by Mike Resnick
Eleven new tales set in the legendary worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Most people don’t know it, but the best selling American writer of the 1920s wasn’t Hemingway or Fitzgerald, but Edgar Rice Burroughs. Everyone knows that he created Tarzan, but he wasn’t limited to that one classic creation. There was John Carter, Warlord of Mars. There was Pellucidar, the wondrous world that exists at the center of the Earth, and Carson of Venus, the Wrong Way Corrigan of space, who set off for Mars and wound up on Venus for four novels and part of a fifth.
Many top science fiction and fantasy writers of today grew up reading Burroughs, and this anthology is their way of “paying back” and thanking him for stirring their imaginations. Join their celebration with these all new tales set in the astounding worlds that Edgar Rice Burroughs brought to life: giving their own spin on the unforgettable characters conceived by one of the great masters of science fiction, adventure, and fantasy.
WORLDS OF EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book
are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
All stories copyright © 2013 by ERB, Inc., except for "The Forgotten Sea of Mars," copyright © 1965.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-4516-3935-3
Cover art by Dave Seeley
First Baen printing, October 2013
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs / Robert Garcia & Mike Resnick, editors.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4516-3935-3 (trade pb)
1. Fantasy fiction, American. 2. Science fiction, American. I. Garcia, Robert T. II. Resnick, Michael D., editor of compilation. III. Burroughs, Edgar Rice, 1875-1950.
PS648.F3W69 2013
813'.0876608--dc23
2013025696
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Joan Bledig,
Keeper of the Flame.
This one is definitely for you.
—Mike and Bob
Introduction
Welcome to the worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs—and we do mean worlds.
Everyone knows about his most popular creation, of course. Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle, starred in twenty-two books during ERB’s lifetime, and two more that were published after his death. He’s been starring in movies since the silent era beginning back in 1918, he’s had his own TV show, he was even the star of a Broadway musical and he had his own long-running comic strip and comic book.
But ERB’s reputation doesn’t rest solely with Tarzan. He also created the almost-as-influential Mars series, in which John Carter, an Earthman who becomes the Warlord of Mars, and his friends starred in ten books while Burroughs was alive, and part of an eleventh that was published, along with a John Carter novella written by his sons, after Burroughs died—and these books influenced such writers as Leigh Brackett, Otis Adelbert Kline, Lin Carter, and many, many others.
Not bad for one literary lifetime.
But there’s more. Lots more.
Not content with setting adventures on Mars, Burroughs created another hero, Carson Napier, a kind of Wrong-Way Corrigan of space, who set out for Mars, somehow wound up on Venus, and stayed there for four books while ERB was alive, and part of a fifth that was published posthumously.
And for those who didn’t want to fare that far afield for their fantastic adventures, Burroughs created Pellucidar, the strange world that exists at the Earth’s Core. It was discovered by David Innes and Abner Perry, but eventually even Tarzan made it down there, and seven books were devoted to it.
Forty-five books about his four worlds. That would be a half a dozen careers for most writers, but Burroughs was just getting started.
He served in the cavalry in Arizona, and it turned up in his two novels about Shoz-Dijiji, the War Chief of the Apaches. (And he gave equal time to the other side, with The Deputy Sheriff of Comanche County and The Outlaw of Hell’s Bend.)
He was back in space—deep space—for his tale of Poloda, a planet that exists Beyond the Farthest Star.
And he came a little closer to home with his novel, The Moon Maid.
For those who like their heroes to wear more than a loin cloth and to look and act like you and me, he wrote The Mucker.
There was more, of course, but these constitute his major worlds and his major achievements, and we’re proud to present at least one story about each of them.
Edgar Rice Burroughs was, and is, a national treasure. Tarzan became an instant icon with his first appearance in the October, 1912 issue of All-Story Magazine. By the 1920s, the best-selling American author in the world was not Hemingway or Fitzgerald, but Edgar Rice Burroughs. He became a success at something that had eluded Mark Twain and others: publishing and distributing his own books. Two cities—Tarzana, California and Tarzan, Texas—are named for his most famous character. More than a decade after his death in 1950, when most of his titles had fallen out of print, there was a massive paperback revival, and he was a bestseller all over again. Fanzines arose that were devoted exclusively to his work, and the Burroughs Bibliophiles have been convening regularly since the early 1960s.
When we finally decided to create an anthology of original stories, using his characters, we approached some of the top science fiction and fantasy writers in the field, and we were overwhelmed by their enthusiastic response. Most had been waiting their whole lives to write a Burroughs story, and now that we’d received permission from Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc., nothing was going to stop them.
And nothing did.
So read, enjoy, and marvel at some new takes on the many worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs.
