A meaningful glance passed between the siblings. “Thank you for your offer,” said Michael to Mr. Trombley. “Now if you would please step outside, so that my sister and I may discuss this matter?”
As soon as the door closed Arabella allowed the disgust she had been holding back to express itself in a rolling of the eyes heavenward. “Dear Lord,” she whispered, “not him.”
Michael shook his head sadly and replied in the same low register. “Though he is a dear man, and has served the family for many years, the events of the last few weeks have shown that in a crisis he simply cannot keep his head. And this nonsense of the unexamined will is the last straw. I would not dream of saddling you with him.” His expression shifted, his steady gaze now reflecting determination, sorrow, and apology. “I am sorry, dear sister, but for the sake of the whole family, and future generations, you must be married at once, in case of my early demise.”
“Oh, Michael, do not say such a thing! I am sure you have many years ahead of you.”
“As Providence wills.” He paused, shook his head again. “Now, as to your betrothal. I have in mind my trusted colleague Mr. Williams. He is an older man, and will surely not … trouble you, if you do not wish it. And, in not too many years, he will in turn pass away, leaving you the freedom to find a husband of your own choosing.”
The breath caught in Arabella’s throat. Though she knew her brother was correct in his assessment of the situation, and she trusted his judgement completely, the thought of being … paired off, like a matched brace of huresh, for the sake of the estate, was repellent to her. “I … I see. Have you … approached this Mr. Williams?”
“No, not yet. I wished to obtain your consent first.”
“I see,” she repeated. “Thank you for that consideration, at least.”
She sat and contemplated her options, looking down into her cupped hands.
They were in terrible shape. The events of the last two months had left them rough, callused, even scarred in places, and no amount of scrubbing could completely remove the dirt ground into the lines of her palms. A tiny splinter had lodged itself beneath the skin of her left thumb, and as her mind churned in anxious rumination she brought it unthinkingly to her teeth in order to prize it out.
The errant scrap of wood came free, and she spat it into her palm. For a moment she inspected it—any thing to take her mind off of the future that Fate seemed to have in store for her. It was a sliver of khoresh-wood, she saw, honey-gold with a bit of black paint on one side. Most likely a piece of Diana’s hull. Perhaps she had gotten it while she was working her way along the keel during the mutiny. Or perhaps it had been earlier, during the battle with the French—there had been splinters flying everywhere.
And as she cast her mind back upon those tumultuous weeks, she realized that there had been one factor—one constant, calming presence—that had kept her alive and sane throughout.
She stood and approached Michael’s bedside. “Although I am sure your Mr. Williams is perfectly congenial,” she said, “I have another in mind.”
“Who, if I may ask?”
She bit her lip, suddenly nervous. “I would rather not say,” she said, “until I have spoken to him.”
“Of course. You know I trust your judgement implicitly, sister, and any man you find acceptable will receive my blessing without reservation.” He hesitated. “But … I am afraid I must insist that you do so without delay.” His eyes held a deep sadness. “I do not know … how much more time I may have.”
“Oh, Michael.…” Her eyes brimmed with tears and she had to turn away from him.
After a moment she felt a brush at her hip, and looked down.
It was Michael’s hand, silently offering a handkerchief.
She smiled sadly, shook her head, and accepted it.
* * *
She found the captain at the ship, as she had expected. He was working day and night with the ship’s carpenter and the master of the drying-sheds, striving to find some way to repurpose the coal burners there to the generation of hot air for lift. Though all agreed it should be possible, the practicalities of the task had proved troublesome.
As soon as he noticed her presence, the captain turned from his work. “Miss Ashby,” he said, bowing.
“Captain,” she replied with a curtsey. “I … I was wondering…” Her heart, she realized, was hammering in her breast. How could she be so nervous? She swallowed, straightened, took a breath. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you. A word in private.”
“Of course.” He made his excuses and led her up the gangplank.
How familiar these lower decks were, and yet how strange! Only two weeks ago Diana had been her home, her place of work, her whole world. Now Arabella had departed from the ship and returned to her family home, leaving her to realize just how truly extraordinary her months aboard had been. Yet her home, too, and seemingly the whole planet Mars, had been entirely transformed, leaving her with no place she could truly call her own. In a sense, Diana was now the only home she had.
As she ascended a ladder, she ran her hand along the rail beside it. How many times had she waxed this handrail? How many others had waxed it before her, and since?
She brought the hand to her nose and breathed in. Khoresh-wood and wax; brass and gunpowder. Charcoal. The sweat of honest airmen.
She continued up the ladder to the great cabin.
