Under the Moons of Mars

by John Joseph Adams

  None of my human companions say a word; I suspect they’re still too busy trying to come to terms with Tars Tarkas and by extension with Dejah Thoris and myself. I am a known quantity, a veteran of the war, known to many in this country. All had presumed, because of her red skin, that my wife was of the Indian race. Now, seeing Tars Tarkas, seeing our familiarity with him, things no longer seem so certain. Are we friends, are we allies, or simply a different kind of enemy?

  As these thoughts cross my mind, Tars Tarkas hands over the prisoner’s radium rifle to me.

  “Take a look at this,” he suggests dryly.

  Automatically, I check the gun—and receive some unpleasant surprises. The weapon is brand-new and in excellent condition. But none of the components are of Barsoomian origin. Though the design is of Barsoom, the rifle itself is of the Earth.

  The rifle stock is mounted to an extended barrel, crafting a weapon easily as long as I stand tall; the stock is wood, the gun’s body a metal that is more than forged iron. Whoever made this has been tinkering with the elements, to come up with something far stronger than the alloys we are used to. Barsoom’s radium rifles are much the same in basic design. One size is suitable for that planet’s human inhabitants, the other—very much larger—is built to fit Tars Tarkas’s race. As I hold it, I find myself thinking once more of the cave, and the stories that fill these mountains, combined with the millennial lifespan of Barsoomians.

  “This is something new,” notes Cochise, who’s stepped up for a closer look at the weapon; even in these deep shadows, he can see the differences between this rifle and those in use throughout the Southwest.

  “You have no idea,” I tell him softly. I think of the countless battles fought in the recent war and imagine the dreadful carnage if the combatants had been armed with these radium rifles. It’s but the smallest leap of horror to bring to life their presence here on the frontier. Both sides would suffer, to a degree never before imagined on this world.

  “The rounds it fired”—this from the General—“they exploded on impact.” He doesn’t need to say more; the evidence of its power is spread all around us.

  “I’m not sure of the projectiles themselves,” I respond, “or of the rifle, but back home, our version of this same weapon has a range of better than three miles.”

  “A shooter can’t see that far,” scoffs Jeffords.

  “I can,” notes Tars Tarkas from above our heads. “And the weapons utilized by John Carter and Dejah Thoris employ telescopic sights. They are deadly to better than a mile.”

  I can see in his eyes that Cochise’s thoughts follow a similar path and also his determination that if we have such a weapon, his people must possess the same. It would be that or annihilation.

  I brandish the rifle. “This should not be here.”

  He quirks an eye in silent question: If not here, where, then?

  “This weapon may have been constructed here but its origins are in the home of Tars Tarkas and my wife.” At that point, Dejah Thoris interrupts, in speech and manner every inch a Princess, daughter of a King, granddaughter of an Emperor, assessing a threat and coming to the only rational response.

  “Whoever brought the design here,” she states firmly to us all, including the prisoner, but mostly to Tars Tarkas and myself, “whoever constructed this, must be caught and the weapons destroyed. By this action he has forfeited his own right to life itself. If not, this world will suffer unbearable consequences.”

  I think of the reluctance I felt as we approached the cave and wonder if this is the reason? Somehow, had my mind caught wind of this menace and slowed my pace so that I might confront it? Perhaps it is easy to scoff but I have encountered stranger things in my life.

  I look at the prisoner and speak softly: “Tell me about the rifle.”

  “You seem familiar enough with it already—how is that, by the way?”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  He fixes his mouth closed.

  From behind, Tars Tarkas takes hold of him by the ears with his upper hands and utters a burbling growl that chills even my blood, and I’ve heard such a horrific noise before. The Jeddak of Thark opens his mouth wide, upper fangs touching the crest of his captive’s skull while their great lower counterparts stroke up both sides of the man’s face. At the same time, the hands that hold him make certain he can neither move his head nor close his eyes.

  I hear gasps from my terrestrial companions. They can’t help themselves; one effortless bite and the prisoner will quite literally lose his head.

  “Think again,” I suggest, “and think very carefully. You may not get a chance to reconsider.”

