Arabella the Traitor of Mars

by David D. Levine

  Arabella’s mother glared at her for that … but she did not deny it. She drew in a breath then, and let it out slowly—not quite a sigh, more a gathering of energy for what must come. “Very well. What do you require?”

  “The return of my foot, and of my machine. I do not suppose you would allow Cole to convey me to Greenwich in the carriage?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “My benevolence cannot extend so far. For the household to offer such visible support…” She did not say to a traitor but the words were clearly in her mind. “… would jeopardize our standing. I must think of your sisters.”

  Arabella’s heart fell, but she nodded acknowledgement. “A bite to eat, then. A change of clothing. And also a set of men’s clothing. Do you still have any of Michael’s old things?”

  “I believe so.” The expression on her mother’s face clearly showed her disapproval … and her resignation to her fate.

  “And one more thing … though time presses upon me most severely, I must visit with my sisters before I depart.”

  “Of course.”

  They embraced then, and there were more tears, on both sides.

  * * *

  “Arabella!” Chloë shrieked, rushing to embrace her the moment she entered the sisters’ bedchamber. She leapt into Arabella’s arms, driving Arabella back onto her heels. Mother remained in the corridor, the light from her lamp drawing a bright line across the sisters’ beds.

  “How you’ve grown!” Arabella noted with a laugh. Indeed, when last they had seen each other Chloë had been a mere slip of a thing, and would have climbed Arabella like a tukurush without either of them noticing the weight. She was still every bit as energetic and keen, but was turning into quite a substantial girl.

  Fanny, the elder of Arabella’s two younger siblings, had always been more shy than her sister, more slender, and less physical. Nonetheless she too gave a high-pitched shriek of joy, and as soon as Chloë had descended from Arabella she embraced her in turn, albeit less strenuously. Arabella could not fail to notice that she was maturing into a young woman.

  “I am so very happy to see the both of you,” Arabella said, and felt considerable emotion welling up in her breast even as she uttered the sentiment. Indeed, she had not realized how much she had missed her dear, dear sisters.

  “Have you come back?” Fanny asked, her light high voice so familiar and dear to Arabella’s ears. “Will you be staying for ever?”

  Arabella bit her lip. “I regret this immensely, but I may not remain even one more day. It is very pressing business that has brought me here, and I must continue to Greenwich without delay.”

  “Oh!” both the sisters cried miserably, and both embraced Arabella.

  “I love you both so very dearly,” Arabella murmured into Fanny’s slim flannel-clad shoulder. And then she looked up and saw her mother, still standing with her lamp in the corridor. “And I love you too,” she said, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes, and disentangled one hand to reach out to her.

  Arabella’s mother set the lamp upon a table and joined her daughters then, the four of them forming a warm familial knot wrapped in flannel and love.

  5

  THE SWENSON CURRENT

  The Sun, now well up, glinted off the snow as Arabella pedaled into the outskirts of Greenwich—cold, hungry, aching, exhausted, and dispirited, but not nearly so much so as she would have been without her few hours’ respite at Marlowe Hall.

  Soon after leaving Croydon she had begun to encounter people on the road—bakers and milkmen at first, later farmers and servants heading to market—who had been so astonished by her peculiar machine that they had taken no notice whatsoever of the fact that she was a woman in men’s clothing. Despite their amazed entreaties, she had sped past them with a cheery wave, not giving them the opportunity for further inspection of her disguise.

  Soon the masts of the dockyard hove into view, gently nodding and waving in the breeze. This visible indication of the nearness of her long journey’s end at first gave new energy to Arabella’s pedaling legs, like the rush of a homeward-bound huresh upon sighting the paddock. But as her destination drew still closer she found herself flagging, perhaps from awareness not only of how very far she had come from Brighton but how many tens of thousands of miles still lay before her, and the last half-hour turned into a dreadful, weary slog. But eventually—weary, gasping, shivering, and filthy—she presented herself at the dockyard gate to an astonished pair of Marines, who offered her tea and biscuits in their guard-house while word of her arrival was sent to Touchstone.

