Arabella of Mars

by David D. Levine

  She managed to keep the tears from her eyes until the door of her little closet had closed behind her. Even then, though, with the officers just the other side of a thin partition of khoresh-wood, she had to keep her sobs silent.

  * * *

  Two days later, Arabella floated before Aadim, watching the dials on his desk as his clockwork whirred and ticked through another course correction. The map of Mars was spread out before him, his pointing finger resting on Fort Augusta; though Mars’s turbulent Horn was smaller and calmer than that of Earth, navigating through it was still tricky, and frequent small corrections were required if Diana hoped to land at the port itself rather than hundreds of miles away.

  The many corrections were, she must admit, rather a blessing to her, as they provided her an excuse to spend time alone with Aadim. The clockwork navigator might not be much of a conversationalist, but unlike the officers and men, his behavior toward her had not changed with her clothing. Even the captain, whose treatment of her had altered the least, sometimes seemed discomfited by her skirted presence.

  She looked into the automaton’s eyes; though they did not see, they seemed filled with a sort of animation, jittering slightly as the wheels within his cabinet spun. “I wish I could take you off the ship and show you Woodthrush Woods,” she said, finger tracing an area some inches from the fort. “That is my family’s khoresh-tree plantation.” Though unmarked on Aadim’s map, the spot was well-worn in Arabella’s memory. The great manor house, the Martians’ dwellings of fused stone, the long drying-sheds with their great coal-stores—in which she would sometimes hide, to her mother’s great dismay—all sprang vividly into her mind’s eye. “Khema used to take Michael and me to Fort Augusta nearly every week.”

  At the thought of Michael, her eyes began to sting. Her fingers crept to her throat and touched the locket with his miniature portrait.

  She hoped her brother still lived. With all the delays that had afflicted Diana, Simon would surely have already reached the plantation and insinuated himself into its daily routine. Michael, for all his intelligence, could be naïve in his dealings with other people, and she feared that it would not take Simon long to work his way sufficiently into her brother’s confidences to have an opportunity to do him in. On an isolated plantation, a moment’s inattention might be sufficient for Simon to push Michael off a cliff, poison his water with uthesh-seed, or simply shoot him, and no one would ever be the wiser.

  A bell pinged, distracting Arabella from her distressing speculations. Startled, she looked up into Aadim’s face. The automaton’s head was tilted, his glass eyes seeming to regard her with concern.

  She took a deep breath, then let it out. “All will be well,” she said, and bent to record the sailing order from Aadim’s dials. “All will be well.”

  3

  MARS, 1813

  17

  MARS

  Two weeks later, Mars loomed ahead, a great butterscotch-colored globe the size of a melon at arm’s length. Contrasting with the blue of the sky beyond—a darker, more familiar blue than that seen in Earth’s vicinity—the sight raised great and conflicting emotions in Arabella’s breast.

  First and foremost, the approach to Mars promised an end to her time on Diana, and with it an end to many great annoyances. Free descent, for one, was far more troublesome in skirts than it had ever been in trousers, and she looked forward to the return of good solid gravity with a sense of keen anticipation. An alleviation of the very limited space and company on board ship was something else which she anticipated with great gladness. Most of all, though, she hoped for an end to the deep, abiding loneliness which had been her lot ever since the exposure of her sex. For her to associate with the crew on any thing other than a brief, superficial level would be entirely inappropriate given her sex, age, and station; to associate with the officers, on the other hand, was an exercise in frustration from which she had decided to abstain for every one’s benefit. Her primary company for the last three weeks had been Aadim, and to a lesser extent the captain, who had continued her instruction in navigation and clockworks on an informal basis whenever his other duties permitted. She took her meals in her tiny cabin.

  She would miss the captain, though—miss him very dearly. And he, she thought or hoped, would miss her as well. She knew that he spent as much time with her as he could without attracting the opprobrium of his officers, and he said that he greatly enjoyed her company and conversation. But that was as far as his sentiments toward her seemed to extend.

  Perhaps, she thought, it might be for the best that she would see no more of him after the landing. But, even so, the prospect weighed heavily upon her heart.

  The end of the voyage also meant, for good or ill, a return to the planet of her birth. Though she had never before examined the face of Mars with her own eyes—on her departure for Earth, she had been too outraged and despondent for more than a brief, despairing backward glance—his warm, yellow-orange color and his every visible feature were as familiar to her as the lines of her own palm, though the latter was now callused and scarred. Her father’s atlas and globe had given her the English names of the forts, trading posts, major mountain chains and valleys, and primary canals, while Khema had instructed her in the Martian names of all the other geographic features—the native cities, canals, plains, and rilles.

  On Earth she had felt heavy, sodden, and dull—oppressed by the thick and humid air, the smothering warmth, and of course the greater pressure of gravity. On Mars, she knew, she would leap and bound as she had when she’d been a girl, and enjoy khula and gethown and shktumaya and many other treats whose names and flavors she had nearly forgotten.

  But most important of all, Mars meant Michael. She prayed daily that, despite the many misadventures that had delayed Diana in her voyage, she would not arrive too late to warn him of Simon’s perfidy.