  “I’m not afraid to die.” Bold words, but his tone belies them. He’s trying to hold tight to his courage but he’s fast approaching his limits.

  There is a sweeping movement to my left and the sound of tearing cloth, echoed by a gasp as the tip of Cochise’s knife slits open the man’s shirt from waist to shoulder.

  “Then I will make sure you do so screaming,” he says simply. There is no mercy on his face or in his voice. “A little fire to warm both flesh and ground, a little blood to mark the way; I promise you will not have long to wait before the ants come. They will eat you alive and we will leave your bones as warning to those who would threaten the Chiricahua.”

  The prisoner cries out to the General. “You’re an officer, and a Christian,” he exclaims desperately. “You can’t let this happen!”

  “You slaughtered these people without a second thought” is Howard’s reply, with a wave of his arm at the fallen braves. “No doubt you’d have done the same to us. I can do nothing, boy; your own actions have condemned you.”

  This is my great flaw as a leader of men: There are things I will not do, even though my intellect tells me they are necessary. I will kill, when necessary, without a second thought; I will fight to the fullest limit of my being. But I cannot bring myself to torture.

  Cochise is made of far sterner stuff. Our captive can see that in his eyes and the stance of his body, as he has no doubt heard of, and even seen, the depredations of the Apache in the years before the recent truce. He knows the Chiricahua is not bluffing.

  Tars Tarkas shifts his jaws, just a little, allowing the fangs to make their marks on both the man’s cheeks. The trickle of blood is slight but it turns out to be more than enough to make up the man’s mind.

  He tells us of a trader, a man named Tyson Dane, whom he describes as being more a part of these ancient hills than the Apaches themselves. His presumption is that Dane is some sort of mountain man, a white man, albeit one whose skin has been deeply shaded by a lifetime’s exposure to the sun. To him, the man is a paradox: possessing an air of refinement that bespeaks culture and education found in the cities back east, but also as formidable a hunter as the Apaches, moving through these mountains like a phantom.

  I say nothing, but simply listen, and build a picture of this new adversary within my head. Our captive has no idea of a natural Barsoomian lifespan; he assumes that Dane’s age is comparable to Cochise’s. I find myself looking back across the ages. He could have been here near a thousand years. But until the Europeans arrived and began to spread across the continent, he was denied the mobility of horses and access to industrial technology. With the advances of recent generations, the so-called industrial revolution that has reshaped the face of England and of the Northern states, it must have become increasingly easier to adapt Martian designs to this world. Having waited patiently and worked so hard, he is poised to reap the profit of his enterprise.

  I look to Dejah Thoris, and see the same thoughts running across her face. Whether this Red Martian first came here by accident, as I did to Barsoom, or whether his exile here was part of a grander plan, he and his weapons must not stay. The fragile peace slowly knitting together North and South, Indians and black, and white, will be ripped apart as first one, then the other, seeks the upper hand. I cannot predict if the bloody wounds that rent my nation and my spe
cies will ever fully heal, but if Barsoom’s weapons come into play, even the possibility will forever be lost. It will be like so much salt rubbed deep into the wounds. A healing will not, cannot occur; the wound will simply fester and quite likely prove mortal. The dreams of her founders, of men like Jefferson and Adams and Franklin and Washington, all their prodigious hopes, will be forever lost.

  How long, I wonder, before radium rifles are followed by Barsoomian fliers? Even a steamer will take weeks to cross the Atlantic. In the air, such a journey would be reduced to mere days. In my mind, I see a squadron—a veritable fleet—of such war craft descending on the great cities of Europe.

  My companions are no fools: Cochise is ruler of his people and Howard a general officer. Whatever Howard personally thinks of these weapons, the decision of what to do with them rests, not with him, but with the President. Is that something I dare trust to Ulysses Grant? By the same token, Cochise no doubt thinks that possession of such weapons by the whites will mean the doom of his own people, that their only hope for survival is to possess them for themselves.