  It was Brindle, Captain Fox’s steward, who came to the guard-house to convey her to the ship. “I am so very pleased to find you here,” she told him after they had taken their leave of the Marines. “I was afraid you would all be in London already, for Nelson’s funeral.”

  “Oh no, Mrs. Singh,” Brindle replied. “None of us was invited.”

  “None? Not even Captain Fox?”

  “No, ma’am. Only Navy people. Even Greenwich pensioners going to march in the funeral procession, but not privateers.” He sneered the word, with a tolerable imitation of the pinched London accent. “We get to watch the parade from the pavement, like common folk.”

  “That seems terribly unfair.”

  “It do.”

  Finally she was handed up Touchstone’s side, to be met by Captain Fox and his officers, arranged on the deck with nearly Naval precision. “Welcome back, Mrs. Singh,” Fox said, bowing. “We had not known to expect you.” Despite his formality, she could not fail to note the expression of cheeky bemusement upon his face, nor the studied disdain on that of Lady Corey, who stood just behind him. Both, she realized, were directed at her scandalously clad lower limbs.

  “I must apologize for my dress,” Arabella said. “Skirts are not suitable for the machine upon which I have been traveling.” She gestured to the Draisine, which had just been handed up from the lighter to the deck.

  “A most unusual conveyance indeed,” Fox acknowledged. But she sensed that his interest in the machine was only polite … quite unlike the reaction she would have expected from Captain Singh, whose fascination with all things mechanical was equal to her own.

  The thought of which, unfortunately, brought the bleak despair of her situation heavily to mind. Having achieved her immediate goal of making contact with Fox, she must now persuade him to take her to Mars … and away from her Judas of a husband. Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she swallowed to force them back.

  “May I beg the use of your cabin,” she asked Fox, “to change into proper clothing? And once I have done so … I have a request to make of you.” This last was directed to Fox, but with her eyes she included Lady Corey, the officers, and the men. “A most serious request, which may have grave consequences for every one aboard.”

  Fox’s expression immediately changed from amusement to concern. “Of course,” he said, bowing and gesturing to the cabin … but his troubled gaze never left her face.

  For a moment Arabella hesitated, desperate to tell him every thing that had happened since they had last seen each other—and hoping against all hope that he would agree to assist her. But then she closed her eyes, shook her head, and hurried past him. Before she presented her case she must compose herself, and changing her clothing would give her the opportunity to do so.

  * * *

  “… and that is why I must ask that you carry me to Mars at once, to warn them of the coming invasion. I recognize that this is an extraordinary, indeed extravagantly audacious, request, but immediate action is the only way to prevent a grievous, interplanetary wrong from being committed.”

  Arabella looked around at the crowd in Touchstone’s great cabin—which was, despite its name, much smaller than Arabella’s bedchamber at Marlowe Hall, with a far lower ceiling. The shutters over the broad paned window at the cabin’s stern were closed, for privacy, but a lantern on the captain’s navigational table illuminated their faces evenly. Most of
the officers she held as familiar acquaintances—she had dined often with them on her voyage from Mars to Venus, and then they had all been held prisoner together by Napoleon—but among them she counted only Liddon, Fox’s chief mate, as a true friend. Their reactions to Arabella’s plea varied from skepticism to sympathy, but every one plainly looked to their captain, Fox, for his decision.

  Fox himself gazed levelly at Arabella, his expression revealing little. He was, she knew, fiercely independent, and the opportunity to tweak the Prince Regent’s nose would surely make this rebellious action more appealing than otherwise. But he was also an intelligent, practical man, and very much aware that England, now indisputably the greatest power in the solar system, was not a force to be trifled with. Behind those hooded eyes he was certainly weighing his options with future profit in mind.

