Arabella gazed forward at Mars, whose northern polar cap gleamed white against the red and orange of the deserts which covered most of the rest of the planet. From this unusual vantage, approaching via the Swenson Current from above the plane of the ecliptic, it presented the appearance of a disturbingly colored eye, with white pupil and red sclera glowing beneath the dark upper lid of the planet’s night side. And from this distance—the planet’s disc was merely the size of a dinner plate, and showed no visible curvature—the ruler-straight silver threads of the canals which carried polar melt water southward to the cities were completely invisible even in Captain Singh’s best glass. But Arabella knew they were there, as she knew so many other things about the planet of her birth.
Saint George’s Land, the English-controlled territory in which she had spent nearly her entire life, spanned only seven per cent of the planet’s surface. Much of the rest was divided among hundreds of satrapies, princessipalities, and lesser fiefdoms, with the balance being uncontrolled territory roamed by uncivilized nomads. But now they faced a common enemy. They would have to join together against the Prince, or all would suffer domination together.
With a sigh, she turned away from Mars and regarded Touchstone, which sailed in convoy a few hundred yards away. With all sails spread to catch the current, guns run out, and airmen bustling about the decks and masts, she presented a handsome face to the world … but Arabella’s keen eye saw that she was an old ship, and tired. Her khoresh-wood planks were a mosaic in shades of gold, showing decades of repairs and replacements, and the copper of her hull was patched in many places. Her starboard and mizzen-masts, smashed by the kraken, were fished and jury-rigged, little more than splinters held together with cordage; her sails bore the scars of the kraken attack and many others before that. Her people, too, Arabella knew, were hungry, thirsty, and weary, still half-baked from their close passage to the Sun and parched by short allowances of water and grog. Even the usually joyous ceremony of crossing Earth’s orbit had been muted and perfunctory, not least because the ship’s position high above the plane of the ecliptic made the exact date of that crossing uncertain.
Diana and her crew were in somewhat better condition, largely because Captain Singh’s greater personal fortune had bought them more in the way of supplies before leaving Earth. But even though Diana was larger, newer, and better-appointed than Touchstone, she had still been sorely taxed by the difficult passage, and her officers and crew were looking forward with great eagerness to landfall on Mars—and to the return of full allowances of fresh water, meat, and vegetables.
Arabella, too, would be greatly relieved to stand once more upon the red sands of her home world. But she knew that any rest they would gain there would be transitory—perhaps even illusory. For the Prince and his men were already on their way and the struggle for the freedom of Mars must begin immediately.
Two ships, no matter how stalwart their men or brilliant their commanders, seemed no more than straws against the tide. But, as the Martians themselves were prevented by treaty from building their own, two ships were what they had.
For now, she reminded herself. They would find confederates and build alliances. Surely the inhumanity of the Prince’s scheme would compel ships of other nations, and hopefully at least a few Englishmen, to join in the defense of Mars.
Surely.
* * *
Days later, Mars had grown from a disc to a globe, a butterscotch-colored sphere which turned lazily below the ships’ keels as they approached the turbulent winds of Mars’s Horn. Though the dryness of the atmosphere near Mars prevented his Horn from developing the roiling storm clouds seen at Earth, and the planet’s smaller size made the winds less severe, the Horn still presented a tricky navigational exercise, one which must be solved precisely if one wished to land at one’s destination rather than in the trackless desert some miles away.
Fortunately, Aadim had been built with just this exercise in mind, and Arabella had very little difficulty setting his dials and levers appropriately to request a course for the coming approach. But when it came to designating the final coordinate, she encountered an unexpected obstacle. As she moved his hand toward Fort Augusta, she seemed to feel some resistance, indeed a veritable pull to the north.
Arabella looked with surprise into the automaton’s face—the green glass eyes peered neutrally forward, as always—and said aloud, “What is the matter? We must land at Fort Augusta. All our friends and allies are there.”
Aadim’s mechanisms ticked and whirred beneath his desk-top as always, but he made no reply—as, indeed, he had never done in all the time she had known him, save for one memorable occasion which had, almost certainly, been nothing but a dream.
But though Aadim hardly ever offered up advice of his own volition, he did seem to provide reactions to, or even criticism of, the courses with which he assisted. She looked down at the chart spread out upon his desk, which showed the Martian landscape beneath them … then closed her eyes and allowed Aadim’s hand to seek its own path across the map. After a motion of a foot or so, the moving hand stopped with a slight click.
She opened her eyes. Aadim’s finger was pointing to a spot in the desert north of Khoresh Tukath—a desolate area far from any settlement, canal, or overland trade route, and lacking in any notable feature. But there were a few small symbols in its vicinity, crosses and triangles and other marks with which she was not familiar.
Consulting the chart’s legend, she discovered that those symbols represented mineral resources—tin, iron, and limestone, among other things. Further, notations at the chart’s foot indicated that these deposits, just a small part of Sor Khoresh’s vast mineral wealth, were not currently being actively mined, no doubt due to their great distance from civilization.
