Under the Moons of Mars (27 page)

The noise of weapons, even the radium rifle, is nothing compared to the monstrous, inhuman bellow that erupts from behind me up the slope. I know for a fact it is like nothing ever before heard on this world. I also know from experience how terribly effective it is on men in battle, especially when that single outcry is echoed by a hundred more. It is the war cry of the Green Martians, capable of striking fear into the hearts of even the bravest of Helium’s warriors.

Men can resist the impulses of nature when confronted by that sound, but it is supremely difficult. They can choose to stand their ground, and more often than not pay for such arrogance with their lives. Their mounts react on a far more basic level. Somehow, even Earthly animals instinctively know what the roar means and respond accordingly. They scream and rear and kick and tear at their reins, until they can break free from where they’re tethered and run for their lives. Any fool who tries to stop them, they simply trample to the ground.

Another arrow strikes, but only a tree trunk this time. In return, the radium rifle disgorges a fresh shot of its own. The rounds it fires are of similar size to the balls carried by the Kentucky rifles of my grandfather’s era. The difference is that a rifle ball on Earth is little more than a shaped rock. The damage to its target comes solely from the force of impact, as forged iron punches through flesh and bone. Its radium counterparts are far more lethal; they explode on impact, with a titanic force far beyond any explosive on this world. A radium round does not merely wound. At best, it maims; most often, it simply blasts its target to bits.

I have to admit, this wretch is good. Give him a proper target, that may well be the end of things.

I return a hearty fire with my Henry rifle and drop another of our foes. A moment later I’m diving for my life as I perceive a distinctive flash I know only too well and hear a scrambling hiss through the air dangerously close beside me as the radium shell rockets past. The projectile strikes home on a nearby boulder and the air around me literally erupts with shock and fury. I find myself swept up by the fearsome shockwave and pitched head over heels, my Henry wrenched from my grasp.

Fortunately, if such a word can be applied to a horrific moment like this, the gunman significantly underestimates the raw power of the weapon he wields. Perhaps he should have paid closer attention to the shells he fired at the Apaches below? Perhaps he doesn’t take time to think, he simply reacts—as if he holds an ordinary rifle? Whatever the rationale, the consequences are stunning.

Trees rock wildly from the shockwave and more than a few actually snap, trunks crashing down with terrifying force as the air fills with splinters. Men find themselves staggered where they stand, and not a few of them are actually knocked back off their feet.

I’m used to this, having fought far more than my share of battles on the Red Planet. I hit the ground hard but I still manage to hold fast to my wits. From there, in that moment of confusion where the attackers try to regain their bearings, many of them astonished to find themselves alive and substantially unharmed, I am upon them. I grab a Colt from its holster and start shooting.

And that is how I proceed to use it. I reverse my grip on the Colt and strike the wretch closest to me with a backhand across the jaw. I sense another, coming at me from my blindside. As I spin to face him, I know that I’ll be too late to stop him or avoid his bullet—only to see him drop as his legs are scythed out from under him.

The man recovers even as he strikes the ground, twisting to his feet and slashing forward with his knife—but not at me. Rather, at his attacker, who confronts him: Dejah Thoris.

The man lunges; my Princess catches him by the wrist and yanks him forward, once more slashing her legs across his—this time from the front—to pitch him onto his face; at the same time, she lands beside him on her back, twisting in the other direction with such force that her adversary both cries out in surprised pain and releases his hold on the knife.

Dejah Thoris lets forth a powerful kick but the man is strongly made. He withstands the impact and responds with a powerful punch to my beloved’s jaw, forcing her to let him go. Worse, as this happens, he grabs hold of the pistol at his waist. Up it comes in his hand, his thumb cocking the hammer as he brings it to bear on my wife.

But at the same moment, she catches hold of his knife and lets it fly with all her strength. It strikes him in the base of the throat and just like that, his life is done.

To tell the tale takes time; to see it happen isn’t even a matter of heartbeats. In truth, by the time I realize it is Dejah Thoris who’s come to my rescue, the battle before me is done.

And yet, when the battle is done, and I survey the field, taking stock of the dead, the maimed and the bloody, I cannot help but feel an abiding sense of sorrow. So many lives cut short, so many dreams that will never be realized. True, there are some against whom a stand must be taken—but there are far too many battles where it is the innocents who pay the ultimate price. I have seen it here on Earth, and I have seen it on Barsoom.

I feel this way now because I have found someone who has become more important to me than my sword. Someone for whom my courage is needed not to level some fortress or defeat a villainous adversary but simply to hold her close and exchange a kiss.