  To Arabella’s surprise Fox turned to his left, where Lady Corey had been listening to Arabella’s appeal with one pale forefinger resting on her chin. “Mrs. Fox,” he said to her, “what is your opinion on this matter?”

  The forefinger tapped once, twice, three times, then descended to Lady Corey’s lap. “As a loyal subject of His Majesty,” she said, “I am, of course, inclined to support the Prince Regent in whatever course of action he chooses. Yet I am also a denizen of Mars. Though I was not born there, my late husband was, and I have spent nearly my entire adult life upon that planet; as such, my sympathies lie with the brave men and women who have wrested their livelihoods from its dry, unforgiving sand. I must consider whether the Prince’s scheme will benefit them or harm them.”

  “I implore you to consider the plight of the Martians!” Arabella entreated. “What the Prince contemplates is nothing less than slavery!”

  But at this declaration Lady Corey’s expression chilled. “The same Martians who killed my husband and reduced our family home to a pile of broken stones?”

  Aghast at her own insensitivity, Arabella’s gaze dropped to her lap. “I beg your forgiveness, Lady Corey. You know that I am passionate about maintaining peace between the English on Mars and the Martians, whom even you must acknowledge vastly outnumber us.” She looked up, confidence returning. “As well you know, they are a proud and resourceful people. I am certain that when the Prince attempts to subjugate them, English people and English property will suffer just as greatly as the Martians. The bloodshed on both sides will be horrific.”

  “Unless your oh-so-clever husband can find a way to avoid it,” Lady Corey countered.

  Arabella’s feelings on this point were extremely mixed, but she strove to stick to facts. “Consider the Martians’ numbers,” she said. “Consider the vast spaces of the Martian desert. Consider the determination and organization they showed during the recent rebellion. And consider Khema, who was renowned among her people as a brilliant tactician even before she became an akhmok. In the rebellion she remained neutral, defending the property and humans of Woodthrush Woods, rather than joining the mobs that burned so much of Fort Augusta. But in the coming war—and, I assure you, it will be war—the consequences of defeat for her people would be so high that I am certain she will put all of her considerable abilities at their service. In a game of chess between Khema and Captain Singh … I do not know who would emerge victorious, but there is no doubt that many, many pawns would fall before the game was done.”

  Again Lady Corey’s finger tapped against her chin. “Your argument is persuasive, child. But to take arms against the Prince Regent…”

  “Oh tush, my dear!” Fox burst out. “How can you profess such loyalty to the man when you have been treated so shabbily by the ton of which he is the very head and symbol?”

  Lady Corey’s lips pursed tightly. “I wish you would not mention this personal issue in company. It is irrelevant, in any event.”

  “It is far from irrelevant!” Fox replied. Addressing the company, he said, “You all know as well as I how fine and elegant a lady my wife is—a far better person than I, to be sure—and yet the ton, the cream of London society, considers her a mere provincial, a parvenu! I have, with these very ears, heard it said of her, ‘Her husband, alas, is dead, and even worse a Martian!’ Which is an even greater insult to her than it is to myself!”

  Though Lady Corey’s self-control was excellent, Arabella noted that a slight smile crept onto her lips at Fox’s fervent defense of her.

  “Surely,” Fox continued, “if these London rogues—who have the gall to call themselves ‘polite’ society—consider even my dear and noble wife so unworthy of respect, what treatment can the common Englishman on Mars expect from their leader? Even leaving aside the damage done to the native Martians.” He shook his head theatrically. “I may be an Englishman, but I sail under the flag of Sor Khoresh, not England … and I have ever sided with David over Goliath.” He turned to Arabella and gazed into her eyes with deep sincerity. “As you well know, I am a rogue of a privateer—a man for whom mere riches count more than king or country. Yet my respect for my dear wife, and for you, my dear Mrs. Singh—you who have done me so many valuable services in the past year that I could never hope to repay them all—compels me to throw in my lot with the Martians!” He looked around at his officers. “Are you with me, lads?”

