“Yes, but what’sthat?” Mercer repeated.
It looked like a small ship, a wooden hull reinforced with metal, supported by an even larger, oblong balloon. Its hull bore a strange banner Colt had never seen before: a stepped pyramid beneath a green sun. The craft moved slowly, deliberately, as if the desert itself carried it forward. Riders below kept loose formation, rifles slung, scanning the horizon with patient discipline.
“A …” Colt lowered the spyglass and blinked. He didn’t know what to call it. “An airship?” He’d never seen the like.
“What do you think they want?” asked a patrolman.
Colt lifted the spyglass again, squinting into the glare, but the distance swallowed most details. Whoever they were, they moved in formation, not like raiders or wanderers. The column kept a steady pace, scouts spreading along the edges like hounds on the flank.
They did not look like marauders.
“Do you think they are traders or travelers from the Badlands?” Mercer asked. The garrison had taken to calling the area south of the river “the Badlands.”
“Should we go meet them?” asked another soldier.
“Or turn out the post with full arms to fight them?” suggested another.
“Maybe twenty or thirty on the ground,” Colt speculated. “No telling how many in that airship, but a recon balloon only holds four or five comfortably.”
“Could they be scouts?” Mercer’s gaze was intense, his tone serious.
Colt lowered the spyglass, folded it down, and met Mercer’s eyes. “Whose scouts?”
“Don’t know.” Mercer spat tobacco, his horse pawing the parched sand, its head bobbing.
“Well, they aren’t primitive barbarians,” Colt declared. “Not enough to cause trouble, but, wherever they came from, there must be more. Let’s head back to the fort. You were right to point this out to me, Corporal. Good job.”
Mercer nodded, sipped from his canteen, and spat again. “See, fellas? They’re just strangers out for a ride. Let’s go home.” Turning his horse away from the edge, Mercer led the patrol.
Colt took a sip from his canteen, then kicked his horse forward to catch Mercer on the ride back to the fort.
A few hours later, after bathing and changing his uniform, Colt sat back at his desk to compose a note to send to Fort Resolute in Dominion, informing them of the sighting. From what he’d read in Major Voss’s journals, nothing ever happened here. That alone made today newsworthy.
Strangers sighted across the river. Vehicles. A balloon. An airship. Identity unknown. Intention unknown. Deserves attention. Ochre flag with pyramid and green sun. Heading north. Please advise. —Irons
While he was rolling it for the pigeon tube, Marcus walked in. “So, what did Mercer find? The guys are all going on about a giant balloon and strange dune buggies.”
“That’s about right,” Colt said. “But we don’t know who they are, what they’re doing this close to the border, or what they want. Could be traveling traders. They had weapons and were all dressed alike, but they weren’t like any uniforms I’ve ever seen. And that ship suspended from a colossal, cylindrical balloon appeared to have a propulsion system. Never seen anything like it.”
Marcus’s eyes widened. “I thought they were just shooting the breeze.”
Colt let out a laugh. “Dr. Venz would love to get a closer look at that airship. ‘Lost genius,’ he’d mutter while his beady eyes glowed.”
Marcus shook his head. “Sometimes I forget you used to be on the president’s council with … with the general.”
With the note tucked in the tube, Colt rose and crossed to Marcus. He clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “What’s the entertainment for tonight?”
“Slater has organized a round-robin poker tournament.” They walked toward the door. “Winners of each group move on to play each other. Losers are free to place bets. And no fighting.” He grinned. “I’ll be watching the games like a hawk. Wanna play?”
Colt blushed. “No poker for me, but I’ll help you keep them honest. Just let me send this note off.”
“Sure. Should we be worried?” Marcus stopped on the front porch, tilted his head, and caught Colt’s eye.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But I want daily patrols in that area reporting any other activity—especially if they cross the river. They didn’t strike me as bandits or raiders. Too organized. Too well-equipped. Still, much too small to constitute a military threat.”
“Well, we know one thing we didn’t yesterday,” Marcus said. He glanced out at the troops performing their chores, milling around, or heading to the mess hall. An eagle screamed overhead as the sun sank low in the west. “We aren’t the only people surviving in this wretched desert.”
Chapter thirty-six