“We cannot possibly land there,” she said. “Whatever do you have in mind?”
Then the panes of the broad stern window rattled, accompanied by a clatter of the sheets and braces against the sails, and the deck shifted perceptibly beneath Arabella’s floating feet. The ship was beginning to enter the Horn’s turbulent winds, and there was no more time for abstractions. With a whispered apology Arabella gently moved Aadim’s hand to Fort Augusta—it offered only token resistance—and pressed his finger to initiate the calculation.
While Aadim’s gears ground away, Arabella stared at the isolated spot he had indicated. Plainly he thought it was significant, but to what end? She tore a sheet from her note-book, drew a quick sketch-map of the area, and noted the indicated spot with an X, tucking the paper into her reticule for later study. And then the bell rang, indicating a completed course.
Arabella wrote out two copies of the course, one of which would be conveyed to Touchstone by the captain’s gig. But she gazed one more time into Aadim’s unseeing eyes before returning abovedecks. “What are you on about, you exasperating machine?”
The automaton, of course, was as reticent as ever.
* * *
Arabella came out on deck, where she requested and received permission to ascend to the quarterdeck. There she found Captain Singh already belted in for the passage through the Horn; a broad leather belt attached by straps to cleats on the deck held him down as though he were standing in gravity. A similar belt awaited Arabella, and after handing the sailing orders over to Stross, Diana’s sailing-master, she buckled herself into it.
“Is all well with Aadim?” the captain asked in a conversational tone, his eyes scanning the sky. “I was beginning to wonder what had become of you.”
“All is well, I believe. But you know how … opinionated he can be, sometimes.”
He gave her a brief thoughtful glance before returning his attention to the currents ahead. “We will discuss this later, but our immediate concern is descent to Fort Augusta. The proximity of Phobos”—he pointed ahead—“causes great volatility in the winds.”
Phobos, the closer and larger of Mars’s two moons, loomed beyond the bow-sprit a few points to starboard. So great was its orbital velocity that it grew visibly nearer even as they watched—but its angle was changing, indicating that no collision need be feared. Though the moon was a gray, barren, and lifeless rock, a few lights nonetheless glimmered on its dark side; it had a small permanent population, and served as a trading post and free-descent ship-yard for traders and privateers.
“Phobos moves so rapidly through the air,” the captain continued, “that it creates a substantial vortex—very nearly a second Horn within Mars’s own. I have attempted several times to incorporate this turbulence into Aadim’s calculations, but its small scale and great complexity make this a very thorny problem. Captain Fox,” he remarked conversationally, “told me that he was required to hire a pilot from Sor Khoresh for approach to Phobos. Apparently they have unique expertise, without which a ship risks being dashed upon the moon’s surface by the unpredictable winds.”
The existence of experienced khoreshte pilots was new intelligence to Arabella, and raised numerous questions in her mind. “Mills once provided the same service to the Portuguese,” she said, “piloting small boats through the choppy waves off Gambia.”
“I hope that some day automata may be able to serve this purpose, freeing men—and Martians too, I suppose—for higher pursuits.”
At that moment the deck lurched beneath their feet, as the winds of the Horn suddenly took hold of the ship. Their conversation was perforce curtailed, replaced by a more utilitarian exchange of observations, course corrections, and commands to guide the ship through those ever-changing winds, now made even more capricious by the passage of Phobos.
Arabella watched that moon hurtle past the starboard beam, then gave it no further thought. Even with Aadim’s help, the descent to Fort Augusta would be tricky enough.
* * *
After many hours of capricious, jarring, and sometimes even nauseating turbulence, Diana and Touchstone passed below the Horn’s fickle winds and into the calmer—though still variable—breezes of the upper planetary atmosphere. The planet below had turned from a globe to a landscape, curving away from them in all directions to a hazy horizon, and was echoed by the three great balloons, now filled with hydrogen, above. Touchstone too had deployed her balloon, a single envelope filled with coal-heated air.
The balloons were necessary now because, with their proximity to Mars, the force of gravity had begun to return; Arabella’s feet now pressed against the deck with her own weight as well as the force of her leather straps. With relief she unbuckled herself and handed the belt to an airman, though she kept a steadying hand upon the rail. Her weight at this altitude, still well above the falling-line, was as yet quite slight, and there was still some risk of being tumbled overboard by an unexpected gust. But the freedom to move about as she wished was delicious, and she desired to re-accustom herself to walking in gravity as quickly as she could. There would be much work to be done as soon as they alighted.
* * *
Khema’s home was an imposing structure in the Martian quarter of Fort Augusta town, which also housed the akhmok of several other tribes. Three stories tall and formed of smooth fused sand, it rose like a great swelling gourd above the smaller buildings around it. From its peak fluttered the colorful banners of the many tribes and clans of Saint George’s Land, all of whom were represented here either directly or indirectly.
