Arabella and the Battle of Venus

by David D. Levine

  But as she began to cross the street, the bells of the clock on the tower of Company House across the way drew her attention.

  The Company House orrery clock was one of the greatest treasures of the town of Fort Augusta, and the clock tower had been among the first structures repaired following the end of the recent insurrection. The clock itself had only recently been put back into working order, and its precious metals and gemstones shone in the late-afternoon sun. The mechanism behind it, she knew from having once had the privilege of viewing it with her father, was still more impressive—the ingenuity of its brass and steel was far more valuable to her than any gold or platinum frippery.

  As befitted Company House, the administrative headquarters of the Honorable Mars Company for the entire Martian territory of St. George’s Land, the clock told not only the time but the positions of the Company’s planets in their orbits, indicated by jeweled spheres which ran in tracks surrounding the clock face. From the center of the dial, a smiling Sun’s polished golden rays spread to touch the planets which danced attendance about him. Venus, the innermost planet displayed, glowed green with emeralds; next came Earth, sparkling blue and white with sapphires and diamonds; and finally Mars, the outermost, gleamed with the red of rubies and garnets. Beyond the planets, the symbols of the constellations were set into the stone wall in burnished brass.

  As the last notes of the hour echoed into silence, Arabella noticed that green Venus and red Mars were in conjunction in Leo—both near five o’clock on the clock dial—while blue-and-white Earth orbited in splendid isolation in Capricorn, near ten o’clock.

  The jeweled planets, she knew, were grossly exaggerated in size, and their orbital tracks were not entirely to scale. But the positions of the planets within their orbits were as accurate as clockwork could make them, and from her work in maintaining and running Aadim, Diana’s automaton navigator, she knew that could be very accurate indeed. And as the clock had been so recently set in motion, she was certain those positions would be correct.

  If she raised one hand, fingers spread, she could span the distance from Mars to Venus with ease. But from Earth to Venus—the distance that must be traversed by the French vessel Indomptable bearing the executioner Fouché—was many times farther, and the need for the ship to avoid the Sun’s great heat made the voyage longer still.

  She could beat him there. If she left immediately, she could arrive at Venus before Fouché.

  What she would do when she arrived … she knew not. But she must make the attempt.

  2

  NO TIME TO LOSE

  The huresh-coach rattled along, Gowse driving the scuttling creatures forward with more than usual haste. One look at Arabella’s face had shown him her urgency, her need to leave town and return to Woodthrush Woods as quickly as possible.

  Quite contrary to propriety, Arabella rode atop the coach next to her huresh-groom and former shipmate. The cool air whipping through her hair suited her desire for immediate action, and it served to revive her after the stifling warmth of Government House.

  One of the team began to pull to the side—it was Nimrod, a scarlet-shelled buck with a strong will—but with a cluck of his tongue and a quick lash of the reins against Nimrod’s carapace, Gowse brought the beast back into line. For a human, born and raised on Earth, Gowse had a remarkable facility with huresh. “They’s no different from horses,” he liked to say, “apart from the eight legs and the looking like giant beetles.”

  Gowse was a huge, burly airman with broad shoulders and the enormous calves typical of those who strain at the pedals to propel their craft across the airy spaces between the planets. His unlovely face was marred by a badly broken nose—an injury which Arabella herself had inflicted, in a fair fight, earning for herself Gowse’s respect and loyalty. So much so, in fact, that when Diana had departed for Venus he had chosen to remain on Mars and join the staff at Woodthrush Woods.

  As they pulled through the plantation’s gate—which still bore the scars of the insurrectionists’ forked spears—Gowse slowed the team from its headlong pace so as not to startle any of the servants or animals. With the rush of wind and the rattle of wheels somewhat stilled, and the storm of difficult sentiments that had been clogging her throat somewhat abated, Arabella found herself able to converse.

  “I have had some news about the captain,” she said after a long hesitation. “Though I must confess it did not reach my ears through any official channels.”

