even the captain was set against her, and against her will she soon found her feet set upon the descending steps.

  “We are Englishmen,” the portly gentleman declared behind her. “We will defend this house unto our dying breaths.”

  And then he closed the door, leaving Arabella in darkness.

  * * *

  The captain, Collins, and several of the gentlemen leaned over the plan of the house, pointing and muttering darkly, while Arabella sat dejected on a settee nearby and stared mutely at the flagstones of the hearth. The thunderous crash of another catapult-stone shook the house, sending bits of plaster pattering down, but by now this event was far from extraordinary.

  Was this the end? Would all of Fort Augusta—all of English Mars—fall victim to madness and violence?

  A shadow fell across the stones, and she looked up. It was the captain.

  “We must retreat to the kitchen soon,” he said. “Once the east wing collapses it will be our last redoubt. With luck, the insurrection will be quelled before our defenses there are overwhelmed.”

  She nodded miserably, knowing as well as the captain did that there was no one to quell the insurrection. “I suppose we should move Michael there as soon as we can,” she said. “Assuming he can be moved.”

  “I will ask Dr. Fellowes.” But he did not turn away; instead, he stood and regarded Arabella for a moment. “You must not blame yourself,” he said. “You made your best attempt at negotiations.”

  “That was hardly a negotiation,” she sighed, and though she acknowledged the captain’s sentiments she still felt horribly responsible for their predicament. “It was barely even a plea.”

  “It was the best that could be done under the circumstances.”

  But still the responsibility nagged at her. It had been her astronomical explanation that had set Simon upon the path to Mars, her failure to arrive in time that had allowed him to create this horrific situation, her lack of understanding that had left her helpless in the face of unbending hostility. “My father would be horribly disappointed in me, if he yet lived,” she said.

  “If he were disappointed in you, Miss Ashby, he would be a fool. And, from my experience of you, I cannot believe that you are descended from fools.”

  She felt a tiny smile creep onto her face at that. “I suppose I cannot help feeling as I do. I was taught from a very young age to own up to my failings and seek to make amends.”

  “Your father taught you well.” He sighed, fractionally; had she not known him so well she might not even have noticed it. “Yet now, it seems, it is too late for any amends to be made, and it is left to us to defend ourselves as best we can. I will speak with Dr. Fellowes about your brother.”

  But even as he bowed and turned to leave, something in his words nagged at her.

  Was it, truly, too late for amends to be made?

  Who, indeed, was it who had taught her to own up to her failings?

  “Khema,” she whispered.

  The captain paused. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Khema,” she repeated. “It was my itkhalya, not my father, who taught me the value of personal responsibility, which Martians value so highly.” She looked up at the captain. “There is, perhaps, one way this violence can be brought to a close. But it would come at a terrible price.”

  * * *

  They found Simon in Michael’s chamber, kneeling at the bedside as though saying his prayers before sleep. “He seems to be resting more comfortably now,” Dr. Fellowes said as they entered. “The fever has abated, and I believe he may regain consciousness soon.” But despite his optimistic words, Michael’s unmoving face looked waxy and gray.

  With grim resolution, Arabella turned from her brother to Simon. “Cousin,” she began, then hesitated. “May we have a private word with you?”

  Simon stood, a questioning look in his eye, but retired with Arabella and the captain to a quiet corner of the bedchamber.

  “You have said,” she murmured privately, “that you would do any thing to atone for your errors.”

  “Any thing within my power…,” he replied, though his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  She swallowed, then looked away. What she had in mind to ask of him was too terrible to contemplate. During this crisis she had come to see him as perhaps more foolish than evil, but even if she still hated him as thoroughly as she had on Diana it would be too much for any civilized person to ask. Yet she could imagine no better solution.

  She returned her gaze to Simon’s. “You know that the Martians place great stock in owning up to one’s mistakes.”

  “Yes…” His face showed great concern.

  “You are the one who took the egg, and you have already admitted this to them. There is a chance—a chance—that if you … if you voluntarily turn yourself over to them, they will consider justice to be done, and bring this insurrection to a close.”

  “I … I see.” His brow furrowed as his attention turned inward. “And what will they do to me?”

  “I cannot deny that Martian justice can be severe.” At that statement his already-troubled face paled. “But this is a chance to redeem yourself, in the eyes of the world and of your Creator, and perhaps even yourself.”

  The captain cleared his throat. “If you do not do this thing,” he said, gravely but not without sympathy, “the violence will continue until every Englishman in Fort Augusta is dead.”

  Simon trembled miserably on the cold flagstones, eyes darting every which way. Then he closed his eyes hard and seemed to gather himself up, bowing his head and bending over his clenched fists. For a long time he remained thus and Arabella watched him, holding her breath as he held his, knowing how difficult the decision must be.

