Argosy Volume 1: Fantastic Frontiers

Argosy Volume 1: Fantastic Frontiers

Published by Argosy Magazine

Copyright 2013 Argosy Magazine

Smashwords Edition

Argosy Volume 1: Fantastic Frontiers

THIS IS AN ARGOSY MAGAZINE PUBLICATION

This edition published December 2013 by:

Argosy Magazine

Herons Rise

Andover

United Kingdom

http://www.argosymagazine.co.uk

Cover art by Tais Teng

Copyright © 2013 Tais Teng

http://taisteng.atspace.com/

http://members.casema.nl/taisteng/

http://taisteng.deviantart.com/

taisteng@gmail.com

Copyright © 2013 Argosy Magazine. All stories appear under license and belong to their respective authors. This book and its contents may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of Argosy Magazine and its contributing authors.

The Martian Falcon Copyright © 2013 Andrew J Lucas, first published here.

Marshal Jones’s Hunt Copyright © 2013 James Hoffmeister, first published here.

Parsec Hiccup Copyright © 2013 Lancer Kind, first published here.

Summers in the Snow Copyright © 2013 Clay Sheldon, first published here. This revision Copyright © 2013 Daniel Bazinga.

Kila S Tidwell (2204-2287) Copyright © 2013 Shombuddha Majumdar, first published here.

Falling Copyright © 2013 William Meikle, first published here.

Last Stand of the Calaveras Kid Copyright © 2013 Cynthia Ward, first published here.

Valley of the Lost by Robert E. Howard in the public domain.

Edited by Daniel Bazinga

Table of Contents

The Martian Falcon by Andrew J Lucas

Marshal Jones's Hunt by James Hoffmeister

Parsec Hiccup by Lancer Kind

Summers in the Snow by Clay Sheldon

Kila S Tidwell (2204-2287) by Shombuddha Majumdar

Falling by William Meikle

Last Stand of the Calaveras Kid by Cynthia Ward

Valley of the Lost by Robert E. Howard

The Martian Falcon

by Andrew J Lucas

Part 1

Mike took the steps two at a time as he vaulted up the stairs to his apartment. On Earth this would have left him winded and laboring for breath. Martian gravity made all Earth-born humans feel like superheroes each and every step they took, at least until the first dozen times they rapped their heads on a low door frame. In fact ankle sprains were only a little more common than lintel-induced concussions among newly arrived Martians and tourists. Frankly if there was any poetic justice on Mars it would be the fairly common sight of Earthers walking through the Martian tourist traps sporting brightly colored headgear for their protection. It also served to quickly identify the rubes.

Still, were it not for the rapid and efficient fleecing of short term visitors, Mike expected a lot of his work would disappear. Martians were a pragmatic lot and much of their justice system involved airlocks and re-breather accidents. There was nothing more frustrating than a missing person case on the red planet. In fact most of Mike’s work, other than tracking down Earthers’ stolen belongings, revolved around stock fraud, claim jumping and the perennial favorite—infidelity.

Today’s assignment was a simple one of delivering a delinquency notice to a couple of load haulers in the south quadrant. An easy gig, which nonetheless had netted him a thousand credits in Martian scrip—that and a split lip. Seemed people still blamed the messenger. Mike winced as he fingered the cut.

Next time I’ll post the notice on the door and screw the premium for personal service.

He knew deep down that having his home situated above the office was as clichéd as it was anachronistic. Most people nowadays worked from their homes, unless their job forced them to commute. Hell, even most of the water miners used tele-remote rigs to operate their mining robots. A few decades ago mining would involve suiting up with an exoskeleton and drilling rig and schlepping your gear to the mine site. You could at least expect to get your hands dirty, even if the robust mining suits would prevent you from throwing out your back. Even in the low Martian gravity a couple of hundred kilos of raw mass had enough inertia to break bones. Move too much mass too fast and bad things tended to happen. Mike knew this from personal experience.

Still, even in this day and age of remote employment and idealized work conditions there were a few professions that needed that personal touch. Physicians, physiologists, lawyers and loan sharks sprung to mind, and a few other professions equally as shady—and of course private eyes. Mike openly hated it when his clients called him a PI; his cards read ‘Security Consultant’ and he insisted on the title.

Secretly he got a little rush whenever he heard the phrase. It appealed to his inner Marlowe, the Sam Spade at the heart of every detective worth the name. Of course Mars had little tolerance for anything that smacked of the home planet and that included ex-dirt pushers who fancied themselves private eyes, ‘consultant’ was much more appropriate to the time—easier to put on your tax forms too.

The door to his apartment was typical of most buildings on Mars, consisting of a thin durilium sheet mined and forged from Martian ore nestled into a semi-permeable sheath. The door would seal tight in the event the settlement lost air pressure and each door had a number of security features to ensure that a closed door remained sealed shut and an open door was wholly open—anything else was a potential safety hazard.

His was open!