Arabella and Captain Singh took tea with Khema in the council chamber, a large oval room which filled the house’s highest story. Rounded windows overlooked the town, providing an inspiring view of Fort Augusta itself on one side and the vastness of the desert on the other. The silvery thread of the great Khef Shulash canal cut through the red sand, straight as a cannon-ball’s flight.
Khema sipped her tea, her lightly faceted eyes spread gently in contemplation. The delicate tea-cup, imported from China via England like the tea itself, might have seemed ludicrous in her massive fingers but for the assured dexterity with which she handled it.
“I thank you for the intelligence which you have brought,” she said, setting down her cup. And that was all.
“I do not believe you understand the severity of the situation,” Arabella said, after waiting a moment longer. “This is, perhaps, the greatest threat that Mars has ever faced! The Prince’s fleet of armored first-rates will make short work of your every defense if you do not take steps immediately! Now, what I have in mind is—”
But Khema raised one thick and stony finger, silencing Arabella immediately. “I do not underestimate the severity of the situation. This is, indeed, a very serious threat, and I assure you that we will take very serious steps to counteract it. However, this is far from the greatest threat that Mars has ever faced.”
“Do tell,” said Captain Singh, leaning forward over his own tea-cup.
“The greatest threat Mars has ever faced,” Khema continued mildly, “began with a single ship. The Mars Adventure, commanded by one Captain William Kidd.”
“I scarcely think—!” Arabella began to protest. But Captain Singh, she noted, nodded slowly in dawning comprehension, and she swallowed her objection.
“I do believe that Mars eventually adapted to that threat,” Captain Singh remarked. “However, the English are still here. And may I humbly suggest that this new threat, while not as completely without precedent as that one was, is perhaps of greater magnitude.”
“I take your point. However, with the warning you have very kindly provided, I believe we have sufficient time to prepare a defense.”
“But you have no aerial ships!” Arabella blurted out. “No cannon! No firearms! And no ability to produce them, certainly not in time!”
Khema rose from her seat then—an imposing figure indeed, eight feet tall and nearly half as broad, with prongs and spines extending from every joint—but her voice continued gentle. “I feel I must remind you,” she said to Arabella, “that the only reason we lack ships and firearms is the treaties imposed upon us by the English.”
It was the same voice of tender rebuke she had used when, as a small child, Arabella had broken the mainspring of her father’s automaton dancer and tried to hide the evidence, and Khema had explained to her the Martian concept of okhaya, or personal responsibility. And Arabella felt now the same shame she had felt then.
“And the reason we have no ability to produce them,” Khema continued, “may be found in our schools, also imposed upon us by the English, which for some reason give greater weight to the skills needed by servants and majordomos”—here she gestured to herself, reminding Arabella that, even when Khema had taken charge of the Ashby household during the rebellion some years earlier, she had done so in a subordinate role to the absent owners—“than to those of artisans, engineers, and natural philosophers.”
“I … I see,” Arabella said, bowing her head. “But what can be done about those limitations now?”
“Treaties can be … quietly contravened. Perhaps they already have been. And schools … well, that is perhaps an area where you can assist us.”
Arabella blinked. “I?”
“Your talents with automata, navigation, and manufacture are well known. And, as I recall from your youth, you showed little hesitation, and some skill, in explaining your latest discovery to any one who would listen … and even a few who did not wish to.” At this Arabella could not suppress a small smile. “If you were to turn these impulses to the education of Martians in science and engineering, who can say what might be possible in a year?” For it was, indeed, approximately one Martian year until the Prince’s fleet was expected to arrive.
“I … I would be honored to serve the cause of resistance in any way I can,” Arabella said, chastened.
“And you are very welcome to assist. But this is the Martians’ struggle, never forget this.”
“I shall endeavor to keep this in mind,” said Arabella, quite sincerely.
“As for myself,” Captain Singh put in, “I am privy to some of the Prince’s plans of conquest, and I may be able to offer some strategic assistance.”
“Thank you,” Khema replied, inclining her head. “Do you have any specific suggestions at this time?”
“We do,” Captain Singh said, nodding to Arabella. The two of them, along with Lady Corey and Fulton, had discussed strategy for many long hours in Diana’s great cabin on the voyage from Mercury to Mars. “We propose the construction of an entire fleet of armored ships, sufficient to match or better the Prince’s fleet. But in order to produce this fleet, an iron refinery and ship-yard must first be built. The American inventor Fulton, who is with us, designed and built a similar facility for Napoleon, which was entirely successful.”
“The location must have iron, coal, limestone, and khoresh-wood in close proximity,” Arabella continued, “and a sufficient population of workers. Saint George’s Land is well supplied with khoresh-plantations, of course, and I know of several coal mines. But are you aware of any limestone quarries in the vicinity? The reference materials we had aboard Diana were silent on this matter.”
Khema thought for a moment before replying. “I am, myself, ignorant of this issue, but I believe there are more important considerations. Saint George’s Land is not large, and all of it is very much under the English eye. I cannot imagine any place in the territory where such a large operation—and I gather from what I have read of your adventures on Venus that it would be very large indeed—could possibly escape English attention.”
