“Our timely return to Mars was also your doing,” Fox had continued, “albeit indirectly.” For it was the cargo-carrier Kemekhta, carrying the two formerly-enslaved Venusian Isambard-handlers to Venus, that had encountered Touchstone drifting helpless and towed her to Venus for repairs. At Venus, Fox’s persuasive skills, combined with the Isambard-handlers’ effusive thanks to Arabella and Khema, had convinced a significant number of independent Venusian traders to take up arms in the cause of Mars. “And if you had not demonstrated to me at Mercury the navigational possibilities of the perpendicular currents, our return journey would have taken months longer.”
* * *
Soon the gig arrived at Royal George and, under the silent stares of a hundred English airmen, the Martians disembarked. As soon as Captain Singh’s toe touched the planks, some one shouted, “Admiral on deck!” Instantaneously every man on deck brought a knuckle to his forehead, a tune played on the bosun’s pipe, and cannon boomed.
But Captain Singh waved away all these accolades. “I am merely a captain,” he said. “There is your victorious admiral!” He indicated Khema, who, following Martian protocol, had followed him in descending from the gig to the English flagship’s deck.
The English airmen looked at each other with confusion and concern, obviously uncertain of the protocol of this situation. Finally one of the officers, wearing the uniform of a Royal Navy captain, cleared his throat, pointed to Khema, and cried, “You heard the man! Admiral on deck!”
The salutes, the bosun’s pipe, and the cannon repeated themselves, albeit a bit raggedly, and Khema accepted the tribute with what seemed to Arabella more grace than it deserved.
Two straight rigid lines of Naval airmen awaited them. Had these men been selected for uniformity? They certainly did seem all of a height, with identical clothing and identical steely expressions, and they floated in strict parallel, looking just as though they stood in gravity. And at the other end of those lines floated a crowd of officers.
Among the officers Arabella recognized the uniform of a Royal Navy admiral—a dour apple-cheeked man with a high forehead, he must be Admiral Thornbrough, the commander of the fleet—but her attention was drawn to one who, though he floated in the midst of the group, stood out due to his elaborate costume, broad girth, and the wordless deference offered him by those about him. The Prince Regent.
The Prince was even more corpulent than he had been when Arabella had departed Brighton; though his uniform was very well tailored, his jowls still strained against his collar. That uniform, seen close up, was even gaudier than it had appeared through her telescope—a flamboyant confection of braid, medals, and brass buttons, embroidered with vast quantities of metallic thread and topped by a pair of elaborate epaulets so festooned with fringe they seemed two golden mops attached to his shoulders. And the hat was even more extravagant than the jacket. Knowing the Prince’s tastes, Arabella was certain he had designed the ensemble himself.
The expression on the Prince’s face was thunderous, and though his piggish eyes darted all about none of the English officers would meet them. The reason for this discord in the ranks soon became clear, for even as Admiral Thornbrough floated toward Khema, carrying his sword flat across his hands for a formal presentation of surrender, the Prince pushed through the crowd of officers and clapped the Admiral upon the shoulder, spinning him around in the air. “How dare you!” he spat. “This war is not yet over! Far from it!”
Most of the officers managed to contain their outrage at this violation of protocol—loyalty to the Prince Regent winning out over respect for Naval tradition. But the expression on Admiral Thornbrough’s face was that of a nanny faced with the tantrum of a toddler … a nanny for whom such tantrums were a daily occurrence, and whose continued employment depended upon the approval of the parents rather than the child’s good behavior in public. “The exigencies of war, Your Royal Highness,” he explained, clearly not for the first time. “There is no dishonor in surrendering when one has been fairly bested. To continue this conflict would be a pointless waste of lives and treasure.”
“Treasure!” roared the Prince, his already-red cheeks becoming still more florid. “Consider the treasure to be won if we press on!” He turned in the air, importuning his officers with his hands alternately extended in supplication and clenched in fists. “The cost of the war is nothing by comparison with the gains to be realized! You cannot surrender! We will not permit it!”
The English officers shifted uncomfortably, their eyes going every which way as they sought to avoid their sovereign’s demanding gaze. Their admiral, she noted, looked to Captain Singh as though seeking sympathy … but found none.
Treasure, Arabella knew, was to the Prince the crux of the matter: the money to be made from the control of Mars. He had admitted as much to her in Brighton. But Lady Hertford had said, “He is manipulable. If you appeal to his self-importance, if you can convince him that his interests align with yours…”
“Your Royal Highness,” Arabella said into the awkward silence.
At once all eyes went to her, and she suddenly realized the sight she must present—a slim twenty-three-year-old woman in a scandalously revealing Martian leather outfit, the only female among hundreds of English airmen, whose presence had been painstakingly ignored by every one up to this point.
“You!” spat the Prince, pointing at Arabella with astonishing ill manners. “You are the Jezebel, the virago, the traitoress who lured our commander away from us! You could have been the first Duchess of Mars!”
