Under the Moons of Mars

by John Joseph Adams

  When the door clamped shut, I was in a large room with Odar Rukk. He had turned himself about in the chair, the hoses and wires fastened to the back of it twisted with him. I saw at a glance that the walls were lined with darkened bodies, both Red folk and Green Men. They hung like flies in webs, but the webs were wires and hoses and metal clamps. This was undoubtedly Odar Rukk’s power source, something he had planned for me to become a part of.

  “This is your day of reckoning, Odar Rukk,” I said.

  From somewhere he produced a pistol and fired. The handguns of Barsoom are notoriously inaccurate, as well as few and far between, but the shot had been a close one. I leapt away. The gun blasted again, and its beam came closer still. I threw my sword and had the satisfaction of seeing it go deep into his shoulder. His gun hand wavered.

  Leaping again, I drove both my feet in front of me. I hit Odar Rukk in the chest with tremendous impact. The blow knocked him and his attached machine chair backward, tipping it over. Odar Rukk skidded across the floor. The part of him that was machine threw up sparks. Hoses came unclamped, spewed gold fluid. Wires came loose and popped with electric current. Odar Rukk screamed.

  I hustled to my feet and sprang toward him to administer a death blow, but it was unnecessary. The hoses and wires had been his arteries, his life force, and now they were undone. Odar Rukk’s body came free of the chair connection with a snick, and he slipped from it, revealing the bottom of his torso, a scarred and cauterized mess with wire and hose connections, now severed. The fat belly burst open and revealed not only blood and organs, but gears and wheels and tangles of wires and hoses. His flesh went dark and fell from his skull and his eyes sank in his head like fishing sinkers. A moment later, he was nothing more than a piece of fragmented machine and rotten flesh and yellow bones.

  I recovered his firearm, cut some of the wire from the machine-man loose with my sword, used it to make a belt, and stuck the pistol between it and my flesh. I recovered my sword.

  Outside of the locked dome, I could hear the clatter of battle. Farr Tharvis had been more successful than I expected. But even if he had put together an army, the metal men would soon make short work of them.

  I looked up at the pulsing globe that rose through the top of the dome. I jumped and grabbed the side of the dome, in a place where my hands could best take purchase, and clambered up rapidly to the globe, my sword in my teeth.

  Finally I came to the rim below the globe. There was a metal rim there, and it was wide enough for me to stand on it. I took hold of my sword, and with all my strength, I struck.

  The blow was hard, but the structure, which I was now certain was some form of transparent stone, withstood it. I withdrew the pistol and fired. The blast needled a hole in the dome and a spurt of gold liquid nearly hit me in the face. I moved to the side and it gushed out at a tremendous rate. I fired again. Another hole appeared and more of the gold goo leapt free. The globe cracked slightly, then terrifically, generating a web of cracks throughout. Then it exploded and the fluid blew out of it like a massive ocean wave. It washed me away, slamming me into the far wall. I went under, losing the pistol and sword. I tried my best to swim. Something, perhaps a fragment of the globe, struck my head and I went out.

  When I awoke, I was outside the dome, which had collapsed like wet paper. I was lying on my back, my head being lifted up by a smiling Farr Larvis.

  “When you broke the globe, it caused the gold men to collapse. It was their life source.”

  “And Odar Rukk’s,” I said.

  “It was a good thing,” Farr Larvis said. “The revolt I led was not doing too well. It was exactly at the right moment, John Carter. Though we were nearly all washed away. Including you.”

  I grinned at him. “We still live.”

  There isn’t much left to tell.

  Simply put, all of us who had survived gathered up weapons and started out as the machinery that Odar Rukk had invented gradually ceased to work. The drawbridge was down. All the gates throughout the underground city had sprung open, and had hissed out the last of their steam. The gold ones were lying about like uneven pavement stones.

  We found water containers and filled them. We tore moss from the walls and used it for light, made our way up the long path out. After much time, we came to the surface. We gathered up fruit and such things as we thought we could eat on our journey, and then we climbed higher out of the green valley until we stood happily on the warm desert sand.

