Arabella of Mars(40)

“That’s enough,” came a firm voice from behind her.

Not releasing her grip, Arabella risked a quick glance at the voice. It was Young, the eldest member of her mess. “Ye’ve beaten him,” he said. “Now let him go.”

With one last hard glance at Gowse—he seemed to cringe from its impact—she shoved the man away. He bounced off the floor as she caught herself lightly on an overhead beam, leaving a bloody handprint.

She looked around at the sphere of airmen. Her whole body trembled from exertion and late-arriving fear, but she worked hard to keep it from showing.

Several of the men nodded appreciatively, then turned away. The sphere melted away in moments, as quickly as it had assembled, the men drifting off to their hammocks or the head.

Gowse remained, floating near the deck, grasping the ladder’s lowest rung with one hand and holding his nose with the other. “I think ye’ve broken it,” he said, wincing, his words indistinct.

“You said something about a lesson needing to be taught,” Arabella observed.

“Aye,” Gowse muttered. “Aye, that I did. And someone got hisself schooled, a’right.” He reached out with the hand that was not holding his nose, sending himself slowly tumbling. “Would ye be so kind as to bring me some water, lad?”

Leather sacks of water were kept in a net at one end of the deck. Arabella brought him one, tossing it to him from some distance away in case of a ruse.

“Thanks,” Gowse said, pulling the stopper with his teeth. He swigged down half the water and used the other half to wet his shirt-tail and mop up some of the blood from his face. Droplets of reddish water drifted everywhere.

After cleaning himself up a bit, Gowse looked up to where Arabella still hung near the overhead. “Good fight, lad.” He nodded. “Good fight.”

“Thank you,” Arabella said, not knowing what else to say.

“We’ll do better with that gun tomorrow.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all a man can do.”

Airmen, Arabella reflected, were a strange lot.

*

After the fight, the men treated Arabella differently. Before, she’d felt tolerated—the weak, unskilled new hand—and had thought that good enough, for now. But after her defeat of Gowse she seemed accepted as truly part of the crew. When she had problems or questions, the other men provided answers and assistance without the air of annoyance or opprobrium they’d displayed before; she was now treated as merely inexperienced. It was as though, by showing skill with her fists, she’d demonstrated her potential to perform any other task.

As for Gowse himself, to Arabella’s great surprise his relations with Arabella grew highly cordial. She’d feared retaliation, expected incivility, and hoped for merely being left alone, but despite his two black eyes and visibly off-kilter nose—about which every one, including the officers, studiously avoided any comment—Gowse now treated Arabella as the greatest of friends.

Of course, she was still the most junior member of the crew, still given the filthiest and most tedious jobs. And if in gunnery drill she was slow in delivering a charge of powder, which did still occur from time to time, Gowse could be sharp with a rebuke. But the same was true of any other man whose performance displeased him, and during the few hours of each day when they were neither asleep nor employed in their duties he would often invite her to share a chew of tobacco (which she declined) or join in a game of cards.

Paradoxically, now that the men had accepted her as one of their own, Arabella worried more about keeping her sex hidden. Before, when no one had paid her the least mind, she’d been free to slink off to the head while the men were gaming or carousing together, when she was less likely to be caught with her pants down. Now that she was engaged in those games and carousals herself, her absence was more likely to be noticed.

But even at those times when she was not alone in the head, she still managed to keep her private parts private. The space was dark, close, and vile; visibility was poor, and no one wanted to do any thing other than to get in, do his business, and get out. Only during a few days of the month was there any need for Arabella to spend any more time in the head than that herself, and even then she could plead the flux or some other, more sordid, medical condition. These excuses were greeted by a sympathetic nod or knowing wink, and seemed to raise no suspicion. Certainly no airman would even consider consulting the ship’s surgeon for any condition less serious than a direct and immediate threat to life or limb.

Outside of the head there was rarely any threat of exposure. The men slept in their clothing, almost never washed—water was too closely rationed to do otherwise—and even when a man was injured or ill and had to visit the surgeon, clothing was removed only from the affected part. Some men would strip off their shirts during gunnery drill and when working the pedals, but not every one did, and no one ever questioned Arabella’s modesty. And as the ship drew farther and farther from the sun, the warmth of the air diminished and hardly any man went shirtless.

But there was one incident in the head that made Arabella’s heart pound.

*

The incident came in the middle of Arabella’s time off-watch, when a dire pressure in her gut roused her from her well-earned slumber. She rushed to the head, and was in the middle of doing her business when she realized she was not alone. Two other men were there with her.