Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs (24 page)
Read Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs Online
Authors: Mike Resnick,Robert T. Garcia
Shoz-Dijiji allowed himself a grim grin, waited a moment until the men were turned slightly from each other, then rose silently and put an arrow through the throat of one.
As the other turned to see what the small noise was, he too received an arrow.
In a flash, Shoz-Dijiji, still moving silently, was on the porch and through the open door. As he came into the parlor, arrow drawn back to his ear, Luke had grabbed the remaining fake Mexican’s gun and had him covered.
Luis pointed to the painted, almost naked Shoz-Dijiji and said, “Chung, you see what your spaghetti does to people,
amigo
?”
Shoz-Dijiji and his beloved Chita embraced and kissed. Luis whistled.
Luke looked at Shoz-Dijiji as he turned to them. “You ain’t leaving a lot to the imagination, Andrew.”
Shoz-Dijiji looked down at his painted body and grinned. He pointed to Wichita, who now had war paint on her face and dress. Then he turned serious. “We have to move. Death Bringer will be acting faster now that he thinks no one is on to him. Luis and Chung will stay to protect the ranch. Wichita and Luke will come to help me.”
“You have a plan?” Wichita asked.
“Of course Shoz-Dijiji have plan. He Apache.” Andrew shook himself like a dog shedding water. “I mean, yes, ma’am, Deputy Marshal Andrew S. MacDuff, Acting U.S. Marshal of the whole dang territory, has a plan. Yes, ma’am.”
They all laughed.
“We’ll sleep two or three hours, then ride to catch the train to Tucson and give His Honor the Mayor a little surprise, Apache and Scotch-Irish style.” He grinned again. “As soon as I retrieve my clothes, anyway.”
Wichita nodded. “Guess it’s up to us now to save the territory.”
“Pretty much,” Shoz-Dijiji said as moved to the door. He jumped on one of the fake Mexican’s horses and rode out to get his clothes and turn back into Andrew.
When he returned, he halted their preparations long enough to deputize them all, using his family Bible for the swearing in.
“What do we get paid?” Luke asked.
“Beats me,” Andrew said. “You better hope Sam recovers, ’cause he didn’t get around to showing me how to do payroll.” Andrew stopped for a moment, embarrassed. “Speaking of money, I need all you guys have so we can buy train tickets to Tucson.”
The Train to Tucson
The sun was up in the railroad town when they rode in. They had a couple of hours to kill, part of which Andrew and Wichita spent with Willy Swartz composing and sending two telegrams.
“You really sending a telegram to
him
?” Willy asked.
Andrew nodded.
Willy shrugged and sent it and the other, both of which Wichita had helped Andrew compose.
“Hey,” Willy said. “Jake telegraphed me last night that Marshal Sam is able to get up and about a little. Needs a lot of recovery, though.”
“Billings ranch,” Andrew and Wichita said simultaneously.
Willy thought that was a great idea also. “I’ll tell Jake to pass it to him,” he promised.
That evening, the train pulled into Tucson on time. Andrew, Wichita, and Luke stepped off, crossed the platform, and onto the street. Three people to stop an entire revolution. A novice deputy marshal on his own, a beautiful cowgirl who no longer legally owned her ranch, and a determined Luke Jensen, who owed Andrew his life and would follow him anywhere. Show time!
The Battle For Arizona Territory
As they walked up the street, Luke asked, “What’s your plan, Andrew?”
Andrew grinned. “Combination Apache and white-eyes. Move fast, shoot them a lot.”
“Which part of that is which?” Luke wanted to know.
Andrew shrugged. “Beats me these days.” He clapped Luke on the shoulder as they walked. “Don’t worry, Luke. I do have a bit of a plan going.”
Andrew asked a passerby where the mayor’s office was. As they walked there, a Tucson city policeman barred their way with drawn gun. “No weapons in town, mayor’s orders,” he said.
Andrew pointed to the badge on his shirt. “Acting U.S. Marshal, Arizona Territory. Official business. Come with us.” The police officer joined them.
Andrew winked at Wichita. “Who said being a white guy isn’t fun?”
As they passed a large, lighted building, Luke asked the policeman, “What’s that?”
The policeman was puffing from trying to keep up with them, but answered proudly. “Oh, that’s the headquarters for the mayor’s new militia. He says we need our own troops in case the Apaches attack us and the army’s not around.”
“Got many, does he?” Luke asked in apprehension.
“Not so many at first, but they been pouring in like crazy today and joining up. Some of them boys look right experienced, too.”
Ahead of them was the Tucson City Hall, with a freshly painted sign on the front reading: “Tucson, Arizona Territory—Mayor William F. Foster.”
Suddenly troopers appeared out of alleys and doorways, aiming their rifles at Andrew and his companions. From behind them strode Mayor William Foster.
