Arabella of Mars(62)

And then came the dull thud of the gun deck hatch closing, followed by indistinct receding voices.

She let out the breath she’d been holding.

Safe—for the moment. But the whole length of the mutineer-controlled ship lay between her and the captain, even if he was where she thought she was, and Binion would notice her absence soon if he hadn’t already.

Licking her rain-wet lips with a dry, sandpapery tongue, she crept out along the bowsprit.

*

Moving slowly and keeping close to the wood in hopes that any watching eye might pass over her, Arabella inched out to where she could see the masts. But as the mainmast began to appear above the figurehead, it seemed empty of men; as she peered around the bowsprit, she saw that the upper reaches of the starboard and larboard masts below were equally unpeopled. Only a loose end of sail flapped in the growing rain-lashed wind.

She let out a breath, then worked her way around to the bowsprit’s lower side. Gusts made her sodden shirt flap against her torso, and she clung hard to the wood in fear of being blown from her precarious perch.

From here the hull curved down and away in a grand smooth expanse of golden khoresh-wood, silhouetted against the roiling, lightning-shot clouds beyond. The underside of the hull had been scraped clean of barnacles in the first week after departure from Earth and was now smooth as a baby’s bottom, bare of any handhold. There was no work to be done here between launch and landfall. That, and naval tradition, explained why this part of the ship was so inhospitable to the traverse she was about to make.

The one feature that offered any purchase to Arabella’s hands was the keel, a broad projection of copper-clad wood some eight inches wide. She gripped the keel’s edges and began guiding herself down and around the curve of the hull, frequently pausing to wipe the cold rain from her eyes or dry her hands on her trousers for a tiny bit more traction.

As she crept along, orbiting the hull’s vast round bulk like some tiny, low-hanging moon, her stomach began to clench as it had not since the day of the falling-line ceremony. Weeks of free descent had inured her to the constant feeling of falling that was the airman’s lot, but now, disoriented by the rain that seemed to pelt in from every direction, she felt herself unmoored from any attachment. It seemed as though at any moment she might go drifting off into the churning sky. And if she lost her grip on the rain-slick keel, that fate would indeed be hers.

She clenched her jaw and gripped the keel’s cold metal as firmly as she could with hands and feet, inching along with deliberate speed. She must arrive at the great cabin as soon as she could, but if she moved too quickly she risked sailing off into the air.

She tried to build up a rhythm, first pulling with her arms, gripping the keel between her palms while bringing up her legs, then pushing with her legs, pressing the keel with her heels while extending her arms.

Soon, despite the chill water that soaked her clothing to the skin, her every muscle began to burn. She kept inching along.

Ahead of her, the starboard and larboard masts came further and further into view as she moved, rising above the horizon of the hull like two great towers festooned with lines and dark, sodden sails.

And men.

She brought herself to an immediate halt, heart pounding, the keel’s cold wet copper skidding between her palms.

Three topmen were clambering quickly up the rigging of the larboard mast—the one to her right, as she moved toward the stern—making good time. She had no idea what their orders might be. Had they been sent to raise some sail, trim some sheet, or simply look out for other ships? Or were they searching for missing airmen … or specifically for her?

Surely if Binion had ordered men into the rigging to look for her, he would have sent only one? That implied that the three men were on a mission to adjust the sails, in which case she should hold still in hopes of slipping past later while they were busy with their task. But trimming the sails usually required a larger crew than three. Perhaps they had been sent in a group to seek out, leap upon, and overpower any reluctant airmen. In which case she should move now, move as quickly as possible, in hopes of reaching the cabin before they could spot her and sound the alarm.

Panicked, indecisive, she looked left and right, but the smooth round hull offered no hiding place. But she did see one thing that offered a tiny hope: no men were climbing the starboard mast, at least none that she could see as yet.

Quickly Arabella moved to the left, pressing herself against the hull as best she could, hoping to hide herself behind the keel. At this point it rose nearly a foot and a half from the hull, though it met the hull in a curve that left less than a foot to conceal her body.

She could not tell from here, as she trembled with her cheek pressed against the cold, wet wood, whether or not she had managed to hide herself completely. But she had to move, somehow—to put as much distance behind herself as possible before she was noticed.

Gingerly, with tiny touches of finger-and toe-tips, she began to edge herself toward the stern. Making forward progress without pushing her body away from the hull and into plain sight seemed nearly impossible, but soon she worked out a technique where, pulling with the flat of her palm against the rain-wet surface of the hull, she could move—slowly—without exposing herself.

At least she hoped she was not exposing herself. Lacking eyes in her elbows and hips, she could not be sure. But no shouts of discovery came to her ears.

Grimly, hauling herself along foot by foot, she moved some twenty or thirty feet under cover of the keel before poking her head up again. The men on the larboard mast seemed engaged in some adjustment of the rigging, their hair and clothing whipped by the storm; the starboard mast was still unpeopled.