Arabella and the Battle of Venus

by David D. Levine

  “I am not yet certain,” Arabella replied, cupping her hands behind her ears.

  The agitated soldiers’ shouts, in rapid and colloquial French, were difficult for her to make out. But one word—one name—came up again and again.

  Fouché.

  The Executioner of Lyon.

  * * *

  Joseph Fouché, the Duke of Otranto, had an academic bearing, a high forehead, and a long straight nose. But his mouth seemed very small and hard and pinched, and did not move at all as he paced back and forth, awaiting the rest of his audience.

  Arabella had a very good view of him, seated as she was on the manoir’s wide verandah along with Lady Corey and the various French officers and adjutants who lived and worked in that building. The rest of the French soldiery were gathered in ranks on the broad lawn below, with Captain Singh and the other English officers behind them. Beyond them, the rest of the prisoners were being driven into untidy squares by their guards. Curious Venusians thronged at the edges of the assembly.

  Rescuing Captain Singh before the arrival of Fouché had been her sole goal for months. She had worked so hard, sacrificed so much … and failed completely to achieve it. Even worse, now she herself, and Lady Corey as well, would fall under the man’s authority. As horrid as the prisoners’ life on Venus had been so far, how much worse would it become under the command of the Executioner of Lyon?

  “He was a monk once,” Lady Corey murmured to Arabella. “But during the Revolution he railed against the Church, and spilled more blood than nearly any one else during the Terror.”

  “Silence!” roared one of Fouché’s men—an entire platoon of fresh troops, their uniforms immaculate and their postures rigid, had arrived with him—and Lady Corey obeyed. But her narrowed brows indicated that this merely reinforced her point, and her trembling hands showed that, behind her stoic mien, she was as terrified as Arabella.

  Fouché’s eyes, drawn by the soldier’s command, lit briefly on Arabella. They betrayed an active intelligence, yet showed absolutely no emotion … which chilled her blood still further.

  Lefevre, wearing a uniform far more ornate than any thing Arabella had seen on Venus until this moment, now ascended the manoir’s broad steps, accompanied by his chief lieutenants. “Tous présent ou dénombrés,” he reported, with a crisp salute—all present or accounted for. “Votre commande, Commandant.” Your command, sir.

  Lefevre then turned about, in a single precise motion, and retired with his lieutenants to join the other officers. But though his motions were exact and his bearing upright, Arabella could not fail to notice that his eyes glistened. Clearly the man was less than happy with his loss of command, and she tucked that intelligence away in case it might prove useful in the future.

  The new commandant acknowledged the transfer of power with a curt nod, then stepped to the head of the stairs and began to address the assembled men. His voice was high and clear and carried well on the sultry air.

  “What is he saying?” Lady Corey whispered. The French troops were giving all their attention to the speaker; none seemed to notice her breach of silence.

  Fouché spoke rapidly and with an accent unfamiliar to Arabella, but she understood enough to extract the general sense of his speech. “He brings greetings from His Imperial Majesty,” Arabella whispered, keeping her eyes front and moving her lips as little as possible. “The … the conquest, I suppose, of Venus continues apace. Your work here is … um, essential?… to victory, both here and on land. No, on Earth. His Majesty has not been pleased with your … production, productivity, something like that. Therefore…” She swallowed, not wanting to translate the words she had just heard. “Therefore the, the … gentle treatment of the prisoners which has been … heretofore exhibited, will no longer be tolerated. Production must increase. The foundry will roll—will run—day and night. Nothing may make obstacle to the production of iron. Any prisoner attempting escape…” Again she swallowed, her mouth dry. “… will be shot. Any one, be he English, Venusian, or French, who does not work to his … utmost capacity, will be shot. Any one at all who … impedes progress in any way, will be shot. No … no dissent of any kind will be tolerated.”

  The silence that followed Fouché’s speech was absolute, broken only by the distant chittering of Venusian wildlife. The French officers and men, even Lefevre, seemed as stunned by the address as the Englishmen.