* * *
The captain closed the cabin door behind himself, clasping his hands behind his back and straightening as he had done so many times before. “I must thank you again for your continued hospitality, Miss Ashby,” he said. “The men send their best regards as well.”
“You are welcome, sir, for as long as you wish to stay.”
Her heart still pounded as though she had run a mile—a hard mile across the desert at night. She had, she told herself, no right to be so anxious.
It was a simple enough request, though highly unconventional.
The worst he could do would be to say no.
She had faced kidnap, battle, mutiny, and insurrection. She could face this.
“Sir, I…” She swallowed, took a breath, began again. “You know that I hold you in the very highest regard.”
“As do I you, Miss Ashby.”
For some perverse reason that encouraging statement made it even harder to continue. “I have never met,” she managed after a pause, “a man so intelligent, so brave, so steadfast. I have seen you guide this ship through every manner of crisis without ever once losing your aplomb, never mind your temper. And, despite my … necessary deception, with regard to my sex, you have never failed to treat me with any thing less than honor and respect.”
He bowed. “It was, I assure you, far less than you deserved. Your own intelligence and, especially, creativity are far in excess of my own. You have found solutions to problems of navigation and, dare I say, administration that I can imagine no other man … no man, I should say, could have conceived. Your handling of the mutinous Binion resolved the mutiny without the loss of a single additional life. And as to bravery, your simple presence in the crew from day to day speaks to a degree of bravery that most men never find within themselves even in battle.”
She would not cry. She would not cry. “Captain Singh,” she began, then paused.
He looked at her, his deep brown eyes so calm and intense.
“I … I know this is … quite an extraordinary request to make. But my, my … situation, is quite extraordinary.” She stopped again, took a breath, then spat out, all in a rush, “Would you be so kind as to do me the honor of becoming my husband?”
He raised one eyebrow. Then the other.
“I—” He paused and looked away.
Somewhere among her many strong emotions, Arabella found a tiny particle of pride that she had managed to crack the captain’s inviolable composure.
He stared out the window for a long time, contemplating the house, the rolling sands, the stands of khoresh-tr
ees. Every thing that could be seen from this window, all the way to the rocky horizon, was part of Woodthrush Woods.
“As you know,” he said at last, “it was because of a … refusal of betrothal that I found myself in the Honorable Mars Company in the first place.” He had not turned to face her.
Arabella’s breath caught in her throat. “I do recall that.”
“The life of an airship captain’s wife is not an easy one,” he said. “She does not see her husband for months, or years, at a time. And if you were my wife…” Now he did face her. “I … I have faced … certain difficulties, within the Company as well as without, because of my … race.” He gestured to his own face, the warm dark eyes, the deep brown skin. “I have … weathered these difficulties, through diligence, patience, and perseverance, but they do continue. And if you were my wife, they would redound upon you a hundredfold.” He stepped closer. “I … I am sorry, Miss Ashby. I have chosen this life for myself, and I have no regrets. But I cannot ask any other person, especially one I hold in such high esteem, to take on such a heavy burden.” He hung his head. “Therefore I must, with very great regret—”
He was interrupted by a loud clatter from the corner, which drew his eyes as well as Arabella’s.
It was Aadim. His head was moving, very slightly, from side to side.
That small movement might, conceivably, have been a stray motion from a maladjusted cam or sprocket—though Aadim was never in any thing other than the very best of adjustment. But then, with a smooth whir of gears, Aadim’s head turned decisively to the left, his green glass eyes locking on the captain’s brown ones. At the same time his hand rose from its position on the map, pointing directly at Arabella.
The head nodded. Once, twice, three times the chin rose and fell. Firmly. Deliberately. Unmistakably.
Then head and hand returned to their previous positions, and with one final click the automaton fell silent.
Arabella and the captain turned to each other. Her face, she was sure, reflected the baffled wonder she saw upon his, though certainly in much greater degree.
“Well—,” she began, and at the same time he said, “I suppose—”
They both stopped. The captain’s expression was so serious that Arabella was forced to suppress a fit of hysterical giggles.
“For many years,” the captain began again, “I have depended upon Aadim in matters of navigation and direction.”
“His … his judgement in these areas is generally quite … reliable,” Arabella managed to reply.
Then, in one smooth motion, the captain crossed the small distance between them and descended to one knee. For the first time she could recall, his intelligent brown eyes looked up to hers. “Miss Ashby,” he said, his voice entirely level, “will you be my wife?”
Arabella swallowed past a lump in her throat. “Yes,” she managed. Then, more firmly, “Yes, I will.”
They blinked at each other for a time, both clearly uncertain as to how to proceed. Arabella smiled nervously. “This must be the most unusual proposal in the history of romance.”