  There are no options. The genie is out of its bottle, true, but it is still in its infancy. Both power and influence are limited. Dane is waiting for news of the outcome of this first expedition before making his next move. He doesn’t know his customers have been stopped. If we can get to him, he can be stopped.

  And then we’ll have to deal with our friends, praying that they’ll understand why we steal this path to the future away from them.

  “John Carter,” Tars Tarkas calls out to me, in the language of the Tharks, “what are you thinking?”

  “Just remembering,” I tell him, speaking slowly, sadly, for the memories are not pleasant, “Gettysburg. It was a battle,” I explain, “between two great armies. Tens of thousands fought, and far too many—died. Imagine, my friend, if we’d possessed weapons such as these.”

  I look up at him and I know there is a great and uncharacteristic sadness in my eyes. “We cannot let that happen.” I turn toward the others—Cochise and Tom and the General—my voice turning rough with passion as I continue in English now with a resolute intensity. “I will not let that happen. Whoever this Dane is, I intend to find him. We shall put an end to this.”

  “And the rifles?” This comes from the General.

  The answer, to his surprise, comes from my wife. She faces him with Tars Tarkas at her back, presenting herself with all the majesty and power inherent in this representative of the ruling family of Helium. “General Howard, the weapons and any construction facilities and the plans that created them, must be destroyed. Along with anyone who knows how to recreate them.”

  “That’s a harsh judgment, Madam, and perhaps one that is not yours to make.”

  “Better a few now than countless innocents later.” The passion and power of her words are such that Howard has no choice but to take them at face value. To that end, the presence of Tars Tarkas proves of inestimable value.

  “I suspect this Dane person likely keeps his secrets very close to his chest,” I note. “Deal with him, we’ll very likely deal with the threat.”

  With a shallow nod of approval, Cochise pulls a blade from his belt and steps toward our prisoner, his intent plain.

  The prisoner does not say a word; he no doubt expected this from the start.

  “Cochise,” I call, “no!” Even as I cry out to him, I realize that both he and Dejah Thoris are far more merciless than I. “That won’t be necessary, not with him. He may know how to shoot the rifle but I very much suspect he has no useful knowledge of how to make its key components. Leave him live—for the time being. We can always revisit our decision later.”

  “You assume this Dane person is truly the one you seek”—again, from the General.

  I shrug. “We have to start somewhere.”

  “I can summon troops.”

  At these words, Cochise bridles, relaxing only slightly as I shake my head. “For the moment, we can afford neither cavalry nor Apaches; it’s best to press on as we are.”

  “Just the five of us, John?” This, from Jeffords, with a touch of amusement.

  “Trust us, Tom Jeffords,” says Dejah Thoris, “we can handle things.”

  The General eyes Tars Tarkas. “Of that, my dear, I have no doubt.” He’s getting used to the Thark but he’s still far from comfortable. I know how he feels—but then, I’d been on Barsoom, surrounded by hundreds of them.

  “We will likely have to ride hard,” the chief tells us, although his words are directed at Tars Tarkas. “But we have no mount that can carry you.”

  “Don’t worry about me” is the Barsoomian’s response. I’ve seen my friend move through these mountains; chances are he’ll arrive first at our destination. “I’ll look after our prisoner, as well. He can travel with me. He’ll be no trouble,” he assures us.

  “Try to get more information,” I tell him.

  “I’m sure we’ll have the most delightful conversations,” says my friend with a Thark’s terrifying smile. “He can tell me all his secrets.” The prisoner visibly blanches.

  As we prepare to leave, I finally find a private moment for my wife. It turns out she’s read my mind. Even as I make my move, I feel her arms wrap themselves around my body, one hand behind my neck to firmly press my lips down to meet hers. It is a kiss that leaves us both breathless.

  “Now I know why we are here,” she notes as our faces move just a little apart. She does not release me, however, nor I, her. I say nothing, I simply wait for her to finish her thought.

  “Whoever this Dane is, he threatens the future of this world. As fate brought you to us—and to me—so now it brings us here to thwart his ambitions.”