“The facility would be several acres in extent, at least,” Captain Singh admitted.
Khema thought still further, her eye-stalks downcast in concentration and concern. “Sor Khoresh…” she began, then paused.
“Why do you hesitate?” Arabella asked. “Tura would make an excellent ally, and we did her a very great service not long ago.”
Sor Khoresh, a powerful Martian satrapy which bordered Saint George’s Land to the north, was well known to Arabella. Rich in iron, coal, and other minerals, it was ruled by Tura, an intelligent and aggressive potentate. No other satrap in the hemisphere controlled so much territory, or carried so much influence with her peers, and the proximity of Khoresh Tukath, her capital city, to Fort Augusta would make it an excellent headquarters for operations against the invasion.
Tura’s strategic and diplomatic expertise were, admittedly, equaled by her mercurial temper. After a recent conspiracy against Sor Khoresh by one of her neighboring states had been revealed, Tura had gone so far as to execute her own daughter—who had, to be fair, been one of those involved in the plot. But Arabella herself, along with Captain Singh, had been key to the exposure of that scheme. “I am certain,” she continued, “that Tura would at least be willing to entertain an entreaty.”
“I agree,” said Captain Singh. “And we would be happy to convey you to her upon Diana.”
Khema still seemed unconvinced. “Relations between the Martians of Saint George’s Land and those of Sor Khoresh have varied in cordiality over the years,” she replied rather darkly, “and Tura and I have not always seen eye-stalk to eye-stalk.” She considered a moment more. “Still, I suppose we must make the attempt. I will be happy to accept your offer of conveyance”—she politely inclined her massive head to Captain Singh, who replied with a nod of his own—“as soon as certain obligations have been discharged here. Please return to-morrow afternoon.”
After a few more details had been worked out, Arabella and Captain Singh took their leave. “Before we meet with Tura,” she said to him as they descended the steps to the street, “I must call upon my brother. We could arrive at Woodthrush Woods by coach in time for dinner.”
* * *
Michael came out from the manor house as they descended from the coach which had carried them from Fort Augusta. “Dear sister!” he cried as he stumped toward them.
“Michael!” she said as he embraced her, his crutch falling to the ground. “It has been too long.”
She could not help but notice how heavily he leaned upon her, even two years after the loss of his leg. She would love to fit him out with a clockwork limb like her own, but she could not do so without committing to perform the constant maintenance and adjustments the sometimes-temperamental device required. Perhaps some day it would be possible to manufacture these limbs in quantity, she thought, and make them as simple and dependable as a spring-wound lantern.
Michael released Arabella, retrieved his crutch, and shook her husband’s hand. “Captain Singh,” he said with a cordiality just a bit shy of brotherly. He had never quite reconciled himself to his sister’s choice of husband, she knew. “I trust you are well?”
“Very well, sir,” the captain replied with genuine warmth. “Unfortunately, we are not able to remain here long.”
Michael hesitated momentarily, then said, “Will you join me for luncheon, sir?” It was plain his heart was not in the invitation.
Arabella looked to her husband, attempting to indicate with her eyes the sentiment at least he is trying. He caught her gaze, bowed, and said to Michael, “I am happy to accept your hospitality, sir.”
Michael offered his elbow to Arabella. “May I?” he said … looking to Captain Singh, not Arabella.
“That choice belongs to the lady, sir,” Captain Singh said with cold civility.
Arabella accepted Michael’s proffered elbow before her brother could form any reply. “The pleasure is mine, dear brother.”
To argue with him now risked souring him on the request she intended to make of him. But she would call him to account later for his presumption.
* * *
The luncheon Michael’s staff laid out was every thing Arabella could have hoped for, with khula and gethown for dessert—both among her favorite dishes of her childhood, and delicacies she had not tasted for years—and the conversation was joyous at first, with Arabella bearing the news of the final defeat of Napoleon, the victory celebrations in England, and the good health of their mother and sisters. Michael, too, had done well since Arabella had last seen him, having acquired several hundred prime acres from a neighbor and built several more drying-sheds, increasing the plantation’s production of kiln-dried khoresh-wood by nearly fifty per cent.
But as the dessert dishes were being cleared, and before Michael could take Captain Singh away for port and cigars in the drawing-room, Arabella finally raised the issue which had brought her back to the family plantation.
“The Prince Regent,” she explained, “intends nothing less than the utter and complete conquest of Mars. As a child of Mars, I must oppose this, and I hope that I may depend upon you to do so as well.”
“But he is our lord and sovereign!” Michael protested. “Born on Mars we may be, but we are still English subjects! If you should happen to have been born in a boat upon the sea, would you swear fealty to Neptune above your own King?”
A boat upon the sea, Arabella reflected, was a thing Michael had never in his life even beheld; unlike Arabella and her sisters, he had not been transported back to Earth by their mother. How curious—and very English—it was that he, a denizen of the sand for his entire life, should choose a watery metaphor. “This is not merely an accident of birth,” she protested. “It is a matter of simple humanity. Can you not see how unfair—how cruel—it would be for England to seize control of an entire planet, merely because the Prince has more and better ships?”