  Fouché returned their shocked gaze with a cold and stony glare of his own. “Retournez à vos devoirs,” he commanded—return to your duties—then turned and strode briskly inside, his boot-heels clacking on the verandah floor and his troops falling in line behind him. The other French officers followed, in rather less disciplined order.

  Lady Corey and Arabella looked at each other, appalled. “Go to your captain,” Lady Corey said. “He needs your support now, more than ever before.” Then she turned and followed the Frenchmen inside.

  Her back, Arabella noted, was held quite straight. But the feather on her hat trembled.

  * * *

  True to his word, Fouché immediately divided the prisoners into two watches, which the French called quarts, which alternated work so that the furnace might run, and be fed with charcoal, limestone, and iron ore, during all hours of the day and night. Following both English and French naval tradition, they were designated the “starboard” and “larboard” watches.

  Each watch worked for four hours while the other rested, then rested for four while the other worked. These four-hour periods were also called watches. Arabella was surprised to learn that the French shared this confusion of terminology, calling both the group of workers and the period of work a quart. On English ships the watch from four o’clock in the afternoon to eight o’clock at night was divided into two shorter “dog watches” to give an odd number, so that any given airman would only be required to stand the midnight watch every other night. But Venus’s twenty-eight-hour day divided naturally into seven four-hour watches. This meant that there were no short watches—every man had to work for four hours, then rest for four, then return to work again for four … an unending cycle of misery. And this continual labor ran uninterrupted seven days a week, though church services were conducted during each watch’s Sunday morning rest period.

  Despite decades of naval tradition, Arabella reflected, four hours of sleep at a stretch was not really enough to sustain an airman, let alone a man doing hard physical labor; furthermore, those four hours of rest must also include eating, washing, mending, and all the other necessities of life. Back on Diana, the system of watches had been one thing she had not been sorry to see the back of when her sex had been exposed and she had changed from captain’s boy to passenger.

  Arabella’s services in the role of captain’s wife were even more keenly needed now. The continually exhausted men were compelled to perform backbreaking, dangerous work, often in the dark, which led to several deaths and an appalling number of serious injuries. Her old messmate Young, gray-haired and spindle-shanked even when properly used, became nearly skeletal; when he was brought back to the barracks unconscious and bleeding, having collapsed from exhaustion and struck his head on a rock, she was horrified but not surprised. She was kept continually busy folding bandages, washing linens, and otherwise assisting the surgeon as he rushed from one injured man to another.

  Captain Singh did as much as he could to improve the men’s miserable conditions, but the French officers were so frightened of Fouché that no amount of bribery could now convince them to overlook an infraction of his stringent regulations. The best the captain could do was to purchase food from the Venusian merchants in Marieville—at prices even more offensively inflated than before—and bring it to the men during their watches below.

  One afternoon she arrived, carrying a much-desired delivery of fresh meat for the men, to find the Dianas’ barracks deserted. This was unusual now—half of them were usually here, while the other watch labored in the forest. She found a French officer on the packed ea
rth of the square where the men assembled for roll-call four times a day, and he informed her that both watches had been called to the forest for some large task; none of them were expected to return for several hours.

  Disappointed and disturbed by this turn of events, Arabella cast a worried eye on her basket of raw meat. It was from some local creature, nutritious for human beings but having an unfamiliar flavor. It went bad extremely rapidly in Venus’s heat and damp, though, and large green fly-like creatures were already fluttering around it. She thought it unlikely that it would still be wholesome when the men returned.

  She decided that the best thing to do would be to bring it to the Touchstones. As the captain’s wife, most of her attention was devoted to Diana’s crew, but she did see Fox and his men upon occasion, and this was as good an excuse as any—and better than some—for her to pay them a visit.

  * * *

  The Touchstones’ barracks were not quite as tidy or well-maintained as the Dianas’, but despite the distressing conditions of their work in the furnace-house they often seemed in better spirits than the Dianas. Arabella attributed this to the fact that the Dianas had been held prisoner for many months longer, but she could not deny that Fox, whose boisterous energy had not diminished, might also play a part in his people’s good mood.

