Firstborn of the Frontier

Brown orn-hide ridge top hats.

Black reinforced glass goggles.

Rough hemp kerchiefs, undyed and unembroidered.

A dark brown fella with a limp. Bum left foot maybe. Broken and never healed right would be my guess, or a crude, poorly fitted prosthetic.

One tanned, overweight man. Maybe white, light red, hell could even be yellow. Hard to tell while wearing a hat, goggles, and kerchief. Missing his right ear, torn not cut, meaning something nibbled on him. Probably them big birds pulling their wagon.

A slim runt working harder than the rest. Got something to prove, wants to earn their spot on this crew maybe. Pasty white, with long brown hair blowing in the wind. Could be a woman, or older kid. Either way, they greener than green.

Two more men of indeterminate origin. Medium builds, short hair, heads down, and noses to the grindstone. They know their business well enough, but got nothing that makes them stand out in a crowd. Could walk past them tomorrow and not recognize who they are, so lucky them.

Last one’s the leader, the one barking orders and keeping watch. A tall, dirty blonde on the thicker side of slim carrying what’s likely a looted weapon. A real nice one too, bolt-action rifle with a peach-wood stock, decent sized mag, and extra long, stainless-steel barrel, one that can fit all those extra Etchings done in Orichalcum that mark it as a supercharged Aetherarm. Easy to spot, as the metal looks like gold, tarnishes like bronze, and makes the Aether glow dark blue instead of soft purple. I’m guessing that’s a 22-20 rifle, if not 44-80, double the Grainage of what most consider ‘safe’, but not necessarily double the power. Still, all them extra Metamagics means the rifle will hit hard and shoot fast, which ain’t no one complaining about. Will also get real hot real fast and require constant maintenance to keep it from turning into scrap.

Rest of their Aetherarms were too difficult to identify while they holstered or tucked away, which was a real shame. That single rifle alone was tempting enough to risk a fight, though I would’ve had to send my prospects away first. Tell them to go get reinforcements or something, get them out from underfoot before I take care of business. Almost did it too, but reason prevailed, so all I can do is bide my time and hope for a second encounter.

Ain’t got much to go on to identify the scavs what robbed me. Everything else about them was too generic and nondescript. The wagons could’ve been built anywhere, their boots nothing special, and their hemp ponchos were just as plain as their kerchiefs. Them big, flightless birds might be something, as they’re relative newcomers to the domesticated scene. Ornitheros is what the locals called them, big, ornery creatures who’re dumber than a bag of bricks, but they’re omnivores that can fend for themselves and haul heavy loads through sandstorms without blinking an eye. They ain’t all that popular on account of their propensity for nibbling on their handlers, and I ain’t talking about little love bites. Means chances are, one of those six scavs is an Enchanter, or at least familiar enough with the Spells to keep them ornery ornitheros from tearing off strips of their handler’s flesh.

Not a great Enchanter, considering the one-eared fellow of indeterminate origin, but even a bad Enchanter is someone to be wary of.

Might lead to something if I care to follow that thread, but asking questions is a good way to get got out here in the Coral Desert. Best to leave sleeping dogs lie while keeping those details in mind, so if I do spot our scavs down the road, or identify what outfit they working with, then I’ll know where to go to collect on this debt. See, they think they’re making off big with my hard-earned spoils, but what they don’t know is they just took a loan from the Bank of Howie, and there gonna come a day when I come calling to collect. With plenty of interest too, though I doubt I’ll ever see the cash, because scavs tend to spend as fast as they earn since hoarding wealth is a good way to paint yourself as a target. A smart scav leader will make sure all their wealth is spent too, because hungry scavs are all the more eager to hunt. That’s why the big man will make sure his crew eats, drinks, snorts, or otherwise indulges to their dark hearts’ content after a score like todays, so they’ll all be ready and raring to go when the next opportunity presents itself.

Self-destructive is what it is, a sorry bunch of no-good layabouts who can’t hack it doing honest work. They’re bottom-feeding freeloaders who contribute nothing to society and serve no purpose save to bring the rest of us down. Case in point, I ought to be pleased as punch after a day like today, having done a bang-up job and gotten me a good haul to boot, but instead I got my head up in the storm clouds trying to calculate how much I lost out from giving up that first batch of Abby. The hob and his bodyguards represented the biggest threat in the horde, so I took them down fast and hard the first chance I saw. Even though I missed out on the hob, the most valuable corpses were probably stacked in that pile we was robbed of. Going forward, I ought to Mark the bigger corpses so I can track them down should something like this happen again, so I suppose I can chalk this loss up to live and learn.

“Hey, Howie?” Sarah Jay’s hesitant tone draws me out of my funk, and I turn in the saddle to meet her uncertain expression. Beside her, Errol is looking more determined as he sits upright with shoulders squared, but he won’t look me in the eyes. “We was talking,” Sarah Jay begins, looking mighty fetching with her sullen pout as she gestures at our catch, stacked atop my Floating Disc sleds. “And these Abby you killed? We didn’t do nothin’ to earn our share, so there ain’t no reason to cut us in. This is your haul and yours alone.”