“Get away from those criminals, Clancy, you idiot,” he said.
The policeman sidled away in embarrassment.
“Disarm them,” Foster ordered. The militiamen quickly took their weapons, missing the knife in Andrew’s boot. Foster nodded in satisfaction. He turned to the officer commanding the troops, he was dark-skinned with high cheekbones. “Captain Antonelli, these prisoners are trying to escape. Shoot them.”
A grizzled old militia sergeant in the back of the troops suddenly fired a flare into the air. The majority of the militia had fallen back a bit and now had their weapons pointed at the front ranks. The original members of the militia wisely dropped their weapons and raised their hands.
Then they all heard the rattle of harness, the clomp of war horses, and the disciplined, quiet voices passing orders of U.S. Army Cavalry soldiers. At their head, as they arrived in front of city hall—saber out and raised—was Lieutenant Samuel Adams King, another who owed his life to Shoz-Dijiji.
“Glad you got my telegram in time. I am declaring martial law,” Andrew told Lieutenant King.
“Yes, sir,” King said and reached down to shake Wichita’s hand. “I got your telegram and would have acted on it, but the one from President Cleveland really got my commanding officer’s attention. How do you know
him
?”
“Apache get around,” Andrew said. “Now, if you would be so kind as to secure the town, we’ll stop this revolution before it happens. And arrest—” But he turned to find that Death Bringer was gone. The sound of galloping hooves echoed down the alley.
“Need a horse,” Andrew said. Lieutenant King slid off and handed the reins to Andrew, who vaulted onto the horse and galloped away.
The going was slow in the dark, but Apaches can track, and Shoz-Dijiji was better than most. In the full moon’s light he could catch enough telltales to know his quarry was still ahead of him. In his haste, he had not thought to get a gun, but what did an Apache warrior need with a gun? He had his knife and his wiles. That would be enough.
As the sun came up, Death Bringer came into sight not all that far ahead. He was flogging his horse, but the animal had tired from the night of carrying its burden and was not responding. In desperation, Death Bringer turned and emptied his pistol at Andrew. All of which shots missed at that distance.
“White man’s education,” Andrew yelled, “does not include shooting accurately from horseback.”
The chase continued for a little while until Death Bringer’s horse just stopped, refusing to go farther.
Death Bringer sprang from its back and pulled a knife. “Now I will gut you like you did my father. I have killed many. I will kill you.”
Andrew dismounted and closed, his knife now out and ready. “Years at school in the east,” Andrew said, “do not do much for knife-fighting skills, either. I am a deputy U.S. marshal. Are you resisting arrest?”
He sucked his stomach back out of the way as Death Bringer’s knife flashed by. “Guess so,” Shoz-Dijiji said—for he had taken over the fight from Andrew. He parried Death Bringer’s next wild swing and pushed his knife into his enemy’s heart.
Searching the body, Andrew emptied all the pockets. He found a small box of cigars, a pack of wooden matches, and the ownership papers to Wichita’s ranch. Smiling, he tossed away the cigars and used one of the matches to light the papers, dropping them on the sand and watching until they were ashes. Accidents will happen.
Deputy U.S. Marshal Andrew Seamus MacDuff—known, when in the course of his duties, the occasion demanded it, as Shoz-Dijiji, the Apache Devil, rode—wearily into the ranch yard of the Billings ranch. Luke was there to take his horse and lead it away to water and feed. Chung leaned out of the bunkhouse kitchen. “Mr. Andrew. Beef tonight. With side of beans.”
Andrew grinned and nodded. He entered the ranch house to find Wichita and a still wan-looking Marshal Fast Sam Dawson sitting in the parlor.
“Looking better there, Sam,” Andrew said. “I caught them bank robbers up near Black Mesa. They’re the guests of Sheriff Ames now.”
He turned to Wichita, and the fierce Apache warrior was suddenly shy.
Sam tried to rise. “You folks need some privacy.”
Andrew held up his hand. “No, what I need is a witness so I won’t back out of this.” He gazed deep into the eyes of Wichita Billings. “Chita, you know I love you. Will you marry me?”
Wichita looked at him. “And will I be getting Andrew MacDuff or Shoz-Dijiji the war chief?” Before he could answer, she was in his arms. “Yes, of course. I’ll take you both.”
“Reckon I’ll have to give one of them a raise,” Sam said.
The Moon Maid
is ERB’s multi-generational SF saga, and tells of the years-long struggle between the Moon’s Kalkars and humanity. With the help of the human traitor Orthis, the genocidal Kalkars first take over the Moon and then Earth. The history of this war is related by “Julian,” a man reincarnated through generations of his descendents. Bestselling author Peter David tells the tale of the survivors of the doomed battle for the Moon, The Moon Maid, Nah-ee-lah, Princess of Laythe, and Julian 5th, after they fled to Earth.