“I cannot agree at all! Surely it is not ‘unfair’ for a more civilized, more advanced nation to offer guidance to a less developed one, even if that nation should happen to span an entire planet. And as for cruelty … England’s civilizing influence upon Mars might cause some pain, yes, but it is not in the least cruel! It is the same sort of pain that a loving parent may inflict upon a disobedient child: proportional, deliberate, and entirely justified. And the child will, as it grows to maturity, understand this, and indeed come to appreciate the lesson learned.”
Arabella held her voice level by an effort of will. “Comparing Mars, whose history is some thousands of years longer than our own, to a child does nothing more than display your own ignorance.” Captain Singh, she noted, sat rigidly, allowing Arabella to take the lead in argument with her brother, though his sentiments were plain from the scowl that creased his brow. Seeing this, she realized that her own brow was furrowed with anger—which, knowing Michael, would surely not help her cause. She took a deep breath and strove to relax her features. “Be that as it may … we may disagree, but as even Mother eventually realized, you cannot prevent me from doing what is right. And as your sister—and, I must point out, as the one who rescued the family fortune from our dear cousin Simon—I hope that I may impose upon you, out of family loyalty if nothing else, to support the cause of Mars with a share of that same fortune.”
“You have ever and always done what you thought was right,” Michael acknowledged. “And, whatever our current differences, I know that we have always supported each other in our … unconventional adventures.” He smiled slightly then, obviously recalling some happy memory, and Arabella’s heart lightened. But then his smile collapsed, and with it Arabella’s hopes. “But I cannot support you in this. I will grant you an allowance of … let us say two hundred pounds per year, so long as you are on Mars. But I will not open the family purse any further than that.”
Two hundred pounds was exceedingly generous for an allowance—she must give him that—especially for a married sibling not living under the same roof. But it was a mere pittance by comparison with the vast sums that would be required to fund any sort of organized resistance, and far less than she had hoped for. “Is that your final decision?”
“No,” he replied coldly. “If your behavior requires … I may reduce it.”
* * *
Two days later, Arabella peered ahead from Diana’s forward rail, where she soon recognized the distinctive silhouette of Khoresh Tukath, the capital city of Sor Khoresh.
Even at this distance, it was clear that the inner city alone, ringed by a substantial wall, was larger than the entire town of Fort Augusta, the largest human settlement on Mars. With the outskirts included, Khoresh Tukath was more than five times Fort Augusta’s size, and that larger area was thickly clustered with tall towers, dense blocks of habitations, and the magnificent municipal buildings fitting the capital of a major nation. But still more impressive than the city itself was the palace that rose above it.
Tura’s palace stood atop a vertiginous, craggy hill at the center of the inner city. The hill itself, a single massive block of deep red Martian stone, loomed high above the city; the palace mounted still higher above its peak, a soaring arrogant gesture of steel and stone. Every corner was anchored by a gleaming curve of steel, rising like an upthrust sword from the red rock at its base; the walls between those shining steel arcs were of stone, carefully formed and artfully fitted. Even from very close, she knew, the gaps between those stones could barely be discerned; from this distance they seemed a single mass, solid and impenetrable.
As Diana and Touchstone drew nearer the palace, more details came into view: pinnacles, minarets, balconies, and monumental sculptures of khoreshte warriors loomed above those massive walls like a forest of upthrust spears. Yet for all their elegant splendor these features were not fanciful at all—instead, like the ornately carved figureheads of English and French men-of-war, they projected a power so confident that no amount of ornamentation could reduce their effectiveness.
By now they had approached so near the city that the port—a vast expanse of flat, smooth sand densely forested with masts—was plainly their destination, and indeed within the hour they would be above it. “Ease off pulsers!” came the command from behind Arabella, and the constant drumbeat from belowdecks slowed to half its previous pace. Curious as to why the command had been given so much sooner than she had expected, she looked about … and saw several balloons rising toward them from a fortress below. Beneath each balloon hung a small ship, or rather a boat, of a design she had never before encountered. Flat-bottomed and angular in construction, they were exceptionally lightly built and carried but two masts, extending horizontally to larboard and starboard. Three-sail pulsers drove them toward the English ships.
“What are those vessels?” she asked Edmonds, the chief mate, as the captain was occupied. Khema, who might also know, had retired below; for all her size and strength she was possessed of a remarkably delicate stomach, and the motion of the ship through even quite gentle breezes made her rather air-sick.
“Never seen the like, exactly,” Edmonds said, “but they’re Martian-made for sure.”
“I thought the Martians were not allowed aerial ships?”
“Not interplanetary ships, ma’am. But some of ’em worked out the building of inshore vessels”—he gestured to the Martian boats—“before the treaties, and they were allowed to keep ’em.” He peered more closely. “They’re armed.”