  Then he let out his breath with a loud “Pah!” and collapsed onto the bed, head held in his hands. “I cannot!” he said. “I have not the courage.” For once, Arabella thought, he was entirely sincere.

  Arabella and the captain exchanged a long, considering look. His eyes were very hard, and he glanced to the prostrate Simon and back to her, tilting his head with a raised, questioning eyebrow.

  His meaning was clear, and it appalled her. She replied to his glance with a sharp shake of her head and a stern frown. “We will leave you to consider, Cousin,” she told Simon, and angrily swept out of the room. The captain followed.

  As soon as the door had closed behind the captain, leaving the two of them alone in the hall, Arabella rounded on him. “My cousin
must be allowed to make his own decision,” she hissed in a barely contained whisper. “To force such a sacrifice on any one, even such a villain as he, would be inhuman.”

  The captain’s expression was as grave as ever she had seen it. “If I am any judge of character,” he replied in a low intense murmur, “if we wait for him to do the honorable thing, we will all die in the waiting.”

  “That may very well be.” She took a breath, let it out. “But in this matter, I cannot countenance coercion. To throw him to the Martians against his will would be a violation of both okhaya and common human decency.”

  His gaze bore down on her. She returned it, refusing to back down. At last the captain blinked, and inclined his head to her. “Very well. I shall gather every one to the kitchen for our final defense.” He bowed. “We may die, but at least we will die with honor.”

  She recognized that he, too, had been asked to sacrifice himself for the sake of others, and unlike Simon he had done the honorable thing. Even if the decision cost her her life, her esteem of him was inestimably raised because of it.

  “I thank you very much for your understanding in this difficult matter,” she said, and gave him a deep, respectful curtsey.

  * * *

  Arabella watched the captain’s upright, buff-coated back as he departed, his boot heels clopping on the ancient flagstones, until he rounded the corner and vanished from sight. Then she sighed, gathered herself, and returned to the bedchamber.

  Simon lay as she had left him, on his knees with his upper body splayed out atop Michael’s bed-clothes. Michael, for his part, still lay wan and unmoving, though he yet breathed.

  “Dear cousin,” she said, and he gasped and jerked upright, relaxing when he saw that she was alone. “Dear cousin,” she began again, “I do understand how impossible this request must seem. But I must beg you to reconsider. Not only all of our lives here, but the lives of every Englishman in Fort Augusta territory, could be spared by your action. Perhaps even more—who knows how far this insurrection might spread if not checked?”

  “I am a weak man, Cousin,” he replied. “It was my weakness that led to my poverty, and brought me to Mars, and prompted me to steal the egg.” He gave a rueful grin. “It would be inconsistent for me to display any strength of character now.”

  “People can change.” She settled herself on the bedside chair. “Just months ago I was a naive girl. I, too, took myself to Mars on a sudden whim, not considering the costs or consequences, and suffered greatly for my imprudence. Yet I have also learned from the experience.” She leaned in close. “There are some tasks only one person can perform.” She thought of the explosive shell, its smooth warm exterior hiding such great destructive power, and how it had been placed in her hands with a confidence she still felt she had not earned. “If such a task should happen to fall to you, you may rail against it, you may deny it, you may try to push it away … but in the end, you may also find that you can rise to the occasion.”

  “Even such a man as I?”

  “Even such a man as you.” She held out her hand. “Come with me, Cousin.”

  Mutely he took it and rose. Then, still holding her hand, he stood and contemplated her face for a time, considering. “I … I will make the attempt,” he said at last. “I will endeavor to do honor to the family name.”

  Arabella’s suspicion of Simon warred with her desire to assume the best of any man, but in the end her natural inclination to charity won out. “That is all I, or any one, could ask.”

  “I only request that I be given a moment alone in my bedchamber, so as to prepare myself for … for the end.”

  “Of course.”

  At the door he paused and looked back at Michael, still unconscious, his breathing shallow but regular. “I am sorry, Cousin,” he said, then set his shoulders and stepped into the hall.

  Arabella, too, cast a long glance back at her brother before closing the door behind herself.

  * * *

  They found the drawing-room, when they arrived, nearly empty of both people and supplies. Only a few servants remained, rushing in and out, carrying crates and barrels away to the kitchen, and they were all too distracted to take any notice of Arabella and the increasingly anxious Simon. Even so, as they approached the spiral stair, one of the footmen paused in his work and called out, “You ought not go up there, sir and miss! It is too dangerous! Even the riflemen have been forced to retreat.”

  Simon quailed at this. “Will you accompany me, Cousin?” he said, his voice tremulous.

  “Of course,” she murmured reassuringly.