O’Malley slipped a hand into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a small taser pistol. Armed, he silently slid into the building. The interior of the apartment was shrouded in shadow, and he could make out the stacks of discarded meal containers stacked on the kitchen counter, and the jacket he’d left draped over the bar stool abutting it. Even in the twilight he could see the apartment was almost exactly as he’d left it—almost. As he walked cautiously into the small apartment, a shadow in the living room broke away from the deeper shadows of his synth-leather easy chair, rose slowly and walked to the room’s single window. Silhouetted against the dim light of the Martian sunset, the shadow was recognizable as human, and not one of the Martian bogeymen the children feared or the consortium enforcer droids everyone else feared. In fact, the silhouette was human and female—entirely so, if Mike was any judge of such matters.

Mike hit the illumination pad next to the door, noting a small strip of expensive looking and probably highly illegal programming circuitry pasted across the door’s lock. He raised the room’s lighting and peeled the strip off the wall, glancing at it briefly as he examined his guest. He ran his eyes up and down her lithe well toned form from head to toe, searching first for any weapon or obvious threat, then again, this time dwelling in the expected areas. She was obviously Mars born, lithe and tall beyond what any Earth woman could achieve no matter the expense of her body sculpting or the rigor of her toning regime. The woman was vaguely familiar to Mike and it took a moment to place her. He hadn’t spent a lot of time looking at her face just yet. Satisfied she wasn’t an obvious threat, not that a woman like this wasn’t inherently a threat to a man like Mike, he pocketed the taser, and as an afterthought the programming strip as well.

Petra Hansen. If I’d known you were visiting I would have kept the office open longer, or at least cleaned up the apartment.

Petra stepped forward, away from the sunset in the window and it was to Mike as if the sun had risen again. She moved smoothly, effortlessly passing from one side of the room to the other, each step engraving itself into Mike’s memory—and no doubt many late night dreams to come—before carrying her to him.

No need, Mr. O’Malley. She ran one slender elegantly manicured fingertip down his shirt front. I’ve cleared your schedule for the rest of the evening.

With an effort of sheer willpower Mike brushed her hand gently away, moved into the kitchen and busied himself with a well used set of tumblers and a bottle of Glenfiddich whiskey imported from Earth; a gift from a grateful client he’d been nursing all week.

I make my own schedule, ma’am.

Petra followed him into the kitchen, taking the bottle from his hand, eliciting a tingle of anticipation where her cool skin touched his suddenly clammy hand.

I do hope you can fit me in, Mr. O’Malley.

I suppose I might have a vacancy this evening.

She sidled up against him, pushing her curves against his hip and chest as she poured three fingers of the whiskey into both glasses, slopping the dark liquid out of the glass and onto the counter and her hand as she did so. Mike found it hard to concentrate on her words as she slowly licked the rich liquor from her fingers.

It’s my husband…

In my experience it very often is.

A slight frown creased her brow. She was obviously not used to being interrupted by the help. He resisted an urge to apologize and instead raised the tumbler to his lips and drank deeply. She stared hard at him a moment before continuing.

I’ll trust your experience, and your discretion.

She moved closer and raised her tumbler to her lips, delicately sipping the strong whiskey it held. Smiling in approval she knocked back the drink before firmly placing the tumbler on the kitchen counter. A thick smear of ruby lipstick covered the lip of the glass, and Mike found himself envying the tumbler.

He’s cheating on me. She pulled a thick envelope from somewhere Mike had obviously missed when he’d looked her over before, and placed it between them. I want you to get the evidence for me.

Your husband is the CEO of Ares Longevity Products, one of the richest men on Mars.

Not only Mars, Mr. O’Malley—my husband is one of the wealthiest men in the Terran Consortium.

Mike considered this as he opened the envelope and fanned out the polymer sheets of Martian scrip that passed for cash on the planet. The money was more than he usually pulled in over the course of a solar year; tempting, very tempting.

That kind of money means security. From what I’ve heard your husband has some of the tightest, meanest on staff. That kind of security is hard to break.

Isn’t that why they call you ‘the Hammer,’ Mr. O’Malley?

No. Mike scowled, unconsciously balling his left hand into a fist; an old habit. No, it isn’t.

Well, it’s a cute nickname, and suits you whatever its meaning, Petra cooed, placing another envelope on the counter. Still I’ve done the hard work for you already.

Where she kept getting these envelopes Mike had no idea; perhaps a closer inspection of his visitor was called for, he thought. He opened the envelope, which contained a picture of a Martian artifact and a business card for one Mr. Jonathan Hansen CEO of Ares Longevity Products. The address on the business card had been scratched out and another address written over it. Mike didn’t recognize the address but he knew the area and it sure as hell wasn’t the corporate zone where ALP headquarters was housed. He looked at Petra, his silence urging her to continue.

That’s where my husband has an office where he um…conducts his private affairs. She had the decency to blush, the first break in her perfect veneer. He prefers to get away from the corporate offices every few days or so. He likes to tell the board he gets more work done without the distraction of each day’s tiny irrelevant emergencies. Just him and his trusted aide.