  Gowse gave her a sidelong glance. “Not good news, I’ll warrant.”

  She shook her head, unsurprised by Gowse’s comment—her sullen silence and downcast expression on boarding the coach would have made the character of her news quite clear—nor by his bluntness. “It seems that Napoleon’s chief gaoler on Venus is to be replaced, and his replacement is a man called Fouché.”

  “The Executioner of Lyon?” Gowse’s expression darkened.

  “You have heard of him?”

  “Every airman’s heard of him, Miss Ashby. Master gunners frighten their powder-monkeys with tales of Fouché’s cruelty. When he was minister of police during the war, even cowards’d fight to the death rather’n be taken as prisoners under his tender mercies. Even Bonaparte’s afraid of him.”

  Arabella felt her own mouth tightening to match Gowse’s sour expression. “Then there is no time to be lost.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her.

  She leaned in close. “Venus and Mars are in conjunction. To reach Venus, Fouché’s ship will be forced to take the long route around the Sun, but the distance from Mars is much less. If I were to depart immediately, I could easily reach Venus before he does—as much as several months earlier. Time enough to devise some stratagem to free the captain from his imprisonment.”

  The carriage pulled up in front of the manor house then, and the stable-boys came running out to unhitch the huresh. “Won’t be easy to find passage to Venus,” Gowse said as he assisted Arabella down from the carriage, “what with Napoleon and all. But I’ll ask around and see what’s in port.”

  “Thank you, Gowse. I appreciate your assistance.”

  “Nothin’ I wouldn’t do for an old shipmate,” he replied, and winked.

  * * *

  “Absolutely not!” Michael fumed, his eye fixed firmly on Arabella.

  At this moment, she thought, her brother resembled their late father more strongly than ever before … but with an admixture of their mother’s intransigence. Yet she knew what she must do, and she would not be stayed from her course.

  They were alone in Michael’s office. Father’s collection of automata still adorned the high shelf behind the desk, all tidily dusted and polished, but hardly ever wound—a fact which caused Arabella some pain. Michael had never participated in the passion for automata which she had shared with her father, and now that the office was her brother’s demesne those meticulously crafted devices stood motionless, nothing more than expensive knickknacks. The automaton dancer, in particular, whose mainspring Arabella had broken in an excess of zeal as a young girl, seemed to look down in silent rebuke.

  Arabella knew just how valuable a properly designed and maintained automaton could be. If not for Aadim, Diana’s automaton navigator, she might not be alive to-day, and certainly would not be engaged to be married.

  “I will not be dissuaded,” she replied, returning his stare evenly.

  “In the first place, we are very nearly in a state of war with France. For all I know, war may already have been declared! For you to take ship at all under these circumstances, let alone to the disputed territory of Venus, is sheer folly!”

  “The air is very large. On my last voyage, as you know, we were also at war, and Diana encountered only one French privateer, which we defeated.” It had been a very near thing, to be sure, but she saw no need to mention that.

  “In the second place, you are needed here.” He gestured impatiently at the stub of his leg. “You know that I cannot survey the grounds and supervise the care
takers as I should.”

  “But you are improving every day! Dr. Fellowes assures me that you should be sufficiently recovered to ride huresh-back in a month or less. Until then, Markath can be your eyes and ears on the grounds. I know that you trust him implicitly.”

  “He is very good,” Michael acknowledged. “But he is only a Martian, and your particular skills—your rapport with the servants, your methodical care with the books, a thousand other things—are invaluable in the running of the estate.”

  “You flatter me, dear brother, but you and I both know that Khema is ten times as valuable as I.” Khema had been Arabella and Michael’s itkhalya, or Martian nanny, when they had been children, and had taught them the ways of the desert and all things Martian. She had been instrumental in quelling the rebellion, and now served as the plantation’s majordomo. “Nothing whatsoever would be accomplished on this estate without her. In fact, during the rebellion, when she alone was responsible for the estate, every thing ran smoothly … despite the violence all around! I dare say that neither you nor I could have done as well.”