—Mike Resnick & Bob Garcia
Usually when you think of Tarzan you think of a bronzed, godlike figure in a loincloth, swinging through the trees or engaged in mortal combat with Numa the Lion. But Edgar Rice Burroughs gave him no such limitations, and neither does Hugo-winning writer and editor Kristine Kathryn Rusch. Burroughs pitted Tarzan against the Germans in World War I, and against the Japanese in World War II. Ms. Rusch takes us back to that earlier conflict in this story.
—Mike
Tarzan and the
Great War
Kristine Kathryn Rusch
The little man who carried the telegram had no teeth, yet he looked familiar. It had been years since Tarzan had been to Algiers, and then he had not spent a lot of time with the locals. Yet this man seemed to know him.
“Excuse. Tarzan?” the man said in bad English. It was clear he did not know if Tarzan was the person he sought.
“I am Tarzan,” he said. “And I speak French.”
He wondered how the little man had missed that. Tarzan had been speaking French at a nearby table in an outdoor café, under a large canopy against the exceptionally bright sun.
The canopy had not been for him—Tarzan did not need or crave the shade the way that Europeans did—but it had been for his companion, a French expatriate who claimed he knew where Tarzan’s missing wife, Jane, was. For several weeks, Tarzan had thought her dead, but later learned that she had been spared.
He had spent a long time searching for her and had come no closer to her. But he k
new he would eventually find her, and the men who took her would pay.
Unfortunately, the Frenchman he had spoken to hadn’t known anything. That became clear after a moment’s conversation, when the Frenchman had not used Jane’s name at all. The Frenchman had tried a gambit: I may know where your missing wife is, apparently something many men in the middle of this Great War needed to know.
The Frenchman had expected payment first, and Tarzan had set a gold piece on the table. The crowd of people, constantly moving through the narrow streets of the Kasbah, didn’t seem to notice the gold piece’s shine, which relieved Tarzan. Still, he kept his forefinger on the gold piece, figuring anyone who would try to steal it would suffer a broken wrist before he knew what happened.
The Frenchman had eyed the gold piece as if he wanted to steal it himself as Tarzan pressed the Frenchman for more details about Jane. Since he had none to give, Tarzan pocketed the gold piece and sent the Frenchman on his way.
Now a native Algerian stood before him, clutching a ratty piece of paper.
“I have for you a telegram,” the Algerian said, his French soft and accented. “You are Jean C. Tarzan, no?”
Tarzan started. He hadn’t used that name for years. He had taken it as his name during his first travels outside of Africa. Then he had known he was Lord Greystoke, but he could not admit it without ruining Jane’s marriage with his cousin, William Cecil Clayton, who had taken on the role of Lord Greystoke when the family believed that Tarzan’s father had left no heirs.
(It was, of course, more complicated than that, but, Tarzan had learned, all things concerning his family were complicated.)
Tarzan hoped his surprise at the old name did not show. “I am Jean C. Tarzan,” he said.
“Ah, monsieur,” the little man said with great relief. “I have been holding this telegram for you for months. I have searched for you all over the city, and could only hope you had already received the news.”
For a moment, worry ran through Tarzan. Could this be bad news of Jane?
Then he realized no news of Jane would come to him through that name. If someone were sending him bad news about her, it would come through proper channels, addressed to John Clayton, Lord Greystoke.
“You read the telegram?” Tarzan asked, knowing that operators prided themselves on translating the dots and dashes, but did their best to forget the messages.
“I did, monsieur, I am sorry,” the little man said. “I memorized it in case something happened to the paper.”
Now Tarzan could not ignore the message. His curiosity was piqued. Who would try to reach Jean C. Tarzan with an important message? Jean C. Tarzan had existed only for a short time in the years before the war, and had vanished after only a few months.
He took the gold piece he had planned to give to the Frenchman and handed it to the little man. The little man looked at it as if it could bite him.
“Monsieur, I am well paid at my work. I am doing this for you and for the Allies!”
Then he handed Tarzan the paper, nodded his head, and made his way through the crowd. Quickly he disappeared down a hill leading to the sea and the French section of the city, the blazing sun on the white buildings making it impossible to see anything other than movement.
Not for the first time, Tarzan silently cursed the civilized world. White buildings might remain cool inside, but a man could not see anything in this sea of people and brightness. He wished he could return to the jungle, where everything was clear.
But he needed word of Jane, and that word would come from men, who congregated in cities.
Until then, he would follow whatever leads he could, and find them where he may.
He opened the crumpled paper and read the smeared French. The telegram came from the War Ministry to Jean C. Tarzan.
We are reactivating your status. Contact Aiden Mireau regarding assignment. Do not trust local French officials. Urgent.
He stared at the words, then read them again. He had worked for the War Ministry well before the war, and he had operated out of Algiers, solving many a case and stopping many a problem. But he had disappeared after the Gernois incident.