“It was for the sake of the Martian people that I departed your company,” she replied evenly, bowing in the air. A curtsey might have been more appropriate, but could not be properly performed without skirts. “They are worthy of your respect, Your Royal Highness, and as you have learned this day they are formidable opponents. You may continue to battle against them if you wish”—here the Prince pouted still further and he nodded, as though she had conceded a point—“but Mars is their home, and no matter how many ships or guns or men you send against them they will always be more numerous, more spirited, and more knowledgeable of their native land. You can bomb them and shoot them and imprison them, you can try to crush their spirits with drugs, but in the end they will win out. And the cost of the effort will be … incalculable. Consider how much money your father spent fighting against the Americans … and still lost out in the end.” The Prince’s face seemed to swell as she spoke, like a balloon being overinflated toward the bursting point.
“But.” She held up one finger to indicate a change of subject. “Suppose that instead of repeating your father’s mistake, you support the Martians in their bid for independence. You would avoid the debt, the disruption of trade, the increased taxes needed to support a war … a war in which the transportation costs alone, to supply the troops at such an enormous distance, would be outrageous, never mind the cost of the war itself. And, afterward, instead of facing a hostile population determined to stymie your every wish—which is the best you could hope to achieve even if you somehow managed to eke out a temporary victory—you would have a willing trading partner, eager to sell you khoresh-wood and fine Martian steel and purchase English craft and manufactured goods.”
The Prince, by now, was listening carefully, and Arabella set the hook. “Keep in mind that the Honorable Mars Company would take the lion’s share of this increased trade. And I know that you, personally, would profit substantially, due to your holdings in the Company. These profits, by the way, would be entirely yours, and not under the control of Parliament. And you would be hailed by both Britons and Martians as the bringer of peace and prosperity to two planets.”
Every eye on the deck was still upon Arabella’s face, but she strove to ignore them and meet only the Prince’s gaze. “Prinny,” she simpered—hating herself for doing so, but knowing that it was necessary for the future of Mars—“I know that you are not a bad man. You only want what is best for your country. And all you need do, to bri
ng about all of this peace and prosperity, is surrender this one small battle.”
“Surrender?!” he spluttered. “By no means!” Arabella’s heart sank. But then the Prince continued, “This is no surrender … this is a great victory for England!” And, again pushing several other officers aside, he seized his Admiral by the shoulder and snatched the sword from his nerveless fingers, offering it in turn to Captain Singh. “Pray accept this sword,” he said, ignoring all protocol, “as a token of our great esteem for the Martians and our hopes for a great and very profitable future.”
Captain Singh silently and smoothly redirected the offered sword to Khema. The Prince’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped like a fish, but he did not, as Arabella had feared he would, protest or snatch the sword back.
“I accept your surrender,” Khema replied with more formality and dignity than the graceless offer deserved, “on behalf of all the peoples of Mars.” She then bowed from the waist, in English fashion—how odd it seemed after so many months of only Martian bows and Martian salutes—and accepted the congratulations of the English officers upon her victory.
None of the officers seemed quite certain how to treat Arabella, with her outlandish costume and habits. Many bowed, a few shook her hand as though she were a gentleman, and some simply stared as though she were some talking dog. But she did not care. She had won out, and with her husband alive and whole by her side.
* * *
The Victory Ball was held at Mars House in Fort Augusta. Despite the official name change, nearly every one still called it Government House; however, the fire-places which had formerly burned continually in every room for the comfort of the English had been extinguished. Company House, by contrast, was still Company House, and in fact had become so busy in recent weeks that construction of an addition was being discussed.
The ball was a very strange affair in many ways, with some of the defeated English plainly glad to see the end of the conflict and some of the victorious Martians plainly concerned about what the future might bring. It was also rather strained by the fact that the Martians, the most numerous of the company, were unfamiliar with the dances, games, and foodstuffs on offer, and the Venusians even more so. The Martian victory celebration, or khapla lokhno, had been held earlier in the week, and it had been equally awkward for the human guests. The shorokleth, in particular, a rare and costly crustacean considered uniquely propitious when consumed raw, had resulted in several very uncomfortable incidents due to its strong flavor.
Many of the Tories and other loyalists—including, to Arabella’s surprise, several prominent Martians—had expressed their horror and dismay at the terms of the Prince Regent’s surrender, vowing to take themselves and all their chattel back to England. Among these, sadly, was Michael, who had absolutely refused to speak to Arabella, conducting all negotiations via Mr. Trombley, the family solicitor. Under the terms of the treaty, Martian property held by English subjects—all of which, technically, belonged to the Crown and was only leased by its occupants—would return to Martian ownership, but those who wished to continue living upon it would be permitted to do so, under the terms of their lease, for the rest of their natural lives. Through the offices of Mr. Trombley, Arabella and Michael had worked out an arrangement whereby Arabella would inhabit Woodthrush Woods, while Michael would receive the proceeds of the khoresh-wood plantation. Until Michael vacated the property, though, she and Captain Singh were living in rented rooms in Fort Augusta.