  Michael pursed his lips, neither conceding her point nor offering any thing to gainsay it. “In the third place,” he said after a time, “even if I were so foolish as to allow you to travel to Venus, what could you possibly accomplish there? Surely the assistance of one young woman, even one so formidable as yourself, cannot make any difference against the massed might of Bonaparte’s forces.” He drew himself heavily from his chair and clumped across the floor with his crutch, then took her hand gently in his. “The captain is brave and very resourceful for a man of his race.”

  Arabella glared at her brother. Although he had acceded to her betrothal to Captain Singh, he had never been completely comfortable with the captain’s color, accent, or religion. “For a man of any race.”

  He acknowledged her correction by ducking his head and raising his hands, palms spread. “All the more reason for us to be certain that if any thing can be done to effect his release, he will do it. Nothing can be gained by you risking your life in such a foolhardy manner.”

  Arabella straightened. “I have been reading the Naval Chronicle, in which are accounted the experiences of many English officers who escaped Napoleon’s European prisons during the recent land wars. Though many brave men managed to depart the prison itself through their own resources, most were recaptured before they reached neutral territory. Most of the successful escapes—those in which the escapees actually returned to England—were made possible only through the instrumentality of paid agents in the neighboring villages, on terms arranged by the fugitive’s friends at home.”

  “I fail to see how this is relevant.”

  “Let me put it to you plain: successful escape from Napoleon’s prisons requires help from outside—local guides, accommodations, forged papers, and, if necessary, even bribery. During the European wars, locals opposed to Napoleon were well known to the English, and payment and instructions for their services had only to be conveyed over the short distance from England to France. But in this case, our knowledge of the situation on Venus is extremely limited and the distance is very much greater. To obtain the equivalent assistance would require months and months—months Captain Singh does not have—and the chance that payment and instructions would be intercepted en route is very great. To ensure success I must voyage to Venus myself, and as soon as possible, in order to arrange and fund his escape from close at hand.”

  “You have done your research,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “But I still cannot countenance such an adventure.”

  “I am sorry,” she said, and cupped Michael’s hand in both her own, “my dearest brother, but this is a thing I must do.”

  Michael drew his hand from hers and turned to the window, where rank on rank of khoresh-trees marched to the horizon. He stood in that contemplative pose for a long time before turning back to her. “You are a most vexing young woman, you know.” But his face bore a slight, whimsical smile.

  “I know,” she replied, feeling her own mouth curve into a matching expression.

  He blew out a breath. “As your brother, I could forbid you to go. But you and I both know that, even if I did so, you would do whatever you wish regardless. I suppose I have no choice but to accede to your request.”

  She embraced him then, but her inward feelings bore no taste of triumph … rather, her sentiments combined concern for her captain, love for her brother, and anxious anticipation over events to come. “Thank you,” she breathed in his ear.

  They held each other a moment longer; then he straightened awkwardly, nearly dropping his crutch in the process, and stumped to the desk. “You will require funds,” he said, seating himself and bringing out the ledger-book from its locked drawer. “I will instruct our banker to furnish you with a letter of note. Will five hundred pounds suffice, do you think?”

  The astonishing figure made her breath catch in her throat, emphasizing as it did the gravity of the task before her. It was, she knew, a very substantial fraction of the plantation’s income, and equivalent to a year’s living—a very comfortable year’s living—for many a smaller landholder. Yet she knew from her readings that passage, paraphernalia, and influence—bribery, to be blunt—were all necessary for a successful escape, and could be extremely expensive. “I should hope that it would be,” she said at last. Then, considering, she added, “Be sure to instruct him to make certain that it is payable at Venus.”

  He paused, tapping the pen upon his chin. “What currency do they employ there?”

  “I…” She swallowed. “I do not know.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, both very much aware of how many unknown considerations stood between Arabella and her captain.