  “I don’t know where the future will take us, or how this will end,” I say, then turn my gaze toward our two friends and the General. “We have been through so much together. I don’t want this to end badly, nor do I wish to do them harm.” But I also know I will do whatever I have to, to preserve the future of two worlds, the one where I was born, and the other I have come to love.

  “If we face it together, my Prince, the rest”—my beloved pauses a moment, and smiles—“will take care of itself.”

  Her tone is joking, but mine in response is surprisingly serious. “I swear, Dejah, with all my heart and all my soul, I’ll find a way to bring you safely home.”

  The look in her eyes tells me she accepts my pledge at full value but her words take us in a different direction entirely. “I do not doubt that for an instant, John Carter. I will always have faith in you, as my champion and my love. And because of that faith, know that wherever we are, so long as we are together, that will be our home. I miss my father and my mother and my grandfather and my people—but what truly matters in the end is that we are together.”

  She turns her face toward Tars Tarkas.

  “Mind you, while we may be content, we’ll have to find a way back for Tars Tarkas. Sola must miss him terribly.” Her reference is to the Thark’s daughter, who dwells in Dejah Thoris’s household.

  Then, at the last, my warrior wife turns her eyes back to me. “Now, beloved,” she says with a tone that sets my blood aflame, “let us stop this war and teach this Dane wretch the error of his ways.”

  And with that, the Princess of Mars, the cavalry captain, the emerald-skinned lord of the Tharks, the one-armed general, the chief of the Chiricahua Apache, and his best friend charge forth—to save this world that was once my home from a ghost of ancient Barsoom.

  Edgar Rice Burroughs possessed a powerfully fecund imagination. When he first dreamed up Barsoom, a dying world full of airships, abandoned cities, and many-limbed foes, he was just getting started. The later Barsoom novel The Master Mind of Mars deals with the mad scientist Ras Thavas, who transfers brains into genetically engineered bodies. Burroughs also wrote books that weren’t part of the main Barsoom sequence, such as The Moon Maid, in which a crew of Earthmen led by a man named Julian travel to the moon and do battle wit
h Va-gas (horselike creatures who can wield weapons with their forelimbs and who have human faces) and Kalkars (evil humanoids). In its sequel The Moon Men, the leader of the Kalkars, Orthis, launches an invasion of earth. (The series was initially conceived as an attack on Soviet Communism, but Burroughs was forced to change the villains from Russians to Moon Men at the insistence of his publishers.) Burroughs also wrote a series about Pellucidar, the land inside the Earth. In these stories, the Earth is hollow and contains a second sun at its center, so that the inside surface experiences eternal daylight. The sole exception is The Land of Awful Shadow, a region where the light of the inner sun is blotted out by a single geostationary moon. Burroughs created all these strange lands and peoples, and many more besides. Our next tale pays tribute to the majestic sweep of Burroughs’s imagination.

  THE JASOOM PROJECT

  BY S. M. STIRLING

  PART I

  THE WARLORD

  Helium awoke. The swift dawn of Mars was over, and all across the city homes were lowering themselves from their nighttime height to street level. The blaze of radium lights faded from palace and tower, giving way to the sparkle of sunlight from jewel and carved stone, the tossing of foliage blossom in gardens and parks. The smooth quiet rush of the ground-fliers through the air fifty or sixty feet above the broad moss-paved thoroughfares sent a subdued whirring sound through the thin, cool air.

  Crowds thronged the streets, emerging from the underground stations of the pneumatic transport system; riders on thoat-back slid along with the smooth rippling gait of their eight-legged mounts; fliers swarmed through the skies over all, from small one-man types through gorgeously appointed yachts to the huge craft of commerce and war that carried thousands from city to city throughout the planet.

  Most of the crowds were the native Red Men and Women of Helium, a handsome folk with skins of a burnished reddish-brown and hair of raven black. But this was the most cosmopolitan of Barsoom’s cities, and there were towering four-armed Green warriors from the allied horde of the Tharks turning their impassive tusked faces about, men yellow-skinned and vastly bearded from the domed cities of the Arctic wastes, black sharp-featured First Born, even a scattering of no-longer-Holy Therns with their pale skins and blond wigs.