The crowd of Martians below seethed like a pot of water on a low boil, warriors running hither and yon, clattering and screaming and waving their spears. A knot of feverish activity surrounded each of the catapults—at least seven were now in operation—with chanting teams of Martians hauling back each deadly arm and loading huge, jagged boulders into each waiting basket. The nearest catapult let fly even as she watched, with a great cry from its crew, sending yet another stone crashing into the already thoroughly demolished dining-room. But though the added visible destruction was not large, she knew this was not just a futile exercise—the room’s rear wall, a load-bearing wall, could not take much more damage, and when it collapsed it would take a goodly portion of the east wing’s roof with it.
“Lookee there, sir,” said one of the riflemen, pointing. Arabella followed his outstretched finger to the distant town below Fort Augusta, which had suddenly spouted a huge, fresh gout of flames. A column of black, greasy smoke rose from the spot, soon joined in the air by several more such columns. The town, already heavily damaged, now seemed doomed to complete destruction.
“What in God’s name has set them off like this?” fumed another rifleman, this one a well-fed older gentleman named Morrison, sighting along his weapon. With a hard, sharp crack he loosed another shot, sending a Martian tumbling down the craggy hill below the house. But others rushed forward to fill the void, jamming themselves into the crowd rushing to raise ladders beneath the gaping hole which had formerly been the dining-room windows.
Arabella thought she knew, but she could not be certain—the tumult from the crowd below was so great that individual words could not be discerned, even if they were within her limited vocabulary. “I could attempt to ask them,” she said. “But you must lower your rifles.”
Mr. Morrison glared at her, but put down his weapon. “Be quick about it,” he muttered.
The captain dragged a cartridge box close to the parapet, and Arabella climbed up upon it—the slight additional elevation making her feel giddy and exposed—cupped her hands to her mouth, and called out “Karaa, karaa!” several times until she had the attention of a good number of the crowd. “Gentle neighbors!” she cried. “What is the cause of this new attack? We wish only peace!”
This brought forth an angry, muddled shout from many Martian throats which completely failed to clarify the situation. But after a moment the crowd quieted itself as a gargantuan armored form moved up through the pressed bodies to the clearing at the base of the tower. An akhmok.
And not just any akhmok. Even at this distance, Arabella recognized her beloved itkhalya. Somehow, despite Khema’s transformation, she still moved in a familiar way. “Oh, dearest tutukha!” Khema called, her booming voice twisted with sadness. “I fear peace is no longer a possibility.”
“Negotiation is always an option,” Arabella called back, “as you yourself taught me, dear Khema.”
“Indeed, tutukha, but in this case the options are very limited. For the kidnapped egg was simply buried in cold sand like a cast-off shell, and by the time we found it … it had died.” A few Martians behind her wailed in grief and pounded their spear hafts upon the sand. “My people are beyond consolation, and I am afraid this regrettable violence must be allowed to burn itself out.”
In the silence that followed Khema’s words, distant screams came to Arabella’s ears from the town beyond. Human screams.
“Surely we can find some other solution,” Arabella cried—though, in truth, she could see no alternative.
“I am sorry, tutukha.”
“Get down!” shouted one of the men, and roughly hauled Arabella down from her perch. A moment later an enormous boulder flew past the parapet, so near that the roaring wind of its passage battered Arabella’s face and hair. The rock’s tremendous crash upon the crag behind the house was barely audible over her pounding heart.
“That was too close!” said Mr. Morrison. “For your own safety, Miss Ashby, I must insist that you return to the drawing-room.”
Though she protested this exile, even the captain was set against her, and against her will she soon found her feet set upon the descending steps.
“We are Englishmen,” the portly gentleman declared behind her. “We will defend this house unto our dying breaths.”
And then he closed the door, leaving Arabella in darkness.
*
The captain, Collins, and several of the gentlemen leaned over the plan of the house, pointing and muttering darkly, while Arabella sat dejected on a settee nearby and stared mutely at the flagstones of the hearth. The thunderous crash of another catapult-stone shook the house, sending bits of plaster pattering down, but by now this event was far from extraordinary.
Was this the end? Would all of Fort Augusta—all of English Mars—fall victim to madness and violence?
A shadow fell across the stones, and she looked up. It was the captain.
“We must retreat to the kitchen soon,” he said. “Once the east wing collapses it will be our last redoubt. With luck, the insurrection will be quelled before our defenses there are overwhelmed.”
She nodded miserably, knowing as well as the captain did that there was no one to quell the insurrection. “I suppose we should move Michael there as soon as we can,” she said. “Assuming he can be moved.”