  It was a long trip home, and there were minor adventures, but nothing worth mentioning. Eventually we came within sight of Helium, and I paused and stood before the group, which was of significant size, and swore allegiance to them as Jeddak of Helium, and in return they swore the same to me.

  Then we started the last leg of our journey, and as we went, I thought of Dejah Thoris, and how so very soon she would be in my arms again.

  Here on Earth you can basically expect that any large animal you see is going to have four limbs. How dull! Fauna on Barsoom is much more colorful, with a profusion of limbs everywhere you look. The Barsoomian lion, called the banth, has ten legs, and the Barsoomian horse, a reptilian creature known as a thoat, has eight. The Barsoomian dogs, called calots, have six legs. (John Carter’s faithful pet Woola was one of these.) There are also the four-armed white apes who haunt the abandoned cities. Burroughs never specifies how many legs the ratlike ulsios have, nor how many are possessed by the elephantine zitidars, but it seems likely that both have more than four. (Many artists have depicted them with six.) And of course, most notably of all, the Green Men have six limbs—four arms and two legs. For those of us who grew up on Earth, it usually seems that four limbs is plenty, and we look upon the many-legged beasts of Barsoom as exotic oddities, but of course the denizens of that world would surely regard our own planet as strange, particularly with regard to Earth’s parsimonious distribution of appendages. Our next story explores the idea that having two hands can seem like a terrible burden when you’ve lived your whole life with four.

  THREE DEATHS

  BY DAVID BARR KIRTLEY

  This is a tale of Mars, which the Martians call Barsoom—a dying planet that clings to life only through the striving of its most civilized inhabitants, the Red Men, who maintain its grand canals and atmosphere plant.

  This is a tale of the wild Green Men of Mars, four-armed giants who roam in great hordes across the dead sea bottoms and who dwell amid the ruins of ancient cities.

  This is a tale of three deaths.

  Our story begins on the day that a small band of Warhoon scouts crossed paths with John Carter of Virginia, and Ghar Han, one of the greatest warriors of the Green Men, challenged the Earthman to single combat. By all the laws of Mars such a challenge may not be refused, and the man so challenged must choose a weapon that is no better than that wielded by his adversary.

  Ghar Han held swords in each of his four hands, and the skulls of half a dozen great warriors rattled upon his harness, for he had won many battles, and added the names of many a vanquished foe to his own. He towered over his opponent, and gazed with contempt upon the Earthman, who held but a single blade, and who seemed small and freakish with his strange pale flesh and black hair. Around them stood a ring of Green Men, including two young warriors, the arrogant Harkan Thul and the sly Sutarat. Nearby, the mounts of the Green Men, the eight-legged reptilian thoats, grazed upon the yellow grass that stretched away in all directions.

  Ghar Han attacked, now stabbing with his upper right hand, now slashing with his lower left, his four blades a whirlwind of steel, glinting in the sun. John Carter backed away, ducking from side to side, parrying strike after strike. When the Earthman had been backed against the spectators and had no more room to retreat, Ghar Han employed his favorite attack, a devastating overhand chop with his upper right sword, a move which had cleft many an opponent nearly in two.

  The sword buried itself in the sand as John Carter spun away and came around with a double-handed blow aimed at Gh
ar Han’s exposed right shoulder. The Green Man raised his lower right sword to block, but the Earthman’s blade knocked the weapon aside and sank deep into Ghar Han’s flesh.

  Ghar Han stumbled back, feeling a terrible wrenching as the Earthman’s blade was ripped free. Ghar Han’s upper right sword fell from his nerveless fingers, and his upper right arm now hung from his shoulder like a pennon. That arm, his strongest, would never fully heal, he knew.

  John Carter pressed the attack, and Ghar Han reeled, dazed. The Earthman’s blade was everywhere, and Ghar Han hurled up sword after sword to deflect the blows, but three swords were not enough. He needed a fourth sword, a fifth, a sixth, to fend off the relentless attacks.

