Under the Moons of Mars

Barsoom: Mars. Separated from Earth by millions of miles, the natives of that world still knew to name their brother planet after the God of War. Many races abide on this desolate wasteland bereft of his oceans. Common, are the Red Men who have not degenerated into absolute brutality but retain culture, law and order. Lower, are the Green Men who know only brawn and pass their merciless ways down to their young. Their tribes are many: some great in number and prowess, others equally great—but more animal, and becoming more so with each passing year.

The Tharks are a collection of many mighty tribes, as harsh as the desert they live on. Their ways have gone unchanged for centuries. As hatchlings, they are brought from the nurseries to be raised by whichever woman grabbed them first or whoever stole them from those who had. They are taught few but strict customs where deviation can mean death. Their glory abides in fighting prowess; skill and strength; steel and marksmanship, for it means they've earned the right to survive till they grow too weak and lose that right to a better, more deserving warrior. Women only challenge women; men only challenge men. This is as far as chivalry goes among barbarians. They do not know attachments, friendships or love of any kind. There is only the Horde. Die defending it or live to rule it, that is the way of the Tharks.

In the lower orders, a young male has been regulated to night watch, ensuring that banths do not feed on their stock animals. The job is perilous, but Tars Tarkas has proven himself worthy of it. At his young age, he had already slain a chieftain and took his name. After his allotted years as watchmen are served, he'll re-enter his tribe as a man, recognized for having already shown great promise.

Martian nights are cold and aside from his scant trappings, he has but a silk to cloak him. In the distance, a beast cries its final death throes. Tars smiles, knowing he could win where it had failed but succumbs to scowling knowing he, alas, cannot. His patrol had placed him right outside their home: a city of another race fallen to ruin, built on a rocky outcrop. He grumbled against the position for it provided little chance of proving prowess. No animal was stupid enough to stray so near the city, and no Thark, to venture out. But the string of uneventful nights would end tonight. Interrupting the common song of Barsoom, Tars hears the faintest footfall. He whips around with a great rifle raised, ready to face off against the maverick. In the shallow grotto his back was facing, he finds huddled in the shadows, a woman frozen in fear. Tars growls.

Her lips tremble. "Please," she whispers. That appeal for mercy never found it at the hands of her kind—until now. Tars lowers his weapon, perhaps out of disappointment, seeing his challenger is nothing more than a meek and petrified woman. "Go back," he orders and she scurries away before disappearing altogether in the night leaving Tars wondering how she came this far, undetected. His expectations: disappointed, he returns to watching an unpopulated landscape, unfazed by the event.

The next day he failed to report her sighting and went on to watch duty without the faintest notion he'd see her again.

"Who's there?" he cries. There, in the shadows, steps forth the woman but this time unafraid, or rather, not as much as last night. Having stepped into the light, Tars recognizes her, though not by name. He had seen her before: a runt—a Thark that should never have been placed in the incubator yet somehow passed inspection. Often, he saw her bullied but never intervened; a recollection that never bothered him before but has him lower his gaze now. "Why are you here?" he snarls.

"To thank you," she stutters, clearly nervous by his fearsome countenance.

This answer further discomfits Tars. "Why should you thank me?"

Her eyes draw up—they've been downcast like his—and her hands tuck behind her. Her neck, Tars notices, is too ready to bare itself in weak submission. "You didn't report me," she replies.