Arabella of Mars(46)

*

Arabella shot out of the companionway into a bright, airy, screaming maelstrom. Blinking against the unaccustomed light, she caught herself on a stay and took a moment to orient herself.

The deck was a tangled mess of spars, sails, and rigging that smelled of gunpowder and blood. One of the main yards lay diagonally across Diana’s waist, a shambles of rope and Venusian silk that blocked her passage and her view. Above, the mainmast still seemed whole, though several topmen floated limp and bleeding against a background of roiling smoke.

And then, rising above the larboard rail like some malevolent moon, the corsair hove into view. Near enough that Arabella could easily make out the rapacious grins on the faces of her crew, she turned as she climbed, yawing about to bring her guns to bear on Diana’s midsection. The French ship was not undamaged—one mast was little more than a mass of splinters held together by shreds of silk—but plainly she was still very much able to maneuver. Abaft, her pulsers whirled like a windmill in a gale.

The corsair’s four gun-ports gaped, black and malevolent, seeming to grow larger as the ship swiveled herself to point directly toward Arabella.

With a shriek, Arabella flung herself away from those four hideous maws, flying aft, hiding herself in the tangled silk of the fallen yard. A moment later the corsair’s quadruple report sounded, the flash of her guns just visible through the waving silk, almost immediately followed by a shattering crash as the balls struck Diana. The ship jerked at the impact like a wounded living thing.

Arabella disentangled herself from the imprisoning fabric, finding herself on the far side of the wreckage. She was near the quarterdeck now. Abaft, officers on the quarterdeck orbited the sun of their captain, who stood, still strapped in place, pointing and calling out commands.

Arabella looked over her shoulder. From here the French ship could not be seen at all.

The quarterdeck was officers’ country, inviolate—no mere airman could enter that sacred space uninvited. Nevertheless, Arabella sprang from her position immediately, sailing through the stinking, littered air directly toward the captain. “The corsair!” she called as she flew, pointing behind herself. “She’s right over there!”

Kerrigan whirled to face her, anger showing on his blood-spattered face, but the captain called back, “Where?”

Catching herself on a stay, Arabella pointed through the obscuring silk. As though to confirm her observation, the unseen corsair’s cannon sounded again, directly in line with her pointing finger.

For a moment Captain Singh’s brow furrowed in furious concentration. Then he said, “Ashby, report to the magazine. Tell them to provide you with an explosive charge. Carry it to your gun and instruct your captain to target the enemy’s magazine. I will endeavor to provide him with a clear shot.”

Before she could even reply “Aye, aye, sir!” the captain had already turned away, barking commands to his officers.

*

Arabella hauled herself down the rail to the after hatch, squeezing past two men armed with cutlasses against an anticipated boarding attempt, belowdecks to the magazine. There she relayed the captain’s order to the wan and trembling men in charge.

“This is the only one left,” said one of them, handing her a ball equipped with a ropy fuse. “Best make good use of it.”

“Aye, aye,” Arabella said, and took the precious, deadly thing, along with a charge of powder.

Recalling the nails and other wreckage in her path, Arabella realized she’d have to return via the upper deck. Tucking the ball under one arm and the charge under the other, she propelled herself with legs alone back up the after companionway and out into the light.

The scene here was little different than before—scrambling airmen below, smoke and wreckage above, the corsair still hidden from sight by the fallen yard—but even as she made her way forward she heard a repeated call of “Hold fast! Hold fast for maneuvers!”

She was just then passing the mainstays, thick diagonal ropes that held the mainmast in position, but with the ball and charge under her arms she had no hands free. At the last moment she reached out one foot, snagging the last stay and bringing herself to a sudden halt. Juggling her deadly cargo under one arm, she twined her legs and the other arm around the tense and heavy cable and held tight.

“Strike all starboard and larboard sails!” came the captain’s next command. “Strike mains’l! Sheet home main royals and t’gallants! Pulsers full ahead!”

All around topmen scrambled to obey. First the main-sail vanished, then with fierce and rapid action the sails far above snapped into position, bellying backward against Diana’s forward motion through the air. A deep thrum sounded through the stay to which Arabella clung, making her whole body vibrate, and the mainmast creaked alarmingly from the great pressure placed upon its upper reaches.

And then, with a mighty groan, the whole ship pivoted around the remaining sails of the upper mainmast.

The clouds above wheeled dizzyingly past. Arabella felt herself slide down the stay until her feet pressed against the deck with a force nearly as great as Earth’s accustomed gravity. The French ship rotated into view above Arabella, the crew staring back, astonished at Diana’s unprecedented maneuver.

In just a moment they would be in Diana’s line of fire. And Arabella held the explosive charge.

*

Arabella released her hold on the stay and began making her way forward. Pressed against the deck as she was by the ship’s rotation, it was almost like walking on a ship at sea—a pitching, yawing ship, under attack, on a heaving sea. Yet she knew she must reach the gun quickly or the whole perilous maneuver would be for naught.