  Oh, how she would rejoice if—no, when, she reassured herself—she found Michael safe in the old manor house at Woodthrush Woods. They would laugh and play together as they had when they’d been children in dear Khema’s care, and hunt thorek, and steal sweets from the pantry.

  Or perhaps not. Michael was the head of the family now, and she supposed he must have many serious duties to attend to. But she hoped they would still be able to steal away for a Sunday picnic of khula-nuts on the Shokasto Plain.

  Either way, Simon would be sent packing and then entirely forgotten. Though perhaps a payment to his unfortunate wife, in recompense for the money Simon had wasted on his passage to Mars, could be arranged. Though she had helped hold Arabella imprisoned, and even discharged a pistol at her, she had done so only for the sake of her infant child.

  Arabella’s pleasant reverie was interrupted by Watson, who had drifted up behind her as she stood at the rail, rapt in her contemplation of the rust-colored planet that floated above Diana’s figurehead. “Miss Ashby?” he said, “the captain requests your presence immediately. He says it’s urgent.”

  * * *

  When Arabella arrived at the great cabin, she found the captain at the window, staring into the blue distance with hands clasped behind him. The set of his shoulders, in addition to the message of urgency that Watson had conveyed, indicated that he was deeply troubled. “What is the matter?” she asked.

  He turned away from the window, a deep frown furrowing his brow. “We have just received alarming news by semaphore from Artemis, one of our sister ships.” For the last few days, Arabella had noticed the tiny wavering specks of other ships in the distance, but had not known that any of them were close enough for semaphore communication. “It seems that Fort Augusta is experiencing a serious native uprising.”

  Arabella tried not to overreact to this unpleasant news. Occasional native uprisings were simply part of the English experience on Mars, but Fort Augusta was the largest English settlement in St. George’s Land, and the nearest city to her family plantation. “How serious?”

  “The port is entirely closed. Artemis was the last s
hip out, and was forced to flee without taking on cargo.” Arabella’s heart went cold at this detail. “Her captain has elected to return to Earth empty rather than risk the safety of his ship and crew by returning to port.” He shook his head. “Vesta was burned where she stood, and the fate of her crew is unknown.”

  Arabella’s hands flew unbidden to her mouth. “Oh, dear!” A thousand horrid images crowded her mind. The Customs House in flames. Michael with a rifle at the manor house door, the house surrounded by angry Martians with their swords and forked spears. And what of dear Khema? Would she have been slaughtered by the rebels for working with the English? “We must go to their aid immediately!”

  The captain’s grim expression soured still further. “Diana is a ship of commerce, Miss Ashby, not a ship of war. Though Company ships can be requisitioned by the government in case of conflict, we have not yet received any such instructions. So, at the moment, we are free to choose our own course of action, but if we remain in the vicinity for long we may find ourselves conscripted.”

  “We cannot simply turn back!” But as soon as the words departed her lips, Arabella wished to draw them back. No amount of anxiety for her brother could justify such impertinence on the part of a mere passenger.

  However, before she could attempt a retraction, the captain shook his head. “Indeed we cannot.” He did not seem even to have noticed her impudence; instead, his gaze seemed directed inward. “We are already on short rations, after our unfortunately extended passage. An attempted return to Earth without resupply would surely end in death by dehydration for all of us.” Now the captain’s attention returned to Arabella. “Which is why I have asked you here.”

  Arabella blinked. “Sir?”

  The captain straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “Despite my many passages to Mars, my experience of the planet itself is scant, and the same is even more true of my officers. Negotiations with the colonial government, not to mention the natives, are carried out by the Company’s factors. But you were born and raised here.” His stiff pose seemed to soften now, and a small note of entreaty entered his voice—a tiny departure from his usual masterful demeanor, which she might never have noticed had she not spent so many days in close company with him during his convalescence. “I hold out some hope that you, with your unique background, might have some insights into the situation that could resolve our dilemma.”

  “I … I see.” After the revelation of her true identity, it had been with great relief that Arabella had confessed all to the captain—her personal history, her recent adventures, and her current fears about her brother. He had expressed sympathy for her plight and had promised to provide whatever help he could, so long as it did not interfere with his duties to the Honorable Mars Company. But now their positions seemed to have been reversed, and the responsibility laid upon her narrow shoulders seemed completely insupportable. She strove to bear up under the burden. “Tell me more about the problem.”

  “It is appallingly simple. We cannot return to Earth, or even remain in orbit above Mars for long, because we will shortly exhaust our stores of food and water. We cannot land at Fort Augusta because the port is closed. And we cannot land anywhere else because Fort Augusta is the only settlement on Mars with furnaces of sufficient capacity for an airship of Diana’s size.”

  “I thought the purpose of our stop at Paeonia was to make charcoal for our landing?”

  “For our landing, yes. But no merchant ship can profitably carry sufficient stores of coal, never mind charcoal, for both a safe landing and a successful launch, even given Mars’s lesser gravitational attraction. Once landed, we require the assistance of a furnace to return to the interplanetary atmosphere carrying sufficient coal for our landing at Earth.”

  With a touch on the bulkhead behind her, Arabella drifted over to Aadim’s desk, where the map of St. George’s Land was already spread out. “What, exactly, is required of the furnace?”