  “Aye aye!” the men chorused, and Arabella’s heart swelled with emotion.

  As for Lady Corey, though she gazed at her husband with frank admiration, her face was troubled. Fox saw this too, for he turned to her and said quite tenderly, “I know that you do not enjoy interplanetary travel.” This was true, Arabella knew; the older woman had never learned to handle herself properly in a state of free descent, and was much better suited to the salon and the tea-room than to the raging currents of the interplanetary atmosphere. “And this voyage may prove even more hazardous than the last. But I have an idea how you may serve the cause without exposing yourself to any discomfort or danger.”

  “How so?”

  “I propose … espionage.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  Lady Corey tilted her head at him, amused. “I am intrigued, sir.”

  “Your ability to thread the needle of polite society is legendary. If you would consent to remain in London, I am certain you could discern many particulars that would be useful to the Martian cause.”

  She considered the idea. “I can do better than that,” she said. “I believe I may be able to not only acquire intelligence, but throw sand in the works.” Her eyes fell half-closed and her mouth curved into a dangerous, cat-like grin. “That would, I believe, provide adequate revenge upon those termagants of the London ton.”

  “Excellent!” Fox cried, and rubbed his hands together. “Gentlemen … we have much to do before we may depart. Let us begin immediately!”

  “Sir…” Liddon put in, hesitantly. “I feel I must point out that Mars is very near conjunction.” As, of course, it was, which Arabella should have mentioned before even proposing her scheme. Her spirits immediately fell, and the expression on Fox’s face showed that he was equally dismayed.

  “Forgive me,” Lady Corey said, “but what does this mean?”

  “Suppose,” Arabella explained, “that you are the Earth, I am Mars, and the lantern between us is the Sun. The two planets are on opposite sides of the Sun, as you and I are now.”

  “But how can ‘conjunction’ mean that the two planets are as far from each other as they can be? I would expect the opposite.”

  “During conjunction, Mars and the Sun are conjoined, or very close together, in Earth’s sky.” Arabella ducked her head down until Lady Corey’s face was obscured behind the lantern’s wavering flame. “Do you see?”

  “So it is impossible to travel to Mars at this time without being burnt up by the Sun’s flames? Oh, dear.”

  “Interplanetary navigation is rather more complicated than that,” Fox clarified gently. “The tides and currents of the interplanetary atmosphere, not to mention orbital mechanics, mean that one almost never travels in a straight line. But, indeed, travel from Ear
th to Mars at this time would be exceedingly difficult.” He frowned. “I suppose we must wait until much closer to opposition.”

  “But that is exactly when the Prince’s fleet will launch!” Arabella cried. “If we wait until then, the Martians will have no warning at all!”

  Fox spread his hands helplessly. “What choice do we have? We could not possibly carry sufficient weight of food and water for the long passage at this season.”

  Arabella paused, considering the flickering lantern on the table between them, her mind superimposing aerial currents and orbital paths upon the scene. “I do not yet know,” she admitted. “But there may be an alternative. Do you have the greenwood box?”

  The “greenwood box” was a clockwork device Arabella had constructed during Touchstone’s passage from Mars to Venus. Although not nearly as sophisticated as Diana’s automaton navigator Aadim, it worked upon the same principles, and made possible many navigational calculations which would be unreasonably complex or time-consuming with pen and paper. It had been captured, along with Touchstone, by the French, but with any luck it would still have been aboard when Fox reclaimed the ship after the Battle of Venus.

  “It is in the hold,” Fox said. “Have it brought up forthwith.” This last was directed to Liddon, who touched his forehead with a knuckle and dashed out of the cabin.

  “Thank you,” Arabella said. “But even if I can work out a feasible course, it will certainly be a long and difficult journey. We will need to lay in as many supplies as we can carry.”

  Fox turned to his quartermaster. “Do as the lady says. Smartly, now! But also as quietly as you may … when we go, I should like it to be a surprise.” The quartermaster nodded acknowledgement.