—Bob
Moon Maid Over Manhattan
Peter David
It is called the Blue Room, an extremely pleasant place, where the end of the fifty years’ war is being celebrated.
I stroll across the room, attired in a dress that is an even darker blue than the room itself. I am puffing on a cigarette that extends from the far end of the holder, inhaling and exhaling and enjoying myself. The war is finally over and there is nothing to serve as a problem for the future. We no longer need concern ourselves about villains trying to destroy us. Instead our attentions are turning outward, focusing on other worlds, other lands that seem interested in communicating with us. Barsoom calls to us, and we will find an answer somehow.
Suddenly I become aware of the fact that someone is watching me. Having no desire to make too much of a deal about it, I stop where I am and take a slow drag on the cigarette as I allow my eyes to encompass the room. Take it slow, take it casual. Do not do anything to attract attention.
My eyes rest upon a man who is, in turn, watching me. There is another man with him, shorter and slimmer and clearly somewhat puzzled by the fact that his companion is focused upon me. The first man, the one watching me, does so with easy confidence. His hair is a shock of black. He is neatly attired and clearly in his element. As opposed to his mustached companion, the man watching me is clean-shaven, although he pulls vaguely at his chin as if trying to reconnect with something that is long gone. He chuckles softly, perhaps amused at some joke that he is reminded of, or that I remind him of. Who is he? What does he want? The questions come to me clearly enough; the answers continue to mystify me.
And then, just like that, he looks away from me, as if he has sought all the answers from me, received none, and is now set upon the deliberate endeavor to trade answers with his mustached friend. I am no longer of any concern to him whatsoever.
I should like to determine just precisely how rude he is, but cannot find it within myself to do so.
So instead, with a clearly pronounced “harruuumph,” I continue upon my business. I only give a few moments passing thought to the idea that following him about might well make more sense than anything else, but I choose not to pursue the notion. He can go about his business, and I about mine. Never shall the twain meet.
And yet why did he seem so familiar?
Why does it seem that time is so meaningless?
The photographs are relentless, so much so that I literally have no idea which way to look first. Everywhere I turn, every direction in which I could look, there are photographers with flashbulbs that explode in my face.
Julian 5th is next to me. He is the only thing that has any reality to me at that moment in time, and even he is almost lost to me in a sea of photographs and shouts toward me. “
Nah-ee-lah
!” they shout. “Over here!” they shout. “Nah-ee-lah,
this way
! Over here!
Just one more
!” But for every photograph that is aimed, it seems that a thousand are taken.
I have no idea what to do or where to look. There is simply too much photographing for any human, much less a nonhuman, to absorb. I turn away, and the only sound I can think of to produce is a sort of frightened, disgusted whisper. “Julian, please—” I manage to say, and that is all the words that I can produce.
Fortunately it is all that is required.
Julian 5th has endured all that he is going to take on my behalf. When he speaks, his voice is loud and vibrant. “All right, that’s enough!” And a moment later, “
That is enough!”
His voice is loud and proud, and the reporters are actually taken aback by the stridency of his declarations. It is not much but, as it turns out, it is more than sufficient.
There are oh-so-many reporters and photographers jammed into the hallway between his hotel room and the elevator from which we are endeavoring to emerge, and for a few moments that had seemed far more than enough. But then Julian 5th had made it clear that he would endure their blockage no more. He began shoving through, and the reporters did nothing to prevent him save for shouting out more questions and endeavoring to stop us with their bark but not their bite. Consequently Julian 5th managed to push both of us past the gathering, and moments later we were inside the simple hotel room. Julian slammed the door behind us and slumped against it, letting out a loud “
Whewww
” that seemed to take up all the air in the room.
I looked around, still stunned at what we had endured but quickly adapting to the new situation as it presented itself. There were flowers everywhere, from everyone. The president, the governor, the mayor, and many other gentlemen who fancied themselves to be of the slightest interest to me had sent flowers and such as extensions of their curiosity.
I supposed that I could not blame them. They had not, after all, ever had a woman from another world walking among them.
“A goodly number of flowers,” I said after I was done assessing them. “Quite a few.”
“I cannot say I’m surprised,” said Julian 5th. “Your presence is nothing short of astounding to the people.”
“Is it really?” I gave that some consideration but could not fathom it. “I admit,” I said slowly, “that I can imagine some manner of confusion or bewilderment. But not to such a degree. It is, after all, just me.”
“Just you!” Julian laughed loudly, at that and after a few moments I found myself having to agree.
I was, after all, Nah-ee-lah. I was a princess of the Moon or, more specifically, a U-ga, from the city called Laythe, and daughter of the man known as the Jemadar. For a time it seemed that I would inherit the land when my father passed away, but all that has ended. Instead others now fight for dominance while I have taken refuge here in the world whence my Julian 5th has originated.