  A crushing stroke swept the upper left sword from his grasp and sent it spinning into the crowd, and then the tip of John Carter’s blade lanced through Ghar Han’s lower right forearm, causing him to drop that sword as well. Blood streaked the Green Man’s side. Dizzy, half-blind with pain and fear, he sank to one knee, feebly holding up his last remaining sword.

  John Carter kicked him in the chest, and Ghar Han sprawled, sliding backward through the sand.

  He lifted his head. The sun was in his eyes, and all he could see was a dark form wreathed in blinding light. The shadow raised its sword and brought it down.

  Ghar Han, one of the greatest warriors of the Green Men, felt his lower left arm part, and fall away.

  He awoke, which surprised him, since duels among the Green Men are fought to the death. He was in his tent, lying on a mat, and it was night. He went to rub his eyes with his upper right hand, but nothing happened. He glanced at his shoulder, and saw bandages there soaked in blood. More bandages bound his abdomen.

  “We were forced to remove the upper right arm,” came a woman’s voice. “And the lower left was—”

  “Where is John Carter?” said Ghar Han.

  “Gone. The others brought you here.”

  “Get out.”

  “I—”

  “Get out!” he said, sitting up. The woman fled.

  Ghar Han fell back, writhing. Phantom pains lanced up and down his missing limbs. He cursed the cruelty of the Earthman, for not striking a killing blow. He cursed the potent medicine of the Green women. He was a freak now, a cripple. Two arms only remained to him—two arms, like any of the lesser races of men.

  For days he did not leave his tent. He drifted in and out of sleep, haunted by strange, vivid dreams. In one he was running and fighting, stabbing and slashing, and he realized that he had four arms again, and felt elation. It was only a dream, he thought, only a dream that I had lost them. Then he woke in the tent again and moaned, despairing.

  In another dream he’d lost all his limbs, even his legs, and he lay helpless on his back like a worm, staring up at the stars, and the twin moons, and Earth. From the darkness around him came the growls of circling banths, and somewhere above him echoed the cruel laughter of John Carter. It was a dream he would have many more times.

  When he was awake, he replayed the duel over and over in his mind.

  How was it possible, he thought, that he should have been defeated by such a small and wretched man? Not through skill, that was certain. No, rather this John Carter had come from another world, a world whose heavy gravity had given him muscles unmatched on Barsoom. It was treacherous, thought Ghar Han, to use Earthly muscles here. The more he thought about it, the greater grew his sense of outrage. John Carter did not belong here. John Carter had caught him off guard. John Carter had cheated!

  We will meet again, Earthman, he thought. And next time I’ll be ready.

  Finally he strapped on four swords—one at each hip and two crossed across his back—and strode out into the harsh light of day. As he moved through the camp, the Warhoon regarded him with disdain. Harkan Thul and Sutarat emerged from behind a tent and stopped to stare. Normally they would never have the nerve to mock Ghar Han to his face, but now that he’d been shamed and crippled they jeered.

  “Look!” cried Harkan Thul. “An intruder in our camp! What manner of creature is it, Sutarat?”

  “I know not,” said Sutarat, with a grin. “It almost seems to be one of us, but of course we have four arms, and this strange creature has only two.”

  “Perhaps it is the Earthman John Carter,” said Harkan Thul. “And he has smeared himself with green paint in order to infiltrate our ranks.”

  Sutarat laughed.

  Ghar Han scowled and walked on past. He sought out the tent of Xan Malus, Jeddak of the Warhoon, and was shown into the presence of the great lord, a cold, imperious man who clutched a spiked scepter and sat upon a jeweled throne.

  “Kaor, Ghar Han,” said Xan Malus. “It pleases us to see that you are up and useful to us once more.”

  “Kaor, Excellency,” said Ghar Han, crossing his two arms and bowing his head. “Thank you.”

  “Now tell us,” said the Jeddak, “why have you come?”

  “Excellency,” said Ghar Han, “if it please you, I should like to pursue the Earthman John Carter, and challenge him once again to—”

  “No, no,” said Xan Malus impatiently. “It does not please us. John Carter’s death is nothing to me, and in any event you would not succeed. I relinquish no asset, however small. I will not sacrifice one of my warriors, even a cripple, to no end.”