  “The capacity of our envelopes is five hundred and twenty thousand cubic feet. With a full load of cargo, coal, and crew, they must be filled with clean hot air at an average temperature of at least ninety-three degrees in order to achieve ascent from Mars. Subject to some modification based on current conditions.”

  In Arabella’s mind’s eye, the empty stretch of map between Aadim’s wooden hands became populated with the fences, crops, and buildings of Woodthrush Woods. Behind the manor house, line after line of khoresh-trees marched off toward the horizon. Here lay the Martians’ homes, here the kitchen garden, and here the drying-sheds.

  She looked up from the map into the captain’s eyes. “Our plantation, located near the mines of Thokesh, has substantial stocks of coal, and the coal burners in the drying-sheds could perhaps be adapted to provide the necessary hot air for Diana’s ascent.” Freshly harvested khoresh-wood was too heavy with moisture to be used in shipbuilding; progressive plantation owners such as Arabella’s father had in recent years begun using coal-fired drying-sheds to accelerate the necessary seasoning process.

  “Assuming your family plantation has not been overrun by the natives.”

  Arabella’s eyes stung with tears at the suggestion, but she firmed her jaw and refused them. “That is a risk we would have to take anywhere. But if we land here”—she tapped the site on the map—“we will, at least, find sufficient coal and an owner willing to sell it for a reasonable price.”

  She could not, she realized, absolutely guarantee any such thing. But she knew well that Michael could deny his beloved sister nothing.

  If he still lived.

  Arabella held her breath, filled with fear and doubt, as she watched the captain consider her suggestion. Plainly he was torn—a deep furrow had appeared between his eyes, and his whole demeanor showed how difficult was the decision he faced. Finally his gaze, which had been directed inward, returned to Arabella. “I must … perform some calculations,” he said. “Please leave us alone.”

  “Of course, sir.” She nodded and let herself out.

  As the hatch closed behind her, she heard the whir and click of Aadim’s gears and the captain’s low, muttered voice.

  * * *

  Some hours later, another knock came at Arabella’s cabin door. This time it was the captain himself. “I have consulted with Aadim and my officers,” he said, “and have determined that a landing at your family plantation offers the best hope of success. If you would, please work with Aadim to plot out a course for a landing there. Once that is done, I would appreciate it if you would consult with Mr. Stross upon the specifics of your drying-sheds and coal-stores.” He fixed her with an expression of profound seriousness. “If some method cannot be arranged to fill the envelopes, Diana may well find herself a permanent fixture of your plantation.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  * * *

  Calculating the sailing order for a planetary landing was a task Arabella had never performed before, and in order to do so she found herself leafing through thick manuals kept stowed behind the stores of aerial charts. As she read, hammering and curses sounded from without the hull as the carpenter and his mates fitted Diana with sand-legs for her landing on the open plain behind the manor house, while the majority of the crew worked to haul out and erect the envelopes.

  Landing at Mars, she learned, was usually performed by a local pilot, sent up from Fort Augusta by balloon. As difficult as navigation through the vast empty spaces of the interplanetary atmosphere might be, the last few miles—drifting slowly downward under cooling envelopes while being blown across the face of the planet by fickle surface breezes—were even more so, and the pilot’s unique knowledge of local conditions was invaluable. But with the port closed, as the captain had explained, they could not depend upon the availability of this assistance.

  “I do not know if I am capable of this,” she admitted to Aadim in a whisper. Manuals and charts lay open all about the cabin, with detailed maps of the Fort Augusta area unfolded on Aadim’s desk. She moved his wooden finge
r, which ticked and thrummed slightly with the motions of his clockworks, from Diana’s point of entry to Mars’s planetary atmosphere to the location of Woodthrush Woods. “It is such a short distance,” she said, “but if we get it wrong, by even a few miles, we will be stranded, and perhaps in the middle of a native rebellion.”

  She didn’t remember when she’d started talking to Aadim. It was something the captain did sometimes, she knew, especially when performing difficult navigational calculations. He claimed that talking the problem through helped him focus his mind upon the task at hand and not forget any of the levers or settings. But it certainly seemed that he sometimes waited for an answer from the patient, sturdy automaton.

  As she moved Aadim’s finger along Diana’s curving path, she noticed that the motion was not smooth as it should be, though she kept her hand upon Aadim’s wooden one as gentle and firm as before. Pausing, she checked that his shoulder joint and follower-cams were properly adjusted and oiled, which they proved to be. But still the pointing finger seemed to resist the path the manuals dictated.

  “You’re trying to tell me something,” she said. But the automaton’s green glass eyes only stared back at her, as rigid and impassive as ever.

  Again she returned Aadim’s finger to the beginning of its path, the entry point to the planetary atmosphere. But as she moved it gently to that point, she paid careful attention to the slight jerks and tugs the navigator’s wooden hand gave to her own as the gears and mechanisms within his desk ticked and whirred away.

  Was there a slight tendency to the southeast?

  Closing her eyes, gentling her breath, Arabella gave the automaton’s hand free rein, as though trusting a horse to return to the stable on its own.