Fort Apache, the Moon

Originally published in Centaurus SF vol 1, issue 2.

The Easterner dropped his bag on the plank floor and sat at an empty table in the Santa Fe saloon. There were few other customers, and Emily went to take his order.

"Whiskey," he said, and pulled a cigar and matches from his pocket.

When she returned with his drink, he was blowing smoke toward the bar. It floated lazily, with no breeze to dissipate it.

"Just come in on the train?" she asked.

He nodded. He still wore his coat and a New York style cravat. The afternoon heat made sweat bead up on his face. Maybe a banker, she thought. She asked, and he shook his head.

"Ex-newspaper man," he said. "Used to work for the Philadelphia Gazette. Now I'm a correspondent. Write when and what I please."

"You're one of those men who cover the war, then," she said and sat down at his table.

"Not out here in the Territories." He chuckled.

"But you've seen it, sir, I expect."

"Enough to prove myself brave, but not a fool. I've no quarrel with the sons of Dixie."

"Have you come to write about the Apaches?"

"Well, in a way I have. Do you read, miss?"

"I'm an educated lady, sir."

"Well, then, I'll tell you. You see, miss, in addition to being a correspondent, I also write books."

"Like that Mr. Twain."

The man rolled his eyes heavenward. "I'm not sure I'd call Mr. Twain a writer, miss. A hundred years from now, when the ladies and gentlemen of society are still reading the masters like James Fenimore Cooper, no one will remember Mr. Twain."

"Are you writing about the Indians?"

"What I write, miss, are scientific romances. And I've come west to do some research for my next book."

"Perhaps I've read some of your others. What's your name, sir?"

His face reddened. "James Richardson. I'm afraid my other books haven't been published." He downed the rest of his whiskey. "You see, miss, in science, timing is everything. My last book, like the one before it, was finished too late. Someone else already thought of the idea."

"And who might that be?"

"A man in France. You've never heard of him. But to elaborate, my book was about a journey to the center of the earth, which I proposed was hollow, with an entry at the North Pole. I'd even spoken to explorers to make certain there was no chance for an expedition that might disprove my theory. And then -" He snapped his fingers.

"What about your new book?" she asked.

He reached down and opened his bag, then shuffled through papers. "I shall read you a sample." He put down his cigar and cleared his throat.

"Set off by the redskins' flaming arrows, the ammunition shed exploded with thunder like a buffalo stampede. Ned held on for dear life as the fort rocked from its foundation. His eyes widened in disbelief as it lifted from the face of God's earth, but he clung bravely to his post and his Colt 45. With a howling rush of wind, the fort flew into the heavens, redskins clinging to its walls like ants. Ned's only thought was for dear sweet Sally. It would break her heart to learn what hand cruel Fate had dealt him."

He set down the papers and looked at Emily, waiting.

"It's ... it's ... very promising," she said. "Exciting."

Mr. Richardson nodded sagely. "It gets better," he said. "The explosion carries the fort to the moon. It turns out there are creatures on the moon, and Cochise and his savages make an alliance with them against the soldiers of the fort. Ultimately, though, the valiant Union soldiers triumph."

"Are they able to breathe the vapors on the moon?"

"Yes. Ned's a clever man, and he thinks to boil a lunar sea, which gives air to breathe."

"I'm sure a Frenchman would never think of that." Emily looked up as a group of men entered the saloon. "Well, I wish you luck with your research in the Territory, Mr. Richardson, and hope to read your book when it's published."

He smiled and put the papers back in his bag.

Clara was late coming in to take over, and Emily barely made it to the telegraph office before it closed.

"Where to, Miss Emily?" asked the clerk.

"Mr. Jules Verne, in Nantes, France."

The clerk raised his eyebrows. "There'll be a surcharge for the Atlantic cable, miss."

"I can pay it."

He shrugged and wrote it down in his notebook. "Message?"

"Story idea. Stop. From the Earth to the Moon. Stop. Gunpowder propulsion. Stop."

The clerk scratched his head. "Is your Jules going to figure this out?"

Emily smiled. "He'll think of something."