“They’re still on us?”

“Very much so.”

“Goddammit.”

“Now, Henry, listen: the smaller craft is bigger than this one, but not so large as its brethren. Perhaps a crew of three. I don’t really think it’s pirates, but it could be anything—state, federal, or private.”

“Do you see any weapons?”

“Not mounted to the exterior. Maybe it’s an observation craft? Survey work?” She wasn’t sure why she kept making guesses. The ships would either bother them, or not. “But here they come—another thirty seconds or so until contact. Look innocent, Henry.”

“I’ll do my level best.”

The ships drew up on either side of the Black Dove. Now Maria could see their faces without the spyglass, so she put it aside. In the course of acting innocent, she waved cheerfully at the nearest ship—the CSA gray with blue and white markings. Without moving her lips, she said to Henry, “Wish I had a flag. I’d wave it.”

“You’d look silly,” he said back, smiling and joining her in the friendly greetings.

“Silly is usually innocent,” she said, and blew the craft a kiss.

Inside the main cabin of the big craft she saw five men: three seated, two standing. All uniformed. None smiling or waving back; not at first. But then the captain gave her a small salute, and the others did as well, before deliberately turning their attention elsewhere. Shortly thereafter, the big ship peeled away from them and sped ahead, leaving just the smaller of the two hovering nearby.

“Can’t quite see the little ship,” Maria complained, straining to look around Henry’s bulkily coated form.

“Shall I cut off my head?”

“Extremes aren’t called for. Not just yet.”

He forced a smile and released one side of the steering column to chance a quick wave. “Three men,” he told her.

“Uniforms?”

“No. And I don’t think smiling at them will be very helpful.”

“It’s usually more helpful than glowering.”

“Glowering won’t help us either. I think we have trouble.”

“Do you see any guns?” she asked. “I didn’t.”

He sniffed hard, the sniff of a man who can’t feel what’s going on in his sinuses anymore. “They’re inside.”

The ship fell back, and then pulled around closer to Maria—who saw that, yes, the men within were heavily armed and did not look very happy to see them. She beamed at them regardless, and waved like she had for the military ship—which was now well ahead of them, keeping its course along the southbound road below.

No one waved back, but one man cranked open a side window, which jutted out from the craft like a fragile glass wing. He held a megaphone up to his mouth, and leaned out into the clouds.

“You there!” he shouted. “Land your craft immediately!”

Maria pretended she hadn’t heard, or hadn’t understood. “I’m sorry?” she mouthed, and pointed at her ears. “Too loud! So much wind!”

“Land this craft immediately!” he tried again.

“They want us to land,” Henry said, staring straight ahead.

“Thank you, dear, I heard them,” she muttered. Then to the craft, as loudly as she could, “I’m very sorry, we can’t hear you!” She trusted they’d get the gist.

They did, and it made them angry.

“Land the craft immediately! Right now!” And this time, he brandished a gun in a threatening fashion.

“I’ve seen bigger!” she yelled.

“Now you’re just antagonizing them!” Henry complained.

“Oh, they can’t hear a word I’m saying. Can we outrun them?”

He said, “I’m not sure. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Well, we can’t just land. They’ll kill us both, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“I thought you liked pirates.”

“They aren’t pirates,” she said with more confidence than before. “They’re mercenaries.”

While the man at the window gestured with his megaphone and firearm, Maria lifted the spyglass again, to get a better look. Not at the man, but at the crates on the floor behind him. Something was stenciled thereon, and she could just discern the logo. “Baldwin-Felts.” She said it like a curse.

“The detective agency? Something like the Pinks?”

“Nothing like the Pinks.” She snapped the spyglass shut and stuffed it into her satchel, since that one was the closest. “Oh, all right, something like the Pinks—like a Southern version of the Pinks, with fewer morals, leaner pockets, and no problem with assassinating innocent bystanders.”

“But people do say similar things about—”

She growled, “When the Pinkertons misbehave, they reflect badly on Chicago. The Baldwin-Felts reflect badly on Virginia.”

“I see.”

“How much ammunition do you have on you?”

“Look, there’s a megaphone in the back. If you can reach it, maybe I can talk some sense into them. I’m a U.S. Marshal, after all. They may think twice about—”

“They won’t.” She held up one finger to the man in the other dirigible, asking him for just a moment while she rifled through her luggage in search of her gun. “They’ll just bury you deeper, and figure no one’ll find you ’til it doesn’t matter anymore. They’ve threatened us, they’re giving us orders, and they will shoot us down if we don’t land ourselves. That’s what the man’s gun means, Henry. When he waves it around like that, he’s telling us he’s willing to use it.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Henry said, jaw locked tight. “I’m clear on that. I just wonder if we shouldn’t have some kind of plan, apart from shooting first.”

“I’m a pretty good shot. Better with a ball turret. Pity we seem to be missing one.” Using her shoulders to shield the other ship from what she was doing, she checked her chambers, grabbed a fistful of bullets for future use, and took a deep breath.

“I can’t believe they’re just … waiting on you. To see what you’re doing.”

“Men are trained from birth to wait on the whims of women. Even murderers expect it.” She adjusted her goggles, looked back at the unnamed ship, and then at Henry. She leaned in close, so close that her breath warmed his ear. “All right, here’s what I’m doing: Our ship is smaller than theirs, we’re possibly slower than they are, and we’re outnumbered. Our only advantage is surprise, and I intend to cash in that advantage before it’s wasted. If you can fly as well as I can shoot, we might make it to our destination—and so far, you’re doing a hell of a job. So don’t stop now.”

Before Henry could respond, she looked back over her shoulder. She saw that the man was getting impatient, but the window was still open, and he still hung halfway out of it—anchored by his feet somewhere beyond her view. She slipped her hand around the gun, put her finger on the trigger, and felt its gentle resistance against her glove.

She whipped out the gun.

Aimed in a fraction of a second.

And fired three times in a row, knowing that her shots might spin wild, given the motion of the ship and the air alike; and that she was a good shot, but not a great one, as she might have implied to Henry.

One bullet shattered the window, one bounced harmlessly off the metal casing, and one caught the man in the upper chest, just below his throat. He snapped backwards, clapped his head on the broken window edge, and flipped forward into the aether.

No time to savor the victory. She fired again, this time at their windscreen—hitting it and fracturing it, but not smashing it outright. The front glass was thicker; it had to be, to face the elements.

“Aim for their tanks!” Henry screeched, his elbows shaking with the effort of holding the craft in line.

“Not yet! We’re too close! Any explosion will take us with it.”

One of the other men leaned out the broken window while the captain kept flying—the grim set of his face implying that yes, they, too, were having a struggle of it. The wind was high and wet, and now he was flying with a broken window that snagged the currents and yanked the ship. She hadn’t sent them down, but she’d given him more to fight, and that was good. It meant one less person shooting at them.