  “Excellency, I—”

  “I know, I know,” said the Jeddak, with a wave. “You would prefer an honorable death to your present humiliation. But what care I for your honor, Ghar Han? I am Jeddak, and you are mine, and so long as I breathe you shall be deployed to my ends, not yours. Tomorrow we strike camp and journey to retrieve the eggs of our offspring, and I desire that every able warrior be on hand to guard them. You know our wishes. Go.”

  Ghar Han bowed again, and departed.

  He was not accustomed to being treated with such contempt, but in the days that followed he became quite practiced at it. Many of the younger warriors seemed never to tire of mocking him for his missing arms, and Harkan Thul and Sutarat remained the worst of his tormentors. Once, he would have simply challenged the two of them to duels, but without the use of his strongest arm he was no longer confident of victory, and besides, spilling their blood would not erase his shame. Only the death of John Carter could do that. Ghar Han’s only hope now was that fate would deliver John Carter to him once again. In his dreams he slew the Earthman a hundred times.

  As the months passed, he found that his feelings about his people had begun to change. From his lofty vantage as a fearsome warrior, the ways of the Warhoon had always seemed fair to him. Harsh, yes, for Barsoom was a harsh world that required a harsh people. But fair. Now though, he was not so sure. More and more the ways of the Warhoon seemed to him pointlessly cruel. Why should he, who had suffered a misfortune that might befall anyone, be so scorned? Did such ruthlessness make them stronger as a tribe, or weaker?

  One day he was walking through camp and turned a corner into a shaded area between two tents, and came upon Harkan Thul and Sutarat and some of the others. They’d surrounded a young woman, who’d been knocked to her knees, and they were taunting her and laughing.

  Without thinking, Ghar Han stepped forward. “Leave her alone.”

  Harkan Thul turned to regard him with contempt. “Oh, leave us be, two-arm. You’re not wanted here.”

  “Don’t call me that,” warned Ghar Han, and the others laughed.

  For an instant he considered walking away. Then he took a deep breath, collected himself, and said calmly, “I said leave her alone.”

  Sutarat exchanged glances with some of the others, and they moved away from the girl and slowly closed in on Ghar Han, their faces dark.

  Harkan Thul sighed. “Oh, what has become of you, Ghar Han? Not only do you look like one of the lesser races, now it seems you have one of their soft hearts as well. You don’t belong here. You are not one of us. Go.”

  Ghar Han didn’t move.

  Harkan Thul reached for his swords. “Do you l
ust for suffering, Ghar Han? This will go worse for you than the day you faced John Carter.”

  “And how would you know?” Ghar Han said sharply.

  Harkan Thul paused, caught off guard.

  “How would you know what it’s like to face John Carter? You never have. Only I have.” Ghar Han’s voice rose, his fury pouring out of him. “The Earthman was here among us. I fought him, and then he departed, and none of you raised a sword to stop him. Because you were afraid!”

  Harkan Thul drew his swords. “Call me a coward? I will kill you.”

  “Oh, so brave!” cried Ghar Han. “To fight a cripple. But where were you when John Carter was among us?” He pounded his fist against his chest. “Only Ghar Han had the courage to face him then.”

  Harkan Thul was silent. Finally he sheathed his swords.

  “It’s true,” he said, “spilling your blood would be too easy. Bring me a real challenge. Bring any man of this world or another and I will face him. I am not afraid.”

  “We’ll see,” said Ghar Han. “Someday the Earthman will cross our paths again, and then we’ll see who’s not afraid.”

  Harkan Thul sneered and turned away. “Come on,” he said to the others. “Let’s go.”

  When they were gone, Ghar Han offered his hand to the girl.

  “Here,” he said, “let me—”

  “Do not touch me, cripple,” she said, furious, climbing to her feet.

  Years passed, and Ghar Han grew ever more isolated and withdrawn, watching grimly as Harkan Thul and Sutarat amassed power and status. Harkan Thul attained the rank of jed and became leader of their scouting party, with Sutarat as his second-in-command.