Blonde?

Petra scowled and stepped back. Mike immediately regretted his flippant remark, but noticed that with her now a pace away from him he could focus a little clearer on his surroundings. At that distance things became easier. Simple things, like breathing.

A brunette if you must know, but I don’t appreciate your attitude.

My sense of humor has never been what anyone would call sophisticated. But I need to know details like that if you expect me to catch him in the act.

You Private Dicks think of everything don’t you. It was less a question than an accusation of deep dirty fantasies.

Security Consultant. Mike corrected. It says so on my cards.

She smiled and moved back to the counter, just close enough that Mike could feel the warmth of her breath as she talked and the heat of her body as she eased closer to him. He knew she was pulling out every trick in her book to get him to take the case. His every instinct told him he was being played—but man was he enjoying the game so far.

But that’s just it, Mr. O’Malley, she cooed, tapping the picture of the statue in his hand. I’ve done all the work for you.

The statue was a remarkably elegant example of an ancient Martian artifact, truly a collector’s piece. Generally the ancient Martians tended to express themselves with esoteric, near-impressionistic pieces of incomprehensible geometric designs. Rarely did they sculpt anything that appealed to human senses as understandable, let alone beautiful. This two foot high piece seemed to represent a long extinct Martian raptor, or perhaps a snail headed monkey. Mike wasn’t sure, as he was neither a xenobiologist nor an art lover. He thought it was more of a squid-bat; either way it was worth a bundle.

And what’s the statue got to do with anything? he asked, turning the picture over to stop its vacant eyes staring at him.

The statue rarely leaves his side; he insists on having it with him at all times.

Mike rolled his eyes at her but she continued.

My husband was once a good man and his position and money allow him certain—eccentricities.

I’ll bet.

In any event I placed a surveillance device on the falcon’s base. It should have recorded all the evidence you need. She moved closer. Bring me the statue, Mr. O’Malley. It will be worth your while.

Not that the offer isn’t attractive, and your money is obviously good, but why can’t you get the bug yourself and cut out the middle man?

Petra placed her expertly manicured hand on his and stared deeply, sadly into his eyes. Hers were the deep blue of Earth’s oceans and Mike hesitated to think how bloodshot his own were.

My husband and I are estranged, and to be honest I don’t think he’s aware I found out about his little retreat. In your line of work you must know how that is.

Mike nodded, not trusting himself to speak with her hand still clutching his, still warming his flesh with the heat of her body. Taking that as assent, Petra slid her hand casually and oh so deliberately up his arm to his chest. The blood rushed to Mike’s head, flushing his cheeks as her hand slipped into his breast pocket. She lingered there a moment, gazing longingly into his eyes, enjoying his discomfort.

Then she stepped back, dangling the programming strip which he’d found pasted across his door’s circuit panel. The strip dangled delicately held between two nails as she stepped back and through Mike’s door, which obediently swished open for her.

Excellent, Mr. O’Malley. I will be back next week to pick up the statue.

Petra walked out the door, it closing smoothly behind her. Mike’s apartment seemed so much colder than before, though the envelope on the counter promised to keep the heat on for a few more Terran months.

Part 2

No time like the present, Mike thought as he jimmied the lock to Hansen’s secluded love nest.

His guess at the quality of the neighborhood back at his apartment was correct. It made his office look like an Olympus Mons resort habitat, which spoke volumes about the area. He’d passed a couple of Fleet cargo handlers, obviously spoiling for a fight and far, far too drunk to offer a credible threat. He’d talked his way past them, and the beggars, prostitutes and hustlers. He hadn’t had to show his papers to a police droid which also was a commentary on the location. The area was too close to the outer dome to be prime real estate and seemed to be composed of dilapidated office buildings, cargo warehouses and the odd flophouse. Most of the ramshackle buildings were constructed against the transparent durilium dome and into the rock wall of the cavern the bulk of the colony was constructed into. Most of the buildings had a wall which snuggled up against the colony dome or a rock outcropping, allowing anyone in the building to use an airlock to exit the colony or otherwise gain access to the harsh Martian surface. Sometimes this happened inadvertently and industrial accidents, while regrettable, were a fact of life on Mars.

The best land was of course fully enclosed in domes where the owners could walk protected from the Martian atmosphere but still be able to see the surface. This part of the colony was a compromise, a nice safe dome between buildings, which were built into the rock face itself—sturdy, cheap and largely safe. The security on the building’s door was certainly topnotch though, but Mike’s cracking skills and his porta-comp, while not as elegant as the high end programming strip Petra Hansen had used, were up to the task.

The door slid open, and a blast of cool air hit him in the face. Immediately Mike knew something was wrong. There was only one reason why a building built this far into the Martian bedrock would be this cold. He slipped his hand into his jacket and withdrew the small taser.

This is becoming a habit, he thought, easing his way into the building, alert for any movement.

But there was none. The building was as cold as