Chapter 3: WAKING UP ON MARS

I opened my eyes to a landscape that felt both strange and unfamiliar, like a dream teetering on the edge of reality. Without hesitation, I knew I was on Mars. There was no doubt in my mind, no flicker of disbelief. It wasn't a matter of questioning where I was, or whether I was dreaming—this was simply the truth, as undeniable as the ground beneath my feet. I was awake, fully aware, and unmistakably here. My consciousness told me that I was on Mars as your conscious tells you that you are on Earth. You do not question the fact; neither did I.

I lay on a bed of thick, yellowish moss, soft yet oddly resilient, stretching out in every direction as far as I could see. The terrain seemed to cradle me, a vast, shallow bowl, its edges rising into low, jagged hills that curled in irregular arcs around the horizon. The sun hung directly overhead, blazing down with a heat that pressed against my naked skin—unforgiving yet not unbearable, similar to the dry desert heat of Arizona.

I took in the surroundings. The sky was an unbroken pale orange, and the air had a dryness to it, almost brittle. The distant gleam of quartz rocks scattered across the barren plain. Their sharp, glassy surfaces caught the sunlight, scattering it into blinding flashes that danced with a life of their own.

A hundred yards to my left, a low, rectangular structure appeared. It was walled, but only about four feet high, and made of stone—weathered, but standing firm. Its purpose was unclear. I couldn't help but wonder if it was an artifact of some long-forgotten civilization, or a more recent, albeit mysterious, construction. There was no water, no other sign of life, just the relentless expanse of the moss and the heavy stillness that hung in the air. Thirst gnawed at me, reminding me of the primal need for survival. Without much thought, I decided to explore.

Springing to my feet, I encountered my first surprise on mars. What would have been a simple effort on Earth—hoping upright—sent me soaring into the air, reaching a height of about three yards before gently floating back down to the ground. To my astonishment, I landed with barely a jolt, the low Martian gravity cushioning my descent as though the planet itself was offering a soft embrace.

After several other failed attempts at walking. I stood there, the absurdity of the situation began to sink in: I could no longer walking as I did on earth; I had to learn how to walk all over again. The familiar coordination that allowed me to stride confidently on Earth now betrayed me. Each movement, once so instinctive, became a series of bizarre hops, each step sending me airborne with an almost comical force, my feet barely grazing the surface before I was once again suspended a couple of feet above it.

With each attempted step, I found myself either flailing awkwardly or tumbling to the ground, face-first or on my back, unable to control the wild lurches of my body. It was as if my muscles, so accustomed to Earth's gravity, had forgotten their purpose on this strange new world. On Mars, even the simplest act of walking was a reckless dance with the air, a bizarre choreography of leaps and falls. I was a newborn creature, rediscovering the basics of movement, and every attempt only added to the ludicrous spectacle.

I was determined to explore the lone structure that stood on the horizon, the only sign of habitation for miles. With no clear path to enter, I decided to return to the most basic form of movement—crawling. It wasn't dignified, but it worked. Slowly, I inched my way forward, making steady progress until I reached the perimeter of the enclosure.

The wall surrounding it was low, no more than four feet in height. There were no visible doors or windows on the side facing me, but that didn't deter me. Cautiously, I rose to my feet and peered over the top, eager to see what lay beyond.

What I saw was the strangest thing to ever meet my eyes.

The roof of the enclosure was a vast, unbroken sheet of glass, its thickness somewhere between four and five inches. Beneath it lay a scene so strange it seemed almost otherworldly—several hundred enormous eggs, perfectly spherical and gleaming white. Each egg was nearly the size of a small boulder, approximately two and a half feet in diameter, and they were arranged in seemingly endless rows, their stark whiteness glowing softly beneath the glass canopy.

It was a sight unlike anything I had ever imagined, and for a moment, I simply stared, trying to make sense of the scene before me.

Five or six had already hatched, their grotesque forms blinking in the harsh sunlight. The sight of them was enough to shatter the tenuous grip I had on my sanity. These creatures were barely more than heads, grotesquely oversized, with thin, scrawny bodies that seemed to stretch and twist unnaturally. Long necks extended from their bulbous skulls, and their six spindly legs—or what I would later realize were limbs with dual functions—gave them a disjointed, otherworldly appearance.

Each being had two primary legs and two arms, while the intermediary pair of limbs could shift at will, taking on either a functional arm or leg depending on the need. Their eyes were positioned at the far edges of their heads, just above the center, and bulged outward in an unsettling manner. These eyes were independently mobile, capable of swiveling forward, backward, or in opposite directions, allowing them to observe the world in ways no creature I knew could. It was as if they could see in multiple directions at once, without even the need to turn their heads.

Above these strange eyes, where ears might have been, were small, cup-like antennae, no more than an inch long on the young ones. Their noses were mere slits running lengthwise along the center of their faces, perfectly aligned between their mouths and ears.

Their bodies were smooth and devoid of hair, a pale yellowish-green hue that deepened with age. As I would soon discover, the adults' skin turned a richer olive green, with the males adopting a darker tone than the females. In contrast to the young, whose heads seemed grotesquely large for their frames, the adults had more proportionate features, though still unsettling in their otherworldly appearance.

Their eyes were a haunting shade of blood red, reminiscent of albinos, with deep, dark pupils that cut through the pale whiteness of the eyeball. The effect was as if their eyes glowed with an eerie intensity. Their teeth—sharp and gleaming white—further intensified their fierce look. The lower tusks, curving upwards like a predator's weapons, were particularly menacing, ending just below the level of their eyes. These tusks, not the soft sheen of ivory, but the icy, gleaming brightness of the purest porcelain, stood in stark contrast against their dark, olive skin. The sight of them was chilling, their formidable appearance impossible to ignore, as if their very gaze could strip away all pretense of safety.

Most of the these details I would note later, but at the time, my focus was singular, consumed by the bizarre spectacle unfolding before me. The eggs—those strange, rock like orbs—were beginning to crack open, and I stood in rapt fascination as grotesque, alien creatures clawed their way from the shells. They were hideous, malformed things, their tiny, twitching limbs betraying an unnatural, unsettling vitality. I was so engrossed in the sight that I failed to notice the subtle shift in the atmosphere around me.

I had no inkling of the danger approaching from behind until the faintest sound—a soft rustling against the air, barely perceptible against the vast, eerie stillness of Mars—pricked at my senses. It was the sound of movement, purposeful and quiet, over the moss-covered ground that stretched endlessly beneath the thin, crimson sky. The Martians, with their litheness and cunning, had crept upon me. They were upon me now, their figures nearly invisible against the silent carpet of the planet's surface, save for the shimmering outlines of their massive forms in the dull light.

I should have heard them sooner. But the creatures—their slow, deliberate approach—was drowned out by the sudden clink of metal. A low, jarring sound—the metallic jingle of weapons—pierced the air, just as the leader of the Martian party drew closer. That single, unremarkable noise—the clink of his rifle brushing against the butt of his spear—was all it took to snap me from my trance. My heart leapt in my chest.

Had that sound not occurred, I might never have known I was on the brink of death. The leader's spear—an absurdly large weapon, at least forty feet long—was already poised, held low at the side of the creature riding the beast beside him. It glinted, razor-sharp, its gleaming point just inches from my chest. I had not heard the hum of the creatures' movement, nor seen the shift in the wind; I had only the eerie stillness of Mars surrounding me. But now, in the oppressive silence, I was uncomfortably aware of how close my death had come.

It was a wonder, a small miracle really, that I had even turned at all. A single, inadvertent noise had saved my life. And with that, I found myself staring down the length of that towering spear, feeling my pulse race as my senses screamed that escape was no longer an option. It was held low at the side of a towering figure astride a beast that defied comprehension—a terrifying, larger-than-life version of the diminutive demons I had been observing from afar.

How small and insignificant those creatures now seemed beside this colossal embodiment of vengeance and death. The rider, if he could be called a man, was a behemoth in his own right—fifteen feet tall and weighing, by earthly standards, no less than four hundred pounds. He sat astride his beast as we would ride a horse and he held the authority of a seasoned warrior, his powerful lower limbs gripping its barrel-like torso. His two right arms clutched the immense spear with practiced precision, while his two left arms extended outward, balancing him as he rode. His mount required no bridle, no reins—only his sheer dominance to command it.

And the mount itself! Words fail to capture its grotesque majesty. Standing ten feet at the shoulder, it boasted four muscular legs on either side, a grotesquely wide and flat tail that flared larger at the tip than at the root, and a monstrous head split nearly in two by a gaping mouth. Its teeth, sharp and glinting, lined jaws capable of crushing bone with ease. Each stride was a blend of power and grace, the tail held rigid as it thundered forward, a nightmarish vision of unrestrained savagery.

Like its master, the creature was utterly devoid of hair, its body a sleek and sinister dark slate color, glistening as though freshly oiled. Its belly gleamed pale white in stark contrast, while its powerful limbs shaded from the slate hue of its shoulders and hips to a striking, almost phosphorescent yellow at the feet. These feet, broad and heavily padded, bore no nails—a feature that rendered its approach eerily silent. This peculiar trait, combined with the abundance of legs, was a defining hallmark of Martian animals. Only the highest type of man and one other species, the sole mammal existing on Mars, possessed nails, and hoofed animals did not exist on this alien world.

Trailing behind this first monstrous charger came nineteen others, each a grotesque reflection of the other. Yet, as I would come to understand, they were not identical but each had characteristics that were unique to themselves—each variations born from the same hellish mold, much like the differences between humans. They moved as one, an unholy tide of nightmares made flesh, their sheer number amplifying the oppressive dread they inspired.

Unarmed and naked, the primal instinct to survive surged through me, leaving no room for hesitation. The solution to my predicament was clear: escape the deadly path of the charging spear. I leaped with an intensity born of desperation, aiming for the top of what I had determined was a Martian incubator.

My leap propelled me into the air with an impossible grace, carrying me not just to safety but soaring far beyond. I landed nearly thirty feet above the ground and a hundred feet from my pursuers, alighting on the opposite side of the enclosure. My feet touched the spongy moss below with surprising ease, the landing soft and effortless, betraying none of the tension coiled within me.

Turning back, I saw the Martian warriors arrayed along the far wall. Their grotesque yet striking forms betrayed a mixture of emotions. Some stared at me with wide-eyed astonishment, their expressions a blend of disbelief, curiosity, and in some cases, what I would later recognize as sheer astonishment. Others examined their surroundings, ensuring that their young remained untouched.

Some of them leaned forward, peering at me, while others glanced toward the cluster of young Martians—who huddled together, unharmed. Their whispered conversations were punctuated by sharp gestures in my direction, their strange guttural language carrying a tension I could feel even without understanding the words.

Gradually, I saw their hostility waver. Perhaps the sight of the unscathed young Martians softened their hostility, or perhaps it was the fact that I stood before them unarmed, my hands open and empty. But as I would come to learn, what truly tempered their ferocity was something far less sentimental: my leap.

On Earth, it would have been an ordinary feat, a mere athletic display. But here, among beings whose colossal forms were bound by the low gravity of Mars, it had been a marvel. Though their size and strength dwarfed my own, their dense frames and heavy bones made them slow, deliberate creatures. Agility and power, as I knew them, were foreign concepts in this lighter world.

I doubted if even the strongest among them could lift their own weight on Earth; here, they moved with the ponderous grace of beings unaccustomed to struggle against gravity's pull. And so, to see me vault so effortlessly through the air—to see a smaller, alien form defy the very constraints that defined their existence—must have struck them as nothing short of miraculous.

My feat was just as extraordinary on Mars, as it would have been on earth. The warriors, who had moments before seemed intent on annihilating me, now regarded me with an almost reverent curiosity. I had transformed in their eyes—from a mere intruder to a prize of unprecedented wonder, a discovery to be captured and paraded among their kind.

This unexpected shift granted me a brief reprieve, a chance to both collect my thoughts and scrutinize my would-be captors. They bore an uncanny resemblance to the hostile Apaches who had hunted me so relentlessly the day before, their figures towering and formidable, their movements precise and unyielding.

Each was armed with an array of weapons, though it was what looked like a rifle of some sort that quashed any thought of fleeing. Its design hinted at lethality far beyond anything I had encountered. The rifle's construction was of a pale, gleaming metal, its stock crafted from a wood unknown to Earth—a material both featherlight and remarkably hard, as I would later discover made it prized on mars.

The barrel, forged from a unique alloy of aluminum and steel, was tempered to a hardness that rendered Earth's strongest steels feeble by comparison. These rifles, astonishingly light yet deadly, fired small, radium-infused projectiles with explosive force. Their precision and range defied belief; the theoretical effective radius stretched an astounding three hundred miles, though in practice, even with their advanced wireless targeting systems, their accuracy waned after two hundred. Still, such a range was inconceivable by Earthly standards, making them weapons of terrifying potential.

The sheer power of the Martian firearm commanded my respect, as if some unseen telepathic force warned me against even considering an escape. The prospect of fleeing in broad daylight, under the watchful barrels of twenty death-dealing machines, seemed nothing short of suicidal.

The Martians exchanged a few sharp words, their strange voices resonating in tones I couldn't fully comprehend. Then, as if reaching a decision, they turned their mounts and began to retreat toward the direction from which they'd arrived. Yet, one remained behind, standing solitary near the enclosure.

When the group had reached a distance of roughly two hundred yards, they stopped. Turning their mounts back toward us, they sat in eerie silence, their attention fixated on the lone warrior by the incubator.

This was the same one whose spear had nearly skewered me earlier. His commanding presence marked him as the leader of the group, a role that was evident in the way the others had instinctively obeyed his directions.

After a moment's pause, the leader dismounted. Slowly, deliberately, he cast aside his spear and other weapons, leaving them in a neat pile on the ground. Stripped of his armaments, he strode confidently toward me, the alien sunlight glinting off the ornaments adorning his head, limbs, and chest. Apart from these, he was as naked as I was, his unarmed state an unsettling contrast to the tension hanging in the air.

When he was within fifty feet of me, he unclasped a massive, intricately engraved metal armlet. Holding it aloft in his open palm, he addressed me in a voice that rang out clear and resonant, yet entirely alien—a language of flowing syllables and sharp intonations that defied my comprehension. His antennae-like ears twitched, and his strange, multifaceted eyes seemed to study me intently, as though dissecting my every reaction.

Then he stopped, standing motionless, as though waiting for a response. The silence grew heavy, almost oppressive, pressing down like the weight of the Martian sun. His alien gaze remained fixed on me, expectant but inscrutable.

I swallowed hard and decided to take a risk. His actions—the lowering of his weapons, the deliberate retreat of his retinue, and his solitary approach—seemed to signal peaceful intent. Surely, these gestures would hold universal meaning, even here on Mars.

Slowly, I placed a hand over my heart and bowed deeply, keeping my movements measured and deliberate. "I don't understand your language," I said, my voice steady but tinged with uncertainty, "but your actions speak of peace and friendship. And for that, I am grateful."

I didn't expect him to understand the words, but I hoped the gesture would transcend the barrier of speech. As I straightened, I watched him closely, my pulse quickening. To him, my words were likely as meaningless as the babble of a distant stream, but the intent—the symbolism of my action—seemed to resonate. His antennae stilled, and for the first time, the hard, otherworldly sharpness of his gaze softened just slightly.

I stretched out my hand toward him, stepping forward as I took the armlet from his open palm. I fastened it around my upper arm, just above the elbow, and smiled up at him, my heart beating with both anticipation and unease. He grinned back, a wide, answering smile crossing his face. Reaching out with one of his intermediary arms, he linked it with mine, and we began walking together toward his mount. At a signal from him, his followers surged forward in a rush, but they were quickly halted by a sharp motion from their leader.

His eyes met mine, and I saw a flicker of concern. He seemed to fear that, if I were startled again, I might jump away.

After a few low words exchanged with his men, he gestured toward me, indicating that I would ride behind one of them. Then, without hesitation, he mounted his own creature. The warrior he'd chosen to carry me reached down with several hands, lifting me effortlessly onto the smooth, slick back of his mount. I gripped onto the straps and belts that held the Martian's weapons and ornaments, trying to steady myself as best I could.

With a final glance toward me, the entire cavalcade turned as one and galloped toward the distant hills, the thundering sound of hooves filling the air.