Indeed, Arabella saw that each boat carried two large crossbows, each manned by an alert crew of Martians. Each bow—as long as a tall man’s height—was drawn back in a taut curve, with a massive arrow, or bolt, laid in the groove ready for firing. A flame flickered at the head of each bolt.
“Those are fire-bolts!” Arabella cried, alarmed. This type of weapon, she knew from her reading, was ineffective in interplanetary aerial combat; in free descent, flames tended to suffocate unless deliberately fanned. But in gravity, with the flames fed by rising air, a burning crossbow bolt could set a balloon envelope afire, sending the ship plummeting to the ground below. Even worse, as Diana’s balloons were filled with hydrogen, a single bolt could easily cause a tremendous explosion.
Immediately Edmonds reported this intelligence to the captain, who at once ordered “Back pulsers!” The ship slowed to a stop, still some distance from the port.
In the sudden silence that fell after the drums belowdeck ceased, Arabella made out a harsh sound from the nearest boat. It was a call from a Martian throat, she felt certain, but its meaning eluded her. She moved closer to Captain Singh.
“What is he saying?” he asked her.
“I do not know,” she confessed. “It must be khoreshte dialect. Khema would have a better idea.”
Captain Singh turned to Watson, one of Diana’s midshipmen. “Pray convey to Miss Khema my very best regards, and request her presence upon the quarterdeck.” Even as Watson scurried off, the Martian hailed Diana again, repeating her previous request with greater urgency.
“Khema was in a very bad way when last I saw her,” Captain Singh said. “She may not be in any position to assist us. Can you ask the Martian what he wants?” He handed her a speaking-trumpet.
“She,” Arabella corrected, taking the device. “I will try.” She paused a moment, trying to bring Martian language, unused in some years, back to the forefront of her mind, then formulated a reasonably polite request in Khema’s tribal dialect. Drawing in a lungful of the cool, fresh, dry air, she bellowed the request as loudly as she could … then bent over, coughing, from the unexpected effort. Martian language was not easily shouted by the human throat.
The boat replied almost immediately, and to Arabella’s relief it was in the same language. “They desire to come aboard and inspect our ship before we land,” she translated.
“Highly unusual,” Captain Singh muttered. “But I suppose a Company ship is unusual in this port.”
“I suppose they would be more used to privateers, and independent traders.”
“Tell them they must extinguish their fire-bolts before approaching.”
Arabella considered her grammar, then raised the speaking-trumpet to her lips to make the request, adding an explanation that the ship carried highly inflammable cargo. It was not exactly a lie.
The Martians did not reply immediately, debating amongst themselves. “If we were lifted by coal,” Captain Singh said quietly, “we would be running low on fuel at this point. Surely their strategy depends upon our desperation to land quickly.”
“Perhaps we should not yet reveal our advantage in this area.”
The captain’s expression soured. “With the fire-bolts in play, that advantage is also a disadvantage.”
Arabella glanced around, trying to imagine what her captain was seeing with his strategic eye. They were now completely surrounded by khoreshte air-boats, above and below as well as to all sides, though only the boat directly ahead lay close enough to be worrisome. The ground directly beneath was rocky and inhospitable—if they were forced down, it would be a rough landing indeed.
A rasping call from the lead khoreshte boat roused Arabella from her reverie. “They refuse,” she translated, even as the boat moved closer. Smoke rose from the flames of its crossbow bolts, and drips of flaming fuel fell toward the jagged rocks below.
Not taking his eyes from the advancing boat, Captain Singh took a step back to stand beside Edmonds. “Quietly, now,” he muttered. “Pass the word to the sharpshooters in the tops: target the Martians’ gunners. But do not fire unless and until I give the command.”
Arabella’s heart hammered in her breast. They were surrounded by eight or nine khoreshte boats, each bearing two crossbows with several Martians on each. Even if Diana’s sharpshooters fired rapidly and accurately they would not be able to take all the Martians out of action before they fired. And if even a single flaming crossbow bolt struck a hydrogen-filled balloon the result would be disastrous.
The gun crews in the lead boat readied their weapons, cranking the bows to their maximum tension. Captain Singh drew in a breath.
And then a call—a brief, loud utterance in the same rattling language the aerial boat’s commander had used—interrupted the proceedings, and Arabella looked over the quarterdeck’s forward rail to the source of the sound. It was Khema, who had just emerged from belowdecks. Her knees wavered, her fingers clutched the gunwale, and even her eye-stalks waved uneasily, but she was nonetheless vertical and capable of speech.
In the silence after Khema’s cry, nothing moved. The Martian crossbows and Diana’s rifles remained fixed upon their targets. Even the wind seemed to have fallen silent.
“What did you say?” Captain Singh asked Khema.
“I invoked akhmok-right.” Khema made her way carefully to the base of the quarterdeck ladder, creeping along the gunwale hand-over-hand. She was too large to comfortably ascend to the quarterdeck itself. “Our authority crosses boundaries of tribe and nation.”
Captain Singh blinked, but he said nothing, nor did his gaze stray from the gun crew in the nearest khoreshte boat. The Martian gunners, in turn, stared right back at him, their faceted eyes glinting in the summer sun. No one moved or spoke.