After being handed down from her carriage by Gowse—having survived both the Battle of Tekhmet and the Battle of Phobos, he had loudly sworn off aerial service forever and taken a position as Arabella’s huresh-groom—Arabella accepted a glass of lureth-water from a passing servant, and strolled about the gathering for some time. Khema and her fellow akhmok were holding court, but many of the other guests had not yet arrived … including Captain Singh, who was engaged in negotiations at Company House. Now that the fighting was over, his background had made him the obvious choice to represent the new Martian government to the Company, but the discussions often ran long and this was far from the first time he had been late to an important event.
“Mrs. Singh!” Arabella turned to the familiar light voice to find, as she had expected, Dr. Barry. He raised his glass to her as he approached. “Sherry?”
“I am drinking lureth-water,” she said, raising her own glass. “But thank you.” She paused, considering. “I had thought you did not partake of strong spirits?”
“Not usually,” he said. “But I have had news to-day, both bad and good.” She realized from the surgeon’s careful diction that he was, in fact, already slightly tipsy, a state in which she had never before observed him. “My patient Mr. Young has passed on.”
“Young? Oh, my goodness!”
“You knew him?”
“He was a shipmate of mine.” He had been a member of her mess when she had first joined Diana. They had, in fact, shoveled coal together on her very first ascent as Diana’s captain’s boy, and his loss, even on top of so many others, pained her extremely.
“My condolences. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.” He bowed.
“I had thought he was discharged?”
“He had been, but there was a deep and hidden infection which, apparently, his powers were insufficient to defeat. He returned to hospital yesterday and died early this morning.” He shrugged. “He was sixty-eight years of age. Not a bad run, in his profession.”
“Not bad at all, no.” She sipped at her lureth-water and seriously considered taking Dr. Barry up on his offer of sherry … or perhaps even brandy. How she wished Navy grog were on offer! That would be a proper toast for Young. “You said you had good news as well?”
“Indeed, and yet it is the very same news. Young was the last of the casualties from the Battle of Phobos in my care. Now the battle is truly over. Though some will suffer from their injuries for the rest of their lives, of course.” He raised his glass again. “To the invalids.”
“To the invalids.” They drained their glasses, and Arabella considered her own injury. Her artificial foot functioned well enough that many people did not even know she had one, but her stump still did pain her from time to time. And that pain, she had been warned by many a wounded airman, would only worsen as she aged.
The planet Mars, too, bore scars from the battles just past which would take a long time to heal, if ever. Although Lord Reid had been expelled from the Court of Directors of the Honorable Mars Company—one of several prominent men to lose his position in the purges following the failure of the Prince’s scheme, though of course the Prince himself was immune to any such—the drug ulka had taken root among the Martian population and other suppliers had arisen to meet the demand. This was an ongoing problem and, according to the Venusians, it might never be completely eradicated.
“I am disappointed, Mrs. Singh,” the surgeon said, interrupting her thoughts. She returned her attention to him and saw from his mien that he was not, in actuality, very disappointed at all.
She returned his smile. “How so?”
“I had hoped to see you in a dashing cutaway coat this evening.” He gestured to her dress, a lovely frock of white figured gauze with slashed sleeves, which Lady Corey had helped her select. “You made a very handsome gentleman, you know.”
Arabella found that her emotions in response to this compliment were surprisingly complex, and she took a sip of her water to hide her discomfiture. “I thank you, sir. But I suspect that I shall not be donning any of my brother’s old outfits again. I shall certainly wear my thukhong, of course, for expeditions into the desert, but despite its silhouette—rather shocking though it may be to those of conventional mind—it is in fact a woman’s garment just as much as it is a man’s.”
“Thank you for enlightening me.” He seemed to inspect her form very carefully. “A word of advice?”
“Hm?”
“Even when costumed as a gentleman, your posture is very much as it
is now, quite straight and prim. You should strive to take up more space.” He angled his feet slightly outward and put his arms akimbo, suddenly seeming several inches larger. Though in fact he was quite a small man, slight as well as short … and now that she looked at him carefully, his hips were rather rounded as well. And his voice was quite light and high for a man. Somehow she had never noticed all of this at once before.
Suddenly she marveled at just how much difference a person’s costume and posture could make … and wondered whether, in fact, the difference between a man and a woman were as ineffable as she had been taught. But that was a conversation for another day. “Thank you for enlightening me,” she said.
“You are welcome.”
“Mrs. Singh!” came another voice, this one deep and carrying—the voice of an experienced aerial captain. It was, of course, Fox, with Lady Corey on his arm. The two had been inseparable ever since his dramatic return from the dead, as he put it. “Will you please explain to these delightful gentlemen the principles of operation of your automaton pilot?”
“But of course.” She made her way over to them, where she found that Fox had been regaling a small crowd of Fort Augusta’s leading citizens with the tale of how he had escaped from the Ceres fleet. It was a story she had heard many times before, of course, and though Fox always acknowledged how invaluable Arabella’s contributions had been to his survival, somehow Fox’s own role grew more heroic with each retelling.
“The use of the perpendicular current may have been my idea,” Arabella said to Fox, “but it was your own navigational skill which made the course possible. And it was your recruitment of the Venusian traders to our cause which truly saved the day, in the end.”
Arabella the Traitor of Mars Page 29