Earth. It is called Earth. Not a particularly inspiring title, I have to say. It is hardly one that inspires a great deal of well, anything, really. Just Earth. Yet the people seem content with it, nor do they expect much from it, and so I follow in their path and remain satisfied with it.
After spending ten years upon my own home world with Julian, we traveled via their spaceship to here. Lieutenants West and, Jay, and Ensign Norton, Julian’s other companions from the Earth, were nothing but respectful to me. West and Jay even suggested that rather than taking leave of the world, we instead return to my underground stronghold and endeavor to recapture it. But I would have none of it. My father had died in the struggles just before I departed, and there was quite literally nothing there for me anymore. Consequently, I decided to push my fortunes with the people of Earth rather than continue cultivating the world of the Moon any longer.
My arrival upon the world from which Julian 5th hailed was astounding. The landing itself was nothing short of remarkable, but when their local news service, their “press,” as they termed it, discovered the existence of a true moon maid, they were delighted about it. They were practically falling over each other to have the first, detailed interview with a being from another world.
My inclination was to stay as far from them as possible, and for a time Julian backed up my uncertainty. That, however, did little to serve us, and eventually I agreed to do a single, one-on-one interview with a feature writer from something called the
New York Times
. I was wholly unfamiliar with it, of course, and so Julian agreed to remain with us and help shepherd us through the discussion.
The
Times
reporter was a gracious young woman, aged somewhere between her forties and death, I suppose. Her name was Miranda Kittain, with a tightly knit suit and wiry glasses that she would peer over from time to time as she asked me about all manner of personal things. I became increasingly irritated as we spoke, but Julian kept a patient hand on my wrist, which helped me weather the various intimate questions.
“And how do you see Earth now?” inquired Kittain at one point. “You are, after all, royalty of the Moon. Do you feel that they now owe you homage and deep fealty here on Earth?”
“I ask no one to owe me anything,” I said, and wrapped my fingers around Julian’s wrists. “All I request, really, is to be left alone and accorded the benefits that any pleasant outworlder be allowed to accrue here on your . . .” I paused and mentally sought for the correct word. “Your generous planet,” I finally finished.
Apparently that was the exactly correct thing to say. “Our Generous Planet” was the headline in the very next edition, and from that point onward matters were much more beneficial.
Still, it was something of a challenge whenever we tried to do something as simple as go into and out of our apartment. There were always reporters asking us about our opinions of the day, no matter how utterly trivial that day’s events might be. I couldn’t quite fathom the reasoning behind the thinking. Why did it matter to them what we thought of anything, really? We had landed on Earth with Julian for the first time in ten years and me for the first time ever. What possible difference did our ill-informed opinions make?
A great deal, as it turned out. Eventually I decided not to put any serious thinking behind it. We were, to them, mere oddities in the world. They accorded our opinions far more worth than any of them were truly entitled to, and if that was to their benefit, then so might it be. It was of no consequence to me.
I flopped down into the couch in our sizable living room. It was nothing especially elaborate: living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. Though the shower was particularly amazing to me, and I would spend half an hour at a time simply standing there and allowing the water to cascade all over my naked body. Every so often Julian would stick his head in to make certain that I had not gotten myself into any manner of trouble, and he would laugh as I assured him that there was nothing to be concerned about. I was fine, he was fine, all was fine.
Now, though, I was not considering all to be fine. I had been on this world for several weeks and was still feeling as if I were some manner of strange device rather than a contributor to the world around me. I lay slumped upon the couch and stared off into nothingness until my Julian finally asked after my concerns. “I am bored,” I informed him.
“Bored?” His voice echoed the sentiment, sounding more puzzled than anything else. “Why bored, my sweet?”
“Because I have naught to do.” I picked idly at the clothing that attired me. “Moon clothing,” I said with an air of frustration. “Moon shoes. Moon hair. Everything about me fairly screams of the world from which I came. What is the point in pretending to be that which I am not?”
“Well!” Julian sounded a bit aghast, but not by much. “I can see where one such as you might well be bored. We shall have to attend to that immediately.”
A half hour later, a lovely young woman was at the door. Taller than I was by a full head, her name was Mimosa (devoid of last name), and her skin was so distinctly red that one would have thought her to be a native of Barsoom (the likes of which we were only hearing from over radio phones via the colony founded by the esteemed John Carter of Virginia). Tall and elegant, Mimosa looked me up, down, and then up again before finally shaking her head, sighing heavily exactly once, and declared, “This simply will not do. Make no mistake, princess of the Moon.” She added as an afterthought, “You are charming in your own right. You are petite and well-balanced, and clearly also possess some native strength. But those who see you, once they have managed to leave aside the curiosity of your gait, will perceive you as hopelessly postmodern. Do you understand?”