“It might well be. Though I fear we will never be able to share the story with any one.”
“Perhaps our children,” she said, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
The captain rose and embraced her, his strong warm arms enfolding her in a protective circle which, for the moment, neither Martians nor lawyers nor even death could enter.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A book is a small thing—you can hold it in your hand—but it takes many, many people to bring it to fruition.
I’d like to thank the folks at Tor, my publisher: Moshe Feder, who acquired it; Christopher Morgan, who edited it; Patrick Nielsen Hayden, who provided invaluable support; and Patty Garcia and Irene Gallo, who were incredibly helpful and enthusiastic. I also must thank my agent, Paul Lucas, and the rest of the team at Janklow & Nesbit, who negotiated the deal and held my hand through the whole first-novel thing, and my excellent copyeditor (or should that be copy-editor?) Deanna Hoak.
Many people provided advice and support along the way. Sara Mueller was the first, helping me to find the core of the book in a morass of keen ideas; the librarians at Multnomah County Library were always helpful; Ian Osgood suggested the atmospheric phenomenon that I eventually named the Horn; Mary Rosenblum gave me tips on aerial navigation and publicity for authors; Dick Pilz told me about drogues; Shashi Jain checked my work on Captain Singh; and Doug Faunt provided information from his personal experience on period sailing vessels and bought (in a charity auction) the right to have his name in the book. Sorry it took so long.
I’d also like to thank everyone who critiqued the book as it went through its many revisions. Felicity Shoulders, Damian Kilby, and Dave Goldman provided early feedback; Walter Jon Williams, Michaela Roessner, Rick Wilber, Kim Zimring, Jay Lake, Diana Rowland, Daniel Abraham, James Patrick Kelly, Oz Drummond, and Carrie Vaughn at Rio Hondo provided feedback on the first nine chapters; Sherwood Smith, Tina Connolly, Eloise Drummond, MeiLin Miranda, and Amanda Clark provided comments on the first complete draft; and Grá Linnea, Jennifer Linnea, Mark Teppo, Rob Zeigler, Bradley Beaulieu, Kris Dikeman, Brenda Cooper, Adam Rakunas, Beth Wodzinski, and Chris Cevasco at Coastal Heaven provided feedback and encouragement, and helped me with my cover letter and elevator pitch.
Thanks to Kim Stanley Robinson, Patricia Rice, Madeleine Robins, Mary Jo Putney, Jim C. Hines, Marie Brennan, Tina Connolly, Kurt Busiek, Sherwood Smith, Michael J. Martinez, Pat Murphy, and Ellen Klages for early blurbs and comments.
Extra special thanks to Mary Robinette Kowal, my invaluable guide to all things Regency and navigating the dangerous shoals of publication; Patrick Swenson, who ran the Rainforest Writers Village writing retreats and (along with Jack Skillingstead) pointed me to the man who would become my agent; Shannon Page, who helped me keep writing through the most difficult days; Marc Wells, who gave up his Worldcon so I could attend; and Janna Silverstein, my greatest adviser and cheerleader.
And, first and last, my wife, Kate Yule, for everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DAVID D. LEVINE is the author of more than fifty science fiction and fantasy stories. His story “Tk’Tk’Tk” won the Hugo Award in 2006, and he has been short-listed for such awards as the Nebula, Campbell, and Sturgeon. His stories have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction and Fact, Analog Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, five Year’s Best anthologies, and his award-winning collection Space Magic. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife, Kate Yule. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
Tom Doherty Associates ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE: MARS, 1812
THE LAST STRAW
PART 1: ENGLAND, 1813
1. AN UNEXPECTED LETTER
2. AN UNCOMFORTABLE DINNER
3. ESCAPE
4. THE AERIAL DOCKS
5. THE MOON AND SIXPENCE
6. CAPTAIN SINGH
7. DIANA
PART 2: IN TRANSIT, 1813
8. DEPARTURE
9. ROUNDING THE HORN
10. LIFE IN MIDAIR
11. SAIL HO
12. AFTERMATH
13. DROGUES
14. PAEONIA
15. MUTINY
16. PASSENGER
PART 3: MARS, 1813
17. MARS
18. LANDING
19. SURROUNDED
20. KHEMA
21. COREY HOUSE
22. SIMON
23. ROCKS FALL
24. THE LAST REDO
UBT
25. MICHAEL
26. A STRANGE PROPOSAL
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ARABELLA OF MARS
Copyright © 2016 by David D. Levine
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Stephan Martiniere
Cover design by Peter Lutjen
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-8281-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-8949-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466889491
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: July 2016
Arabella of Mars Page 31