The captain immediately reminded them of that, using the full-throated command voice that carried through storms and brooked no disobedience, ending with “and belay that lollygagging at the rail!”
Immediately the dozens of heads that had been peering over the rail vanished, the men returning to their duties.
From within the hull came clatters, clanks, and muffled thuds, along with occasional cries of despair from Quinn the purser.
“We should return aboard,” the captain said, “to supervise the inspection.”
*
The Martians were extremely thorough, but they worked quickly, and when they were done nearly every thing had been returned to its original place. Most of the Martians retreated, leaving the original four on the quarterdeck along with Diana’s officers. “We thanks you for inspecting,” the one in the purple hat told the captain. “We welcomes you visiting our plantation.”
At that statement of ownership a cold anger seized Arabella’s heart, but she pushed it down—it might merely be an error in the Martian’s imperfect English, or reflect their current, temporary occupation of the property.
“Thank you,” the captain replied. “May we impose upon your hospitality? My crew require food, drink, and exercise. And we hope to negotiate for the purchase of coal, and the use of the furnaces in your drying-sheds, or else our visit here may well be of indefinite duration.”
The Martian conferred with the other members of her rukesh and replied, “For this you must speaking akhmok.”
The captain raised a questioning eyebrow to Arabella, who shrugged to indicate her ignorance of the word’s meaning.
“Very well,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “Take us to this … ‘akmok.’” Like most Englishmen, he could not properly pronounce the Martian kh.
The purple-hatted Martian stiffened in indignation. “Not ‘us.’ Not all. Only rukesh may speaking akhmok.”
“Only our leaders,” Arabella quietly translated.
“Very well.” He turned to the other officers. “Richardson, Stross, with me.”
Arabella, too, stepped forward, but the captain leaned down and took her hand. “I must insist that you remain behind,” he said gently, “for safety’s sake.”
“I appreciate your concern, sir,” she replied with as much confidence as she could muster, “but for that very reason—for the safety of yourself and every other man on this ship—I must insist that I accompany you, as translator and adviser in matters Martian.” Her knowledge of Martian languages and culture had its gaps, to be sure, but it was certainly better than that of any other man aboard, and she knew enough of the history of the English on Mars to know that even small misunderstandings could lead to fatal outcomes.
The captain considered her for a long moment, his brown eyes steady on hers. “You pose me a difficult choice,” he replied, “but I suppose I have no reasonable alternative but to acquiesce.”
The four Martians led the captain, the two officers, and Arabella below. Stross favored Arabella with a withering glance as the two of them fell in behind the captain.
It was not easy to keep her step steady as she descended the ladder. She knew that she must accompany the captain, not only to increase the chances of his safe return but also to learn the fate of Michael and the other occupants of the house. But she feared that the captain had been correct in his initial assessment of the situation—that she was putting herself firmly in harm’s way.
What, she wondered as she stepped onto the gangplank, was an akhmok?
And what had she gotten herself into?
*
Arabella’s heart nearly broke as she and the officers followed the rukesh through the dispersing crowd of Martians. The oval lawn of English grass, lovingly tended and watered twice daily, that had once stretched proudly before the manor house now lay brown and neglected, trampled under many hard Martian feet. The house, too, had suffered grievously—in addition to the entire wing lost to fire, most of the main house’s windows were shattered and its clapboards bore many bullet holes and the twinned scars of forked spears. Approaching still more closely, she saw that the front doors had been smashed to flinders, with only one brave board still clinging to its hinges. The stink of smoke lay like a pall over every thing.
How could this have happened? Father had always treated his servants, English and Martian alike, with the greatest of respect, and she could not imagine Michael changing that policy. Even at times of unrest, the Ashby plantation had always before escaped harm. What could possibly have enraged the Martians sufficiently to justify this wanton destruction?
And who had survived it?