  In fact, when she arrived at the Touchstones’ barracks she found a scene of raucous merriment. Fox, in his shirt-sleeves, was attempting to stand on his hands atop a table, while the men hooted and applauded. Venus’s gravity being less than Earth’s, this was not as difficult a feat as it appeared, but it still required considerable strength and a keen sense of balance.

  A sense which Fox apparently lacked, for on his next attempt he pushed too hard with his feet and went right over, landing on his back on the table top with a considerable thump. “I am unharmed,” he gasped, and raised himself to a sitting position, waving a hand. Arabella could not help but notice how well-turned his forearm was. “All is well.” The men laughed and clapped him on the back, telling him it had been a good attempt. He winced at the impacts, but continued smiling.

  Then Fox spotted Arabella in the crowd of men who had gathered around him. “Mrs. Singh!” he cried. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

  She did not like the flutter in her breast which rose in response to these words. She was a married woman—or must appear so—and such feelings were entirely improper. “Delighted,” she replied, her voice carefully neutral. “I have here a basket of fresh meat, which will go bad if it is not cooked and eaten soon. Would your men like to have it?”

  The slavering, enthusiastic cry which came from the Touchstones at this news made Fox’s polite nod of acquiescence superfluous. “Of course, madam,” he replied formally, stepping down from the table and accepting his jacket from one of the men. “And on their behalf I thank you very kindly for your gift.” He took the meat, wrapped in oilcloth, from Arabella and passed it off to Gowse, who stood at his left shoulder. “See that it is properly cooked; none of that French half-raw nonsense.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Gowse replied, touching a knuckle to his forehead. But rather than taking the meat to the kitchen area, as she expected—the Touchstones had managed to work out an arrangement with the kitchen staff to make use of their ovens—he took it outside.

  “Where is he going?” she inquired of Fox.

  “Ah,” Fox replied, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “you have not yet made the acquaintance of Isambard. Come with me.”

  Puzzled and intrigued, Arabella took his proffered elbow and permitted him to lead her out the door and around to the back of the barracks. As they walked, she said, “Your antics seem to amuse the men.”

  “They do.” Fox rubbed the back of his head and winced. “Which makes the pain worthwhile. Any thing I can do to keep their spirits up, any thing at all, is justified.” He gestured to her empty basket. “Had I Captain Singh’s assets, I would provide them with fresh meat myself. But, sadly, Fouché”—he spat the word—“has closed the gaming-house, leaving me over a hundred pounds in arrears. And just when I was on the verge of resuming my winning streak!”

  “Hm,” she replied noncommittally.

  They came upon Gowse, who squatted in the dirt behind the barracks, facing the low open space beneath the barracks floor and clucking his tongue. The meat lay on the oilcloth, skewered on metal rods which presumably had come from the open box nearby. “Isambard,” he called gently, making a beckoning gesture. “Isambaaaard…”

  There came a noise from within. A moment later a creature the size of a large dog, but lower to the ground and with six tentacles, came scuttling out from under the barracks. Its sudden appearance startled Arabella, but delighted Gowse and Fox. “Isambard!” Fox cried, bending down and stroking the beast’s head. “Good boy!” He looked over his shoulder at Arabella. “Of course, I have no actual idea whether he is a boy, or a girl, or something other.”

  “We bought him from one of the natives, before Fouché arrived,” Gowse explained. “He were only the size of a cat then. He does a very useful trick, but, what with the lack of meat lately, this is the first time in weeks we’ve been able to use it.” He turned to Fox. “Have ye flint and steel?”

  “Of course.”

  Gowse then leaned down and, to Arabella’s surprise and disgust, began tickling Isambard’s lower abdomen, behind and between its last set of legs. An orifice in the creature’s hindmost end eased open, and a gas hissed out. Unexpectedly, the gas was not fetid; in fact, it had no smell at all.