  Then he took out a sheet of paper and began to write.

  3

  SEEKING PASSAGE

  “I am terribly sorry, miss,” the purser said, “but there’s no passage to Venus to be had for love nor money. Not on this ship … nor on any other, I’d warrant.”

  They stood on the deck of Calliope, a fine four-masted packet ship recently arrived from Ceres, which rested on her sand-legs in Fort Augusta’s harbor. That wide stretch of flat, soft sand—perfect for the mooring of ships of the air and sheltered from the prevailing winds by the rocky hills north of town—was the principal reason for the fort’s presence in this location and for its prominence on Mars Company route maps. But at this moment the harbor was so crammed with ships that barely another could be squeezed in. Hundreds of masts stood barren of sail, and only two of the five massive furnace-houses sent smoke upward from their chimneys. With Earth so far away in her orbit, and Venus under embargo by the Coalition of nations united against Napoleon, the number of departing ships requiring the furnaces’ hot air for their initial ascent had been reduced by more than half.

  The few ships which were departing were bound for Ceres or one of the other asteroid colonies, and as soon as Calliope had landed Arabella had made her way on board in hopes the new ship carried news of a change in the war’s fortunes, or perhaps that her crew had not yet heard of the embargo, or, failing that, that she might be able to entice them to risk violating the embargo for a sufficiently large fee. But none of these eventualities had come to pass. Now she stood disconsolate on Calliope’s deck, her constant sense of unhappy separation from her fiancé only strengthened by the familiar scents of tar and hemp rope. Her discomfort was further heightened by the presence of Martha, who held herself so rigidly that she seemed to be attempting to levitate from the filthy deck through sheer force of propriety.

  “I thank you for your time, sir,” Arabella said, and gave the purser a curtsey before making her miserable way back to the coach.

  “No luck?” Gowse said as she trudged into view.

  “Alas, no.”

  Gowse grunted and shook his head, his eyes downcast. But after Martha had entered the coach, before Arabella could ascend he stayed her with a raised finger.

  “W
hat is the matter?” she asked.

  “I have a friend,” he murmured very low, “well, a colleague, who may be willing to take you to Venus. But you might find him … unsuitable.”

  Arabella studied Gowse’s unlovely face. “Unsuitable in what way?” she whispered.

  “He’s a privateer. Sailing under the flag of one of the Martian satraps.”

  Arabella drew in a hissing breath at the word privateer. It brought to her mind the smells of gunpowder and shattered khoresh-wood, the crash of cannon and the screams of injured airmen. It had been corsairs—French privateers—who had attacked and disabled Diana on her way to Mars, and Arabella bore no love for the species. But then she considered Gowse and what she knew of him. “Nonetheless, he must have some finer qualities, or you would never have thought to mention him.”

  “Aye,” Gowse said, and nodded. “He’s a fine airman, excellent navigator, sharp as a tack. Cheeky b—d, but I’d trust him with my life. But he … well, let us say that he made an enemy in the Admiralty on account of a gambling debt, and he lost his commission. Since then he’s had to turn privateer to keep body and soul together.”

  A throat-clearing sound came from within the coach, and Arabella assured Martha that she would ascend in a moment. “And what might be the name of this paragon of virtue?” she whispered to Gowse.

  “Fox. Daniel Fox, captain of the Touchstone.”

  “Fox.” She rolled the name around on her tongue, finding the flavor uncertain, but very keenly aware that no other vintage was on offer. “Very well. Pray ask your friend Mr. Fox to call on us at his earliest convenience.”

  “Aye aye, Miss Ashby,” he said, and touched a knuckle to his forehead.

  * * *

  Two days later, Arabella stormed into the stables, where she found Gowse polishing Hector’s carapace. “Why can Fox not call upon me here?” she demanded, waving a paper that Martha had just brought to her. Fox cant come, read the note in Gowse’s scrawl. You must go to him.