Pale yellow sand the color of sun-bleached leather drifted into piles in the corners of fences and up against the warped wood walls of the church, bar, saddle company, law office, laundry, jail, dry goods store, and clapboard train station with its lonely pair of tracks. Men were already setting upon the tracks and sweeping them, and from the drifts of bone-dry dirt, the occasional flap of canvas would disturb the seamless layer of brown.

Dirigibles large and small were tangled together on the dock’s eastern edge, implying a western zephyr that had moved with the might of a bored god’s fist. Riggers and engineers swarmed around these docks, shouting to cooperate and untangle the lobster claws and lines, and to dig out the pipes themselves to determine what had been uprooted, and what had only been bent out of place.

But the western line of the dock was nearly unoccupied, save for two small mail express dirigibles that had been battened down with better rigging. Cly set his own bird down beside them, and ten minutes later he was on his way to town.

Fang and Kirby Troost remained with the ship to see if the sulfuric acid vats were stable and could be hooked up to the hydrogen hoses, and if not, to assist with repairs. But Houjin accompanied the captain, ostensibly to get a gander at Oneida. Houjin was seventeen, and nothing short of brilliant. But he’d spent most of his life sheltered under the Seattle streets. Any chance to get out of the city was a chance for him to learn, observe, and drive people crazy.

“This place is a wreck!” the kid declared. “Is it always like this?”

“No, they’ve had a storm,” the captain told him again. The subject had already come up while they were overhead, surveying the damage in advance of landing.

“But everything is so dry!”

“That’s why they call them windstorms. Or … dust storms. But they’re common out here. No trees, you see. No grass, no plants with roots to hold on to the soil. No mountains to break up the sky and give the weather something to work around.”

“It’s hot as hell.”

A straggling gust of warm, dusty air smacked them in the face and dragged itself past them, tugging at their clothes and coiling off into tiny dust devils behind them. The captain pulled his goggles down off his head and fixed them over his eyes to keep out the next batch of blown debris, and he said, “You think this is hot? Wait until we get to the Gulf.”

“It’s even worse?”

“It’s just as bad. It’s wet, and the river runs through it — so there aren’t just trees but swamps, and grasses that grow out of the water as tall as me. Moss hangs off every branch of every tree, and everything is green and overgrown. Everything lives there. Giant trees that look like they’re melting. Animals like you’ve only heard about in books.” An almost wistful look crossed his face, but he put it down quickly by recalling, “You’ll sweat through everything you’re wearing. It’s like you never dry off, not really.”

The boy’s enthusiasm flagged, but quickly buoyed back up again. “Can we swim in the river? That’d be a good way to cool off.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, not unless you want to get bitten by snakes, or eaten by alligators.”

“Hm,” Houjin said, chewing this over as they strolled past a dog crawling out from under a saloon’s porch. The animal sneezed and shook itself, then wandered away. “And you used to live there?”

“I didn’t … I didn’t live there. Not exactly. I just spent a lot of time there.”

“Why?”

“You sure are full of questions today.”

“Kirby says I’m always full of questions.”

“Kirby’s right.”

“Where are we going?”

“Over there. Train station.”

“Why? We don’t need a train.”

“No,” the captain agreed. “But we need a telegraph operator, and that’s where towns usually keep them.”

“Why?”

“Because the people who run the trains need to know who’s coming and going. And they need to know the weather and all,” he said vaguely. “And passengers do, too. They like to send notes to their friends and families, if they’re traveling a real long way. Remember how Nurse Lynch was sending dispatches from the road — when she was on her way from Virginia?”

“I remember.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Where are you sending a telegram?”

“To New Orleans — to the lady who wants us to take a job,” Cly said, preemptively answering the next thing poised to fly out of Houjin’s mouth. Speculating on the third thing the kid had on deck, he added, “I tried to drop a wire from Portland, but there was some kind of problem with the poles, they said. And I forgot in Boise, and the office had closed by the time we made it to Denver. Now we’re only a thousand miles out, and I’ve dillydallied about letting the lady know we’re coming. So I’m doing it now.”

“Oh.”

Andan Cly had bought himself a few yards of silence, enough to reach the wood plank walkway of the train station, and to hike the last few feet to the sign that announced WESTERN UNION. He ducked the sign but still managed to clip it with the edge of his head, sending it swinging on its chains. Upon entering the small office, he swiped his goggles off his face and let them hang around his neck.

“Hello,” greeted a tiny, chipper woman with enough highly coiffed black hair to weave a blanket. It was difficult to escape the impression that she’d chosen the style with the specific intent of appearing larger. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Houjin slipped into the office behind the captain, and the woman gave him a puzzled look, but didn’t address him.

“I need to send a telegram. To a … boarding house. In New Orleans.”

“Very good, sir. Our rates are as posted.” She pointed at a sign that noted the charge by the line.

He said, “That’s fine.” He withdrew a square of scratch paper from his back pocket and unfolded it to reveal a message, addressed to Josephine Early at the Garden Court Boarding House on the Rue Dumaine. It had been distilled down to its essence, with all the important parts preserved, but not a drop of sentiment to be detected.

WILL TAKE THE JOB. INCOMING APPROX. APRIL 16. STOPPING AT BB FIRST, THEN INTO TOWN TO TEXIAN DOCK/MACHINE WORKS. SEE YOU THEN. AC.

The operator examined the message and flipped through her listings of New Orleans connections, then hesitated. “Can I ask you something — is ‘BB’ short for Barataria Bay?”

Cly replied, “Sure, that’s where I’m going first. Got to pick up a few things.”

“Ooh,” she exclaimed. And in a low, conspiratorial tone, she added, “I suppose I ought to pass along a little warning to you, then, in the spirit of friendliness.” The operator leaned forward and crossed her arms, the veritable picture of a woman who was thrilled by the opportunity to gossip with a real live person, and not a faceless set of dots and dashes over the taps. “You know how Texas occupies the city, don’t you?”

Cly nodded. “Sure, I know.”

She lowered her voice even further, as if anyone but Houjin were within overhearing range. “All right, then. Something happened to a couple of officers down there — something that no one wants to talk about. They disappeared or died, that’s my guess. Anyhow,” she continued, “a new officer went in to replace the colonel a couple of days ago. And the first thing he does when he takes post … oh, Lordy. Just guess!”

“I’m a terrible guesser. Just tell me.”

“Well!” she went on, downright breathless. “First thing he does is, he comes down on the bay with a full brigade of soldiers, and they wipe Barataria clean off the earth!”

Stunned, the captain exclaimed, “You can’t be serious!”

She settled back and leaned in her chair. “I don’t know how bad the damage is, ’cause I ain’t seen it in person, you know. But it’s all anyone’s been talking about on the lines. And if you don’t mind my bringing it up, a lot of the men like yourself who are passing through … they’re the kind to stop by the bay, if they’re headed that far south.”