The date on the telegram was curious: he had not been part of the ministry for so long that he had no idea why they thought he would help them.
Still, he could not ignore this. Contact with Europeans, particularly those who had a stake in the secret underbelly of foreign affairs, might lead him to Jane.
He would find this Aiden Mireau and discover what it was the War Ministry wanted him to do.
It was a ridiculous job, or so Arthur Beaton had thought before he arrived in Africa all those months ago. Since then he had tracked this so-called Lord Greystoke all over the continent, hearing rumors that the man had killed Germans with his bare hands.
Beaton, a loyal Englishman to the core, was quite happy with the German deaths. The war had become ugly and, many believed, unwinnable. He had been unable to serve due to age, but that hadn’t stopped the British government from sending him on this mission—to find the faux Lord Greystoke, strip him of his title, and confiscate the money from the Greystoke estate for England herself.
This last Beaton had learned only because he was a good investigator. The British government had thought it no concern of his what would happen to the funds. But Beaton had thought the timing odd, so he had looked into the rationales behind the orders before taking the case. Had it been peacetime, he might have been more trusting. Or even if the orders had come several years ago, when this faux Lord Greystoke had appeared on the scene.
Then the longtime heir, William Cecil Clayton, would have lodged a complaint. But now the estate would go to some sixteenth cousin twice removed, and Beaton had no idea why the government would interest itself in such matters during wartime. Not until he learned about the vast wealth of the estate did he understand.
Things had become quite desperate after years of war. The government needed men and materiel, but more than that, it needed funds to pay for the men and materiel, funds from defunct estates and potential nonloyalists like this faux Lord Greystoke.
Even after Beaton discovered what the job entailed, he believed in it. He certainly thought that some sixteenth cousin, twice removed, a sixteenth cousin from the merchant classes, speaking with an accent bred in public schools, would be preferable to the faux Lord Greystoke, who had once told friends he had grown up in Africa “among the apes.” Tales of his uncouth behavior had disgusted Beaton, and made him even more willing to take the assignment.
But all of these months tracking down the man who had lost his home and his wife to German soldiers, and who had thwarted some German attacks, seemed a bit much.
By the time Beaton had arrived in Algiers on the heels of faux Greystoke, he felt a begrudging admiration for the man. In Beaton’s personal opinion, England needed such a man on her side.
Still, Beaton had a job to do, and he was not one to give up when success was so close at hand.
He could see the faux Lord Greystoke on the other side of the road. Beaton had taken a spot underneath an archway in one of the old buildings of the Kasbah. His white straw hat never gave him much protection from the harsh sunlight, even if the temperatures here in Algiers weren’t as brutal as they had been deeper inside the continent.
The Mediterranean Sea had a moderating effect, although its salty scent could not penetrate the odors of tobacco, incense, and roasting meat that seemed part of the Kasbah itself.
Beaton had been watching the faux Lord Greystoke all morning, and the man seemed a lot more civilized than Beaton had been prepared for. He clearly spoke several languages, seemed at ease in the crowded streets, and sipped tea while he awaited his companion, a rather shady Frenchman whom Greystoke had dismissed almost as soon as the man arrived.
But it wasn’t the Frenchman who caught Beaton’s eye. It was the rumpled little man who wore the robes of an Algerian, but who had come from the colonial part of the city, who had gotten his attention. That
little man had watched Greystoke for nearly an hour before approaching him, and then had spoken to him only briefly, handing him a piece of paper that seemed to have perplexed Greystoke greatly.
Greystoke had read the paper several times before stuffing it into his pocket. Then he had stood near his table as if trying to make a decision.
He was an excessively tall man, with olive-colored skin darkened by the sun, and black hair in need of a trim. If the women around him were any judge, he was stunningly handsome. Certainly not the kind of man who could easily blend in, especially here, where most men were not as tall and not as muscular. Greystoke was, if anything, the epitome of British manhood, and Beacon felt increasingly strange about having to challenge the man’s heritage.
Still, as Greystoke stepped purposefully away from the outdoor café, Beaton followed—at a discreet distance, of course. Following such a man through the streets of the Kasbah should have been difficult, but was not, because the man towered over everyone.
Beaton did have to hurry to keep up. Even here, in the tight confines of the city, Greystoke traveled swiftly, as if the crowds parted before him just because they saw him coming.
Aiden Mireau was easy enough to find. He had an office in the Grand Post Office, one of the last buildings built in Algiers before the war. Tarzan remembered when it was new and controversial, at least among the Algerians. The French thought it lovely and perfect, the white sides and the Moorish arches a tribute to the African peoples. The people of Algiers just saw it as another reminder of the Europeans who had captured and held their country for so long.