  At the second turning of the stair they found, to Arabella’s disturbed surprise, bright sunlight streaming down from above, accompanied by fresh air and the chattering sound of the Martian army. One more turning confirmed her fears: The tower’s top had been shattered by the Martians’ catapults, and the stair ended in a ragged edge of broken stone and mortar.

  Again Simon hesitated, but this time he managed to gather his own courage. “What have I to fear?” he said, half to himself, and set his trembling feet upon the step. Arabella followed.

  They reached the top and stood blinking in the sunlight, a stiff breeze plucking at their hair and clothing. The Martians below toiled like ants, already beginning to flow up the house’s battered sides to the rough opening smashed into the former dining-room. Plainly they would be within the house very soon.

  Suddenly Arabella noticed that Simon had stepped back from the edge. “Courage, Cousin,” Arabella said, turning to face him. But what she saw as she turned was not the hesitant expression of a man unwilling to face death, but the calm and confident leer she had last seen in Simon’s dining-room in Oxford.

  Along with the pistol from that same occasion.

  “I am frightfully sorry, Cousin,” he said, “but I find myself unable to perform the service you have requested, and must ask you to do so in my stead. You will confess to the Martians that it was you who stole the egg, and it is you who will surrender yourself to them.”

  The last time she had seen that pistol, the muzzle had seemed as big as the world. But since that time she had stared down the barrel of a French cannon, and the pistol now seemed small and ineffectual. She straightened. “I was not even on Mars when the egg was stolen.”

  “The Martians do not know that.” Simon drew back the pistol’s hammer. “You will confess, or you will die at this moment, and I will give them your body, saying that you were at fault all along. But they will more readily believe it, and more readily give up their campaign, if they hear your confession from your own lips. And you do desire to bring this conflict to an end, do you not?”

  Arabella’s eyes sought an opening, but Simon had carefully positioned himself so that she had no means of escape. “What becomes of my brother?”

  “He will have to go, of course, sooner or later. Though I assure you that once the estate is mine, I will treat your mother and sisters at least as well as your side of the family ever treated me.” He pressed forward then, and perforce she took a step backwards, finding herself upon the highest remaining step. Only a great void of air lay beyond that.

  She steeled herself for what she knew must be done.

  “Karaa, karaa!” she called, waving her arms, until the Martians took notice. “This is Simon Ashby!” she cried, pointing to him.

  At the name a great howling roar sprung up from the nearer Martians, quickly spreading to the rest of the crowd. Arabella had never before heard such an expression of furious wrath.

  Simon’s expression was equally furious. “Confess now,” he snarled, taking another step forward and thrusting the pistol toward Arabella.

  This was exactly the reaction she had hoped for. As soon as Simon came within her reach, with one swift motion she seized his wrist and thrust it to the side. It went easily, for Simon was only an English dandy, whereas Arabella’s arms bore the strength given them by months of honest sailor’s work.

  Simon shrieked and pulled the trigger,
but though the shot rang in Arabella’s ear and the sudden sharp scent of gunpowder stained the air, neither was anywhere near as powerful as Diana’s cannon. The ball flew harmlessly into the air, while Arabella squeezed Simon’s wrist until the pistol dropped from his hand. It bounced once on the broken step’s edge, then fell spinning to the rocks below.

  Simon twisted his wrist from Arabella’s grasp and took a step back, glaring at her. Arabella gestured to the ravening Martians below, chattering and waving their forked spears—an enormous mob of them, seeming to stretch all the way to the horizon. “It is you who brought them all here,” she said, “and only you can prevent them from killing every last Englishman on Mars. Here is your chance, Cousin. Do the honorable thing, for once in your miserable life.”

  In answer Simon growled and charged at her, seeking to force her over the edge. But at the last moment she sidestepped and twisted away from his thrust, just as Khema had taught her, and he sailed past her.

  Past her and over the edge, his eyes shining with hatred all the while.

  A moment later he landed among the Martians.

  Arabella turned away from the scene, but the horrible crunching sounds would stay with her until her dying day.

  25

  MICHAEL

  The captain and Mr. Trombley met her at the base of the spiral stair. “The footman said that you and Mr. Ashby had gone up to the tower!” Trombley cried. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?” He blinked, looking past her to the darkness of the stair. “And … and where is Mr. Ashby?”

  The captain’s eyes were firm and cool, expressing only an intellectual inquiry, as though he were merely curious as to the fate of some large and exotic insect that had happened to land upon her shoulder.

  As for herself, though Arabella’s emotions were all in a roil—her heart pounding rapidly, her breath shallow, her hands chill—she found her voice firm and steady as she replied. “Mr. Ashby has given himself to the Martians.”