“Under most circumstances akhmok-right is accepted without hesitation,” Khema said uneasily. “Carts and canal-boats carrying akhmok are not subject to inspection, and it seems obvious to me that this privilege should extend to ships of the air as well.”
“The commander of this flotilla,” Captain Singh said, “may not agree.”
The silent impasse went on and on. Then the lead boat’s commander, who stood upon a small platform in the boat’s waist, called a question. Khema called back in the same language. This received what seemed to Arabella a very brusque reply.
“She asks why an akhmok travels upon an English airship,” Khema translated. “I told her that I have come from Fort Augusta with a matter of import to all Martians. She does not seem impressed.”
Finally, the commander waved a hand in a gesture of disgusted resignation. “Very well,” she called in Khema’s dialect. “You may proceed. Let Tura deal with you!”
None of the Martians on that boat or any of the others seemed entirely pleased with this outcome. But they backed away, pulsers whirling, and allowed Diana to proceed toward the port.
“Thank you for your assistance,” Captain Singh said to Khema. “I hope to have you on solid ground shortly.”
“I look forward to that moment with great pleasure. But I fear that even greater challenges may await us after we land.” Her eye-stalks drew together in concern.
* * *
On the one previous occasion that Arabella had encountered Tura, it had been in her audience chamber, a lofty and grandiose space designed to impress with costly materials, architectural magnificence, and the simple intimidation of a raised dais. But this time she, Khema, and Captain Singh were ushered into Tura’s private study—a smaller, closer, and yet somehow even more intimidating space. For here Tura was plainly at home, and every curve of wall, every smallest item of furnishing, indeed every breath of the cinnamon-scented air, proclaimed this to be a Martian space, a space into which humans were rarely, if ever, even tolerated to enter.
Before this moment Arabella had not realized the degree to which the audience chamber, as awe-inspiring as it was, had been designed to welcome visitors as well as impress them … but this room granted no concessions to any one other than the ruling elite of Sor Khoresh, and Tura in particular.
As Arabella and her companions entered, Tura did not rise from the desk behind which she worked, her busy pen scratching. Though Martian books were inscribed upon coils of thin steel ribbon, many Martians had adopted pen and paper from the English for less permanent communication.
After allowing her visitors to stand for some minutes before her desk, with two armed warriors standing sentry behind them and no chairs for them to rest upon, Tura finally stopped writing and regarded them, turning the pen over and over between the hard and sharpened points of her fingers. “You claim to have come on a matter of import to all Martians,” she said. “Why have you come here on an English ship, and why do you bring these humans with you?” She spoke in Khema’s tribal dialect, but the word “human” was English, and in Tura’s mouth it was an imprecation.
“I bring them,” Khema replied, “because they have personal knowledge of the issue, which involves the Prince Regent.” This term, too, was English, and though to Khema it plainly lacked the rancid flavor that “human” held for Tura it was nonetheless apparently somewhat distasteful. Arabella suspected that this was, to some extent, a pretense for Tura’s benefit … but to what extent exactly, she could not be certain.
“These people have come directly from Earth,” Khema continued, “on a mission of the greatest urgency—indeed, they took an unprecedented and quite dangerous course to arrive as quickly as possible. As soon as they presented their information to me, I requested them to bear me here from Fort Augusta, because only Your Highness can save the entire Martian people from this threat.”
But Tura did not take Khema’s flattering bait. “Your story makes no sense,” she said. “It is unheard-of to take an aerial vessel for such a short journey.” Khema translated this to Captain Singh, and he began to reply, but Tura pointed one sharpened fingertip at him and snapped, “Silence, male.”
To his credit, Captain Singh correctly divined the intent of the Martian words and fell silent.
But Arabella realized that Khema did not know the answer, and so she took it upon herself to reply. “Our ship is lifted by a special gas rather than by hot air,” she said, and Khema translated her words. To this, at least, Tura did not object. “We can ascend and descend at will, without the requirement of a launch-furnace for ascent or coal for descent, making short journeys far more feasible. And the urgency of our mission required this unusual step.”
“Another triumph of human ingenuity,” Tura said, but she tapped the butt end of the pen impatiently upon her desk.
“Do you not,” Khema asked, plainly trying to gain the offensive, “desire to know of the threat which faces all of Mars?”
Tura sat back, now drumming the pen negligently upon the carapace of her abdomen. “You may attempt to convince me,” she allowed after a time. “Come to the point quickly, and do not attempt to distract me with unverifiable details.” Arabella found her hand clutching her captain’s. She had not even noticed herself reaching for it.
“The Prince Regent of England,” Khema explained, “having defeated the emperor Napoleon, has become the most powerful human in the solar system. Emboldened by this, he now intends to seize complete control of Mars.” She gestured to Arabella. “This human, my former ward, is well known to me and bears my every trust. She has more information on the situation.”
Tura leaned forward, setting the pen down and fixing her full and terrible attention on Arabella. “Speak.”
