Arabella of Mars(58)
Even the charcoal, the very substance that ensured their survival, served only to worsen the crew’s foul mood. The filthy stuff, far bulkier than the coal it replaced, soon overfilled the coal room, and lumpy burnt-smelling bags of charcoal had to be stowed in every unused corner of the ship. Every man and every thing smelled of it; greasy black powder drifted into every corner and begrimed every bodily crease. The biscuits and salt beef came from the galley seasoned with the gritty stuff. It crunched between Arabella’s teeth.
The very air, it seemed, tasted of charcoal, and the weary, filthy, red-eyed men smoldered beneath its smoky pall.
As the mutterings increased, Arabella’s earlier concern about a possible mutiny returned. Though she had neither heard nor seen any further sign of dissent in the ranks since that overheard conversation in the head, she feared the conspiracy had continued unseen. But who were the conspirators?
She tried to investigate without seeming to do so, asking veiled questions and straining to overhear muttered conversations, but learned nothing concrete—if there was a plot in train, the plotters were very good at keeping quiet about it. And though she kept an attentive ear open at all times for that grating voice she had overheard in the darkness, never did she hear it upon the deck or below it.
Perhaps, she thought—she hoped—the rumblings of mutiny she’d overheard had been nothing more than talk.
She should tell the captain, she knew. But the man had such a strong respect for personal responsibility—in fact, a nearly Martian sense of okhaya—that she knew any report of questionable behavior from a member of the crew would be met with sharp skepticism. And as she had no certain knowledge of which member of the crew it might be … serious charges should not be brought up lightly, and if she told him of her fears without absolute, objective evidence it might diminish her in his eyes. And that was something she devoutly did not wish.
So she continued to wait, and watch, and listen.
*
At last the master and the purser judged that nearly sufficient charcoal had been chopped and burned and carried and stowed for a safe landing on Mars. The carpenter and his mates had long since repaired Diana’s battle scars; patches of pale fresh khoresh-wood gleamed on every deck and bulkhead, torn sails had been neatly stitched and patched, and fractured spars had been “fished” with splints and wrapped tight with cordage.
The officers met each day in the great cabin, at six bells of the afternoon watch, to assess the ship’s progress. Arabella, now tacitly accepted in the officers’ company, filled and wound the lamps as they conversed.
“One more load ought to do it,” Stross said, and sucked a great draught of grog from his drinking-skin. Weeks of unceasing labor had made him nearly as thin and weak as the captain, and great dark circles stained the cheeks beneath eyes reddened by the ever-present charcoal dust. “The last clamp should be well-cooked by two bells in the forenoon tomorrow. Figure another two watches to dig it out, haul it aboard, and stow it.”
“Well done, Mr. Stross.” The captain looked around the floating circle of officers. “Is all else in order?”
“Aye, sir,” they all replied in turn, though the boatswain added, “As long as we don’t encounter another corsair, nor any foul weather. Starboard mast’s nothing more than splinters held together with whipcord.”
The captain’s already-drawn face grew still more serious. “We will do our best to avoid any untoward stress upon the masts.”
*
That night Arabella awoke with a filthy, charcoal-stinking hand pressed against her mouth. Though she struggled, it very quickly became apparent that she was outnumbered, her arms and legs and shoulders pinioned by several pairs of silent hands. The darkness around them lay still, save for the sleepy mutterings and snores of the exhausted, hungry men.
“Hello, bum-boy,” came a voice in her ear—the same anonymous, grating voice she had overheard in the head so long ago.
No … no longer anonymous! For though her assailant pitched his voice unnaturally low, and added a grating growl to disguise it, his use of that sneering insult revealed his identity.
Binion!
“We know you’ve been nosing about,” he said. “Trying to suss out who’s with us and what we’re going to do. Well, here’s the plan: We’re going to mutiny, sell the ship, cargo and all, on the black market, and split the proceeds. We’ll all be rich!” She glared in the midshipman’s direction, clenching her jaw, for all the good that might do. “We’re nearly ready to make our move. Soon’s we cast off from this d____d asteroid with a full load of charcoal, we’ll take the ship. We’ve more than enough men to do it.” The hand tightened on her cheeks. “But we’ve one small hitch. Kerrigan was our navigator.” A cold, sharp pressure appeared at the side of Arabella’s neck: Binion’s rigging knife, sharp as a razor. She tried to squirm away from it, but the imprisoning hands held her fast. “We need someone who can run the clockwork man.”
Binion leaned in closer, his foul breath rasping in her ear. “You will work with us,” he said, the knife cold and hard against the vein that pulsed in her throat. “We’ll be fair—you’ll get the same share of the spoils as every other man.” The blade pressed still harder. “Now tell us that you accept our offer, or we’ll end you right now.” The hand clamped over Arabella’s lips loosened just enough to allow her to speak.