  “Step back, please, Mrs. Singh,” Fox said. He bent over and struck the flint against the steel; the resulting spark immediately caught the gas alight. The flame was very wan, nearly transparent, but the heat it produced was considerable; even from five feet away Arabella could feel it upon her face.

  Fox and Gowse proceeded to barbecue the skewered meat in the pale flame, turning each rod to cook it on all sides. It cooked extremely quickly, sending up a mouthwatering scent—it smelled better, in fact, than any thing Arabella had eaten in her entire time on Venus.

  “How extraordinary,” she said.

  “When on Venus,” Fox replied with a wink, setting a cooked skewer aside and picking up a raw one, “do as the Venusians do.”

  * * *

  They set the barbecued meat on a platter from the box, then returned Isambard and the box to the space under the barracks. “Will you join us for supper?” Fox asked.

  “I do believe I shall,” she replied.

  The men cheered when they saw the three of them enter, Fox in the lead, bearing the steaming platter high. “See that it is fairly apportioned,” he said, handing a skewer each to the men who pressed in around him. These were, she supposed, the mess-cooks—the men appointed by each mess to bring food from the galley.

  Indeed, each man took his skewer back to a group of waiting Touchstones and performed the mess-cook’s role. He turned his back to his men, and with eyes closed pulled a bit of delicious-smelling flesh from the skewer and called “Who shall have this?” One of the other men, facing away from the meat and also with eyes closed, called out a man’s name, and the indicated man was handed the hot and dripping morsel, immediately popping it in his mouth and chewing noisily. In this way all the meat was portioned out to the men—if not exactly evenly, then at least fairly.

  Fox kept the last skewer for himself, parceling it out to his officers and Arabella. It tasted as delectable as it smelled. “Thank you again,” Fox said to her with a bow, “for your generosity.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, “for your hospitality.”

  * * *

  The barbecued meat, delicious though it was and very welcome for all, was not sufficient for a full supper for every one, so after it was gone they all sat down to a bowl of the usual thin, fishy soup. Arabella sat at Fox’s left, with Liddon to his right. On Arabella’s left she was pleased to find Mills, whom she had barely seen since their arrival at Marieville, and after consuming their supper they wen
t off to a quiet corner for further conversation.

  “How do you fare, sir?” she asked him after the initial pleasantries. Though his shoulders and arms were still robust, his face was haggard and drawn. “Truly?”

  He shrugged noncommittally. “Hard work. Not the worst.”

  “Not the worst? Do you not work in the heat and smoke of the furnace-house? Is it not strenuous and terribly dangerous?”

  He nodded. “It is. But no beatings, so far.”

  Arabella recalled the scars Mills had shown her on his back.

  “Guards talk,” he continued. “I hear what they say, tell my mates when to work harder. They beat someone else.”

  “I did not know you spoke French.”

  Mills shook his head. “Venusian.”

  Arabella had understood Mills, taciturn though he was, to be extremely intelligent. But she knew from personal experience how very difficult it was to puzzle out the Venusian language without instruction, and was even more impressed with him now. “Perhaps you can help me with a conundrum. Do you know why, for example, the word for those single-wheeled carts they use is sometimes unguwuggna and sometimes manogogla? There are many such, two or more completely different words for the same concept, and I have not been able to puzzle out when each one is used.”

  “Manogogla,” he replied, gently correcting her pronunciation, “is Gowanna language. In Wagala language, unguwuggna.”

  Suddenly Arabella felt extremely stupid. How could she have failed to consider that the Venusians—like Martians and humans—might have many different languages? Thinking over this new intelligence, many of the mysteries she had puzzled over suddenly fell into place. “Of course!” she said. “How foolish of me.”

  “Not easy to see,” Mills reassured her. “Slaves, slavers, both use both. Sometimes mixed together.”

  “Slaves and slavers?” Arabella was completely taken aback.

  Mills nodded. “Guards are Gowanna—slavers. Workers are Wagala—slaves.”