Arabella did speak. She spoke in some detail. Tura asked many questions, and Arabella replied to the best of her ability, frequently turning to Khema for translations and to Captain Singh for his particular knowledge of the Prince’s strategy—which Tura, thankfully, permitted.
“Even supposing I accept your story,” Tura said at last, sitting back in her chair, “I fail to see why I should be concerned. Not even the Martians have ever conquered all of Mars, and in three hundred years the English have occupied less than one-fourteenth of it—and that only with our forbearance. Even if these supposed armored ships can fly at all, I cannot imagine that the English will do any better with them than they already have.”
“It is not merely the ships,” Khema insisted. “Though the ships themselves, with their guns and aerial bombs, are threat enough, they will also bear troops, and cannon, and most disturbingly the drug ulka. Its deleterious effects are difficult to imagine.” In truth, Arabella herself had some difficulty envisioning them, but the terror that Ulungugga and the other Venusians in Diana’s crew held for the drug was clear.
“But the invasion,” Tura replied, “and the drug, will begin in Fort Augusta, and it is the feeble, English-dominated Martians of Saint George’s Land”—here she directed her eye-stalks significantly to Khema, who stared back with cold formality—“who will bear the brunt of it. The weakening of a neighboring state does me no ill at all, and I see no reason to oppose it.”
Arabella, Khema, and Captain Singh had anticipated this objection and prepared a response. “The English of Saint George’s Land will eagerly participate in the invasion,” Khema said. “And those Martians who cooperate—sadly, I expect they will be in the majority, at least at first—will not suffer from it. Saint George’s Land will rapidly form a base of operations for the invasion of the rest of the planet—with Sor Khoresh being first on the list. But Sor Khoresh, with its great wealth of raw materials, is also in a unique position to lead the resistance. To this end we have prepared a specific proposal.” She nodded significantly to Arabella.
Arabella gulped. They had originally intended the ship-yard and refinery plan to be described by Captain Singh, but now it seemed that Arabella must present it. She did so to the best of her ability. “But the fleet can only be completed in time,” she concluded, “if we begin work on the refinery immediately.”
“Where do you propose this … monstrosity to be constructed?” Tura replied.
“We had thought that Khoresh Tukath—”
“Here in my capital city?” Tura roared upon hearing the name, before Khema had even translated Arabella’s reply. “Impossible! Not only would it be a hideous stain upon my beautiful city, but it would make Khoresh Tukath an obvious and immediate target when the English fleet arrives.” She slammed her hand down upon her desk, scattering papers every where. “You have thrown in your lot with the English,” she told Khema, “and it has made you like them—pale, weak, and vacillating. Akhmok or no, I should have you cast from my presence immediately!”
One of Tura’s flying papers landed atop Arabella’s foot. Arabella, flustered beyond words by Tura’s outburst, bent automatically to pick it up.
As she did so she felt a crinkling at her waist.
It was the sketch-map tucked in her reticule.
Thank you, Aadim, she thought, finally understanding his purpose in pointing the spot out. For he had been present at all the discussions between Arabella, Lady Corey, Captain Singh, and Fulton, and was very much aware of the needs of the iron refinery and ship-yard.
Acting before fear or doubt could stay her hand, she drew the paper from her reticule and spread it on Tura’s desk. “Here is an alternative site, Your Highness,” she said, to the silent bafflement of both Khema and Captain Singh. “A location rich in minerals, and far from any center of population … the perfect site for a clandestine ship-yard. All it lacks is lumber and laborers.”
Tura’s eye-stalks bent downward, inspecting the map. “This wasteland is of little use to me,” she acknowledged, without ceding any more.
“Sor Khoresh is rich in khoresh-wood, proud warriors, and skilled laborers,” Khema said, attempting to regain her composure. “If you could commit a very small portion of that wealth, we will build you an aerial navy which can stymie the Prince Regent and keep Mars free forevermore. And you will be for ever hailed as the satrap who made it possible.”
Khema gazed levelly at Tura. Tura stared back. Captain Singh looked on with a tense anxiety that, had she not known him so well, might have been mistaken for mere formality. Arabella, for her own part, merely held her breath.
Then Tura sat back in her chair, interlacing her fingers with a small clattering sound. “You have my permission to use that worthless scrap of desert and any thing you can scratch from the ground there. I will keep the project secret—so long as it benefits me to do so—and I will provide a detachment of forty warriors to help secure the site. The rest is up to you.”
Tura’s skimpy offer plainly took Khema aback. “May we perhaps request a loan for our initial expenses?”
“No. You are such a friend to the English … ask them for funding.”
Arabella found her breath running short and fast. This was far, far less than they had hoped for, but certainly better than nothing … and most likely better than they would get from any satrap to whom they were not already known. And time was very much of the essence. She glanced to Captain Singh, whose worried expression matched her own.
Khema hesitated a moment more … then gave Tura a deep respectful bow. “Thank you, Your Highness. We are happy to accept your generous offer.”