I have never truly known loneliness until I met her. And now—I cannot bear for us to be apart. Thank God she feels the same.

Dejah Thoris is my Princess. She is my true love. She has been cast to Earth with me and with my best friend, and I am determined to bring them both safely home.

Around us, the scene is ugly. Bodies are strewn everywhere, most felled by the radium shells, but others in the struggle that followed. Out of the shadows emerge a pair of men. One of them—a comparatively young man, and handsome, with a beard, and only one arm—wears the uniform of a cavalry general. The other man helps the General along, and as the two of them come closer I see that it is none other than Cochise’s friend—and mine—Tom Jeffords.

My focus, however, is not on these two but on the man who confronts them—and us: The last of our attackers now stands before us, holding the radium rifle.

The man seems to know his business. He wears a Colt at his waist, holster reversed as is the custom for the Cavalry, to allow for an easier draw of the weapon when on horseback, but he leaves his pistol be. The rifle, he knows, is a far more effective killing machine. At this range, he doesn’t need the shell’s explosives, impact alone will punch the round right through a living body. If the weapon’s magazine is full and the man knows his business, Cochise and Dejah Thoris and I will all be dead before we can even take a step against him. I could certainly do that; prudence demands I treat this man with as much respect, even in the dark.

“You killed my friends,” he snarls.

“You had the same intent for us” is my reply. The surrounding bodies are mute proof of that.

“Yeah.” He smiles, proud of what he’s done. “An’ it looks like I win.”

“You think,” wonders a new voice, from above and behind. “I have to say, I see things somewhat—differently.”

Now the man grabs for his pistol, only to discover that it’s no longer there. Another hand has snatched it away. Before he can do anything more, a third hand and a fourth reach down from above to grasp him around the shoulders and scoop him up better than ten feet above the ground.

I don’t have to look at Cochise or the other two to know that none of them can believe what they’re seeing. My wife, however, chuckles with delight.

Cochise murmurs in Apache; now even I can’t help a smile.

“This is indeed,” I tell him, nodding, “the fabled Ghost of the Superstition Mountains.”

Tars Tarkas quirks me a look sideways, his mouth twisting in disdain. We’ve known each other long enough for him to become used to my sense of humor, but that doesn’t mean he always likes it.

“Well,” chimes in my wife, “perhaps not quite dead.”

Mind you, the man held snugly in his grasp may not be quite so sanguine, dangling as he is in uncomfortably close proximity to those terrifying fangs and the fearsome face they frame. To give him credit, despite whatever fear he may be feeling, he does not utter a sound. Villain he may be, but he faces his captor with no lack of courage.

Cochise does not seem overly impressed by my words.

“I have heard all the stories of these mountains,” he notes dryly, “from my own people and the Navajo—as well as the Hopi, the Yaki, the Zuni—but never in the wildest of tales have I been told of a spirit resembling this one.”

“The difference, perhaps,” I suggest quietly, “between stories and reality.”

Dejah Thoris turns to Jeffords with a question: “Are there any other survivors?”

Tom shakes his head. It seems we are the only ones who still live.

“You kill the General,” he says, “you kill Cochise, it’d be like firing off a cap inside a pile of dry tinder. This country’d drown in blood, natives, and settlers.”

“This is
our
land,” the gunman cries with a snarl. “First we get rid of the Apaches, then we start in on you blue-bellies. And we won’t stop till our country’s free.”

“Appomattox settled that,” I counter. “Enough blood was shed, by both sides. It was time for the war to end.”

“A mistake Lincoln paid for with his life.” His reference is to the president’s assassination at the hands of John Wilkes Booth. That had been a hard day for me. True, he’d been my enemy, but when I heard the news I truly thought my heart would break. It was in large part why I rode for the Southwest; I wanted a new land, with new hope and opportunity, where a man could start fresh and build something of value, untainted by the mistakes of the past. I suppose I got my wish, only not in Arizona but on Barsoom.

“Four years of carnage wasn’t enough?” I wonder.

Tars Tarkas holds his prisoner facing us, which means he cannot see the man’s face. However, his touch is surprisingly sensitive, and he can feel the intensity of the man’s passion reflected through the warmth of his flesh and the beat of his heart. It is a challenge he cannot help but respond to, by baring his lesser fangs, fearsome in their own right, and letting loose what is for him a gentle growl. For me, it sounds much like a steam engine rumbling past along the railroad.

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.