Now if that don’t stick in my craw like hair in a biscuit. “What’chu goin’ on about?” I asked, all too conscious of how sharp my accent has suddenly become. “We a crew or not?” Without waiting for an answer, I continue, “Before we rode out, we said it plain and clear. 10% of the haul goes to the two of you, and that’s what you’ll get. And what’s this about not earning your share? I mistaken, or did I not see Errol standing front and centre against that Abby horde and risk his neck to save...” I know the boot’s name. Said it less than an hour ago. Met him and walked him through basic scouting. Lazy, distracted, kinda whiny. “…Nate.” There it is, but the pause cost me all my momentum. “And Jay, you was up on that dune with Tim standing overwatch, so I’m sure you killed more than your fair share too. Y’all ain’t gonna earn from that fight, but you sure as shooting gonna earn from this.”

Steamed for no good reason, I take a beat and help myself to a hard candy to cool down. Then, because it’s only polite to share and I got more to say, I turn back, hold out the tin and say, “Besides, I ain’t mad because we ain’t earning enough. Even without the hob, this a good haul for a day’s work. Can get round about three grams of Aberrtin from an orc, sometimes more if they bigger, and ten from a bugbear easy.” I know I said I’d try to keep them ignorant of the value, but I’m counting on their terrible mental math to do that for me. Even Sarah Jay would have to put pen to paper to figure out the total value of our haul, but I got us at round about $120 in Aberrtin easy. That’s half a month of Ranger pay, which ain’t bad considering all the ammo I used is on the Ranger’s dime, even after factoring in the cost of Aether to haul everything back on my Floating Disc sleds. Four or five hunts a month like this and we’ll be in the black, without accounting for any Spell Cores or precious resources we might come across along the way.

Now, I’d have been over the moon with a payday like today’s little more than a month ago, but that was before I picked up six large for killing five men. Worst part is, I had proper justification to gun them scavs down without warning, though I figure Errol would’ve looked at me like I was some sort of monster all the same, even if I gave them fair warning and a chance to walk away.

Which brings us back to why I’m upset. “So I’m a little sour about getting robbed. Lost maybe a quarter of our profit there, but we still made out good.” Had to be at least ten bugbears in that pile, and they’d’ve been the ones most likely to have Spell Cores. Meeting Errol’s eyes, I hesitate to speak my mind, but do so anyways because some things got to be said. “Them scavs though? I meant what I said. A Bolt’s too good for them, and not just because they robbed me. They’re parasites is what they are, a God-damned blight on society who don’t offer any value to the Frontier. Pardon my French.”

Errol doesn’t say anything, but Sarah Jay pops a candy in her mouth and says, “Careful now,” she says, flashing a soft smile that don’t crack her Ice Queen façade. “You starting to sound like some sorta socialist.”

I know it’s a joke, but I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Them old timers spit out that word like it’s some sort of curse, but lots of what we do could be considered socialism. We look out for our own, with plenty of funding to keep folks from going without food or shelter, all on the government’s dime. Hell, look at how you getting treated in Basic. Not just the free food and gear, but all the training you getting without having to pay a single cent or commit to joining the Rangers. You think Ava’s time comes cheap?” Realizing how that sounds, my cheeks colour a bit, but I push on and pretend like I don’t notice, even though both Errol and Sarah Jay are grinning now. “The Marshal said that even though it costs a fair bit to run things this way, the return is always well worth it, because the greatest bottleneck we face here on the Frontier is manpower. Even if none of them boots end up signing on, they’ll have the skills necessary to take care of themselves and maybe even protect their communities moving forward.” Shooting a dark glare off into the distance towards where we last saw the scavs, I add, “So when a bunch of able-bodied folks in fightin’ form won’t do nothing except thieve and kill to survive, it’s a double drain on the resources required to keep ‘em alive. They ain’t just taking one man’s portion of food, because whoever they steal from has got to work twice as hard to stay afloat, and every working man they kill is one less set of hands to help bring us forward into the future.”

Would be better off gunning down scavs on sight in my opinion, but that’s the problem with having a conscience and following the Accords. Makes us do stupid things, like giving murderous thieves fair warning. Much as I hate the Qin, I gotta admit that they do some things right. If you don’t contribute, then you are made to contribute, whether it be as fodder on the front lines or in prison labour camps, though most nations got their own version of those going on.

“So that what we are then?” Sarah Jay asks, her tone playful and teasing. “Your little socialist project?”

“Already said you an investment,” I counter, smiling to show I’m only partially serious. “Can’t have you going hungry while I train you up now, can I? Besides, if I treat you poorly, then what’s to stop you from jumping ship once you ready for the big leagues?”

“Nothin’ at all,” she replies, looking nonchalant as can be from atop Sunshine with that same soft smile. “But we might consider stickin’ around if you cook a bit more often.”

“Long as one of you does the dishes, I’m all for it.” Joking aside, it’s nice to get that chip off my shoulder and set the record straight, and we get to chatting about what we gonna eat as we make our way back to camp. Ranger rations are even worse than what I fed them our first week out, but I restocked on foodstuffs in Meadowbrook, so we’ll be eating good tonight.

Better than I thought too, because we arrive back in camp to find an impromptu barbeque underway, with Marcus prepping the grill while Tim and his shooters are off hunting. Ava has the boots rendering Abby using their fancy schmancy pressure cookers, and Tina greets us with a smile and a wave. I take a Photo of her hard at work while we pass, and ignore the other boots peeking at our haul, but they keep the chit-chat to a minimum due to Ava’s withering glare fixed firmly on my face. Never one to back down, I smile and wave at the matronly Ranger, though I just barely keep myself from saying ‘Hi Honey, I’m home’.

I’m cocky, not suicidal.

After stopping by the grill to let Marcus know about the scavs, I find a spot close to Tina so we can render our own catch. The Ranger pressure cookers look like big metal, gem-studded pots with air-tight lids and fancy hinges to lock it down, but I don’t got one of those. All I got is a normal, everyday pot, which means I gotta do my rendering the old-fashioned way, but there’s enough water and kindling to be found even in the desert to get a cook going, plus I keep the wagon stocked with wood and coal for just this reason. Using Mould Earth, I dig out a small, cylindrical shaft in the sand that’s about a foot and a half deep and almost as wide as my Abby cooking pot. Then, I dig another shaft at a forty-five-degree angle on the windward side, so that both shafts connect at the base. “This here is a Dakota fire hole,” I explain, dropping a couple coals and some tinder down the main shaft before hitting it with an Ignite Cantrip. “Or Lakota. Or Cherokee maybe. Can’t remember. Keeps the flames hidden for the most part, plus it’ll give off less smoke and burn hotter too, which is perfect for cooking, Abby or otherwise.” Feeding more tinder into the small fire, I cast a Gust Cantrip to drive air down onto the embers and go over a couple more things while we chop up Abby and wait for the water to come to a boil.

Unpleasant though it may be, rendering Abby is simple, straightforward work, and after a big, high-octane fight like today, is just what we all need to decompress, to say nothing of my stiff, overworked legs. Besides, cooking Abby is always at least a little bit exciting, because there’s always the chance you’ll fish out a high-value Spell Core like Protection Against Aberrations, Detect Magic, or Bless. Much as I hate to admit it, I do love me a good gamble, especially when it don’t cost me any cash, so I’m on pins and needles the whole time we cooking. The first batch produces no Spell Cores, nor does the second, and I’ve all but given up hope when Errol fishes something out of the third batch and says, “I think I found a Spell Core.”

Much too loudly for my tastes, as that gets the boots and nearby Rangers looking. Don’t matter how many times I warn him, Errol thinks he’s safer than he really is all the way out here in the desert, and I almost hope it’s something I can give away like the Ablative Armour Spell Core I handed off onto Sarah Jay. Should we ever get a high value target like the hob, you can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll be cooking it somewhere far away from prying eyes, because loose lips sink ships and get folks killed every day. “Let’s see,” I say, only for Errol to make the worst move possible and hold it up for everyone to gawk at. The irregular purple nugget sparkles in the late afternoon sun, and there’s no covering it up now, so it’s a good thing Spell Cores don’t look all the different from one another. They can vary in size though, and this one is bigger than usual, about the size of a bapple, or plum-sized as Aunty Ray would say. I calmly and casually reach out to take the Spell Core from his hands just in time to keep Cowie from gobbling it up. “Oh hi there,” I say, trying to draw attention away from the Spell Core as I give his chin a tickle. “You done ignoring me now? Ain’t happy about being left behind to guard the wagon, were ya? Well, if you weren’t so mean to your babies, then maybe you’d have a crew of your own to help pick up the slack, instead of being the only one around strong enough to haul.”

Blowing out a huff in response, Cowie gives the Spell Core a good sniff before licking my closed hand and hitting me with what Aunty Ray calls his puppy dog eyes. All big, sad, and soulful is what it is, but I stay strong and press my forehead against his. “No Cowie,” I say, trying to be firm and considerate at the same time. “One Spell Core is enough for anyone, even you.” Instead of accepting things as they stand, Cowie shrinks down to baby size and slides into my lap to try his puppy dog eyes again, and I can’t say it ain’t effective, but I hold the course and give him a cuddle instead. “Won’t work,” I say, while inwardly wondering how bad it could be, but much as I love to gamble, I ain’t about to risk Cowie’s life and sanity for nothing. “You can try all you like, but my answer always gonna be no.”

Grumbling for all he’s worth, Cowie settles down in my lap while I massage his cheeks and buy time for folks to lose interest, but no dice. After delