Shoot for the Moon

SHOOT FOR THE MOON

A SPACE ADVENTURE ANTHOLOGY

KEVIN CATHY LAWRENCE DAGSTINE DEBBIE DE LOUISE STEVE LOIACONI LISA DIAZ MEYER JOSH POOLE WILLIAM JOHN ROSTRON JAMES RUMPEL J.R. RUSTRIAN TRAVIS WELLMAN DIANA LEE WOODY

Shoot for the Moon–A Space Adventure Anthology

Copyright © 2022 by JK Larkin

All rights reserved

Published by Red Penguin Books

Bellerose Village, New York

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022921970

ISBN

Print 978-1-63777-337-6

Digital 978-1-63777-338-3

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

The Last Hotel on Mars

Josh Poole

Lost in a Lost World

William John Rostron

Cruelty

James Rumpel

What Has Begun

Lisa Diaz Meyer

Dive Into the Blue Inferno

J.R. Rustrian

A Soul to the Stars

Lawrence Dagstine

Finding Cosmos 145

Diana Lee Woody

Unearthly

Kevin Cathy

Return of the Felinedaens

Debbie De Louise

Back Cover

About the Authors

Also from The Red Penguin Collection

THE LAST HOTEL ON MARS

JOSH POOLE

Mortal as I am, I know that I am born for a day, but when I follow the serried multitude of the stars in their circular course, my feet no longer touch the earth; I ascend to Zeus himself to feast me on ambrosia, the food of the gods. –Ptolemy 

The words were carved into a metallic monolith that stood outside the building itself.  Ray Van Cleef walked past the placard carrying a heavy suitcase filled with the few personal belongings that the shuttle passengers were permitted.  In spite of Mars having less than half the gravitational pull of Earth, the hotel plot utilized a centralized gravity coil buried several meters under the lifeless red rock, and this caused the luggage to be just as heavy and burdensome as it was when it was loaded into the craft on Earth’s surface.  

Ray took a deep breath, feeling the manufactured air fill his lungs.  He looked over at the greenhouse area, where thousands of plants produced food for the dozens of guests staying at the Hotel Shalbatana.  Ray, however, was just a lobby boy lost in his late 20s, selected for the most expensive operation in human history only because one of the chief investors in the project, Florence Roethke, had enjoyed his services while she stayed at a small-town inn named The Corolla House in rural Pennsylvania. 

He checked the stubble on his face, wondering if, perhaps, it was time to shave it all off to prevent any accumulation in the small atmosphere.  Body-based pollutants built up quickly in the sterile microcosm of the Hotel Shalbatana, with the filtration systems unable to catch the small flakes of shed skin cells or loose strands of hair.  There was an employee, Sarah Sarandon, whose entire job was to take care of such things, but with forty-three people between the guests, workers, and flight crew, the task was impossible.  

Is it always like this here?  The mustached Floyd Emerson asked, adjusting the tie on an antiquated suit from the early 20 th.  

Yes, Ray replied.  The atmosphere is closely monitored and fluctuates only by three-degree margins as it compensates for the unpredictable weather. 

Remarkable, Floyd said.  Truly remarkable. 

Only the outer perimeter of the hotel grounds was covered in the native surface, with the rest characterized by a synthetic carbon substrate that was smooth, indestructible, and arranged in complex mosaic patterns to emulate the outdated Isidore of Seville’s De Natura Rerum, with the concentric rings lines with lucid calligraphy denoting the old names.  Though out of place among the technology, the medieval foundation lay below the gothic architecture of the hotel, complete with spires, numerous arches, and flying buttresses that defied gravity all soaked in a pearl coloration.  

How long have you been here, son?  Floyd asked, adjusting a fedora as the shuttle ceased to make any noise sans some intermittent knocking.  

Since we opened, so, six years.  

They made their way across the courtyard, which was barren of any decoration or monuments with the exception of the monolith and a gold-plated sundial that was poised at the far end near the atmospheric barrier.  

So, you’ve stayed here longer than anyone else?  

Yes, Mr. Emerson. 

Floyd, the man corrected.  I paid three billion dollars to stay here, and yet, you’ve been here for six.  How’d that happen?  

Ray explained the situation with Florence, at which Floyd simply smiled with his old face and replied, I suppose the lesson here is to never underestimate the value of a gentleman’s conduct.  

They walked through the lobby, which featured no doors due to the controlled atmosphere.  The pressurized dome was visible only upon approach, and from within its confines was completely indistinguishable from the surrounding Martian atmosphere sans all the warnings.  From afar, however, the barrier resembled a glass case, with the fast-moving particles causing small sparks as they careened into wandering bits of dust and larger matter.  During the dome’s testing on the Earth’s surface, the walls were shown to dispel hurricane winds, and in the low-gravity of Mars, the barriers were slightly stronger.

The barrier was generated by a series of energizing stations, a total of sixteen that had been launched from Earth and buried into the regolith by their impacts.  Each of these stations produced as much energy as Earth’s largest dams, and concentrated it entirely into the barrier using a series of converters.  In spite of the technology they operated on, the fail safes were all archaic, designed to withstand the impacts of implantation and last long after the hotel would be decommissioned.  Some of the constituent parts of the machines had been designed over a century earlier.  

I’m staying in room 203, Floyd said as they wandered up the bifurcated stairwell that twisted into two helixes which ran up the full four stories.  

Yes sir. 

How’s the food here, by the way? 

It’s not bad.  We have a good chef and kitchen crew, but it’s just a matter of sourcing ingredients, Ray said with a laugh. 

Well, thankfully I didn’t come here for the food.  

The second floor began with the first spiral of the stairs, much to the relief of Floyd, who was probably as old as some of the analog clockwork in the barrier machines and only half as resilient.  Ray led him to his room, opening the door using the biometric hand reader.  The room inside was small, but filled with enough articulate décor that the interior looked like it belonged inside a Fabergé egg.  The bed was canopied, with white curtains that tumbled down like four distinguished dresses worn by floating matriarchs.  

Not bad, not bad at all, Floyd said with a laugh.  

They spared no expense with the rooms, Ray replied.  

Well, I think I’ve got it from here, uh, say, when do they serve dinner here? 

Three o’clock, in two hours, sir. 

Excellent.  Do you know what they’ll be serving?  

Mushroom risotto, asparagus from the greenhouse, pineapple with mint and a house cream, finished with a Nebbiolo.  Or begun with a Nebbiolo and finished with another Nebbiolo, if you’d like. 

Floyd smirked, sitting down on the bed, and working on removing his cryostasis boots like he was removing a walnut shell.  

Let me know if you need anything else, and I hope you enjoy your stay at the Hotel Shalbatana.  

Ray disappeared from the room, the door shutting behind him as if it were sucked in by a phantasmic gust.  His footsteps rang out like machine gun fire down the staircase and into the tiled floor of the lobby where the echoes reverberated off the narrow columns and large, vacuous recesses that compiled into the cavernous architecture.  

Floyd was the last guest on the current schedule for the Hotel Shalbatana, though Ray paid that no mind as he leaned against one of the columns.  The columns themselves were constructed out of a carbon nano-tube structure, one that gave them an iridescent finish whose benthic depths rivaled that of space itself.  To the left of the column, with a scent that lightly filled the entire lobby, was a lever-press espresso machine made out of brass and copper, with a cherry wood handle that, by then, was more expensive per ounce than gold.  

Ray wandered over to the machine, using a wall faucet to fill the vessel, opened the steam valve, turned on the machine, grinded espresso as he waited for the pressure gauge to rise, filled basket with grinds, tamped the grinds, grabbed a heated cup from the storage unit below, raised the lever, and then slowly pressed it down to cause a ribbon of espresso to fall into the cup.  The crema formed perfectly at the top, its velvet froth reminding Ray of how much time he’d just wasted.  He exhaled, sampling the piping drink, and gazing across the lobby with Ozymandian pride.  

One of the most peculiar aspects about the Hotel Shalbatana is the complete, enveloping quiet within its halls.  The atmosphere barrier stifles any exterior sound input, while the structure itself was built with tremendously thick, dense walls that suppressed any noise coming from individual rooms.  It was thus to be expected that his light sips upon the frothing surface echoed through the hall, bouncing around like crazy thoughts.  

Was that Mr. Emerson?  A woman’s voice asked from behind.  

That was Floyd, yes, he replied.  

It was Nora, Hotel Shalbatana’s head chef, clad in her white chef’s coat but missing the accompanying hat.  

How is he?  She asked, maneuvering to use the espresso machine.

He’s fine.   

No, I mean, what’s he like?

He’s nice, I think.  He might’ve even been my favorite if he’d been here longer. 

What’s that supposed to mean? 

Things grow on you. 

Nothing grows on Mars, she said with a smirk.  Except the spindly fingerlings you call potatoes in the greenhouse. 

Didn’t you say that produces a more concentrated, robust flavor? 

Now why would I say a thing like that?  She finished making her espresso.  It came out slightly lighter than Ray’s. 

Ray laughed, doing everything within his power not to spill any of the espresso from his cup.  

Well, I have to start cooking for dinner.  If you don’t mind, could you set up the dining room? 

Ray nodded, cradling his cup as he scurried across the hall and through an open doorway.  Inside, the narrow doorway quickly sprawled into a massive dining area, complete with five tables that could each sit eight people.  He added Floyd to the usual number of dining guests, which equaled thirty-three since the likes of Jacob Traubert and Delilah Bleech always wanted their meals delivered to their rooms.  The other eight people in the hotel were all workers who either snacked throughout the cooking process or would snag the leftovers.  Ray’s duties consisted of placing silverware and plates, which were already cleaned and sitting in neat piles on an auxiliary marble table along the side of the room.  With a sigh, he commenced the task.  

The plating of each table took between five to six minutes, resulting in a complete ritual taking up roughly half an hour.  There was just under an hour left before the guests would begin seating themselves, usually grouping themselves with the same company they’d been sitting with the entirety of their stay.  To the surprise of Ray, Floyd arrived a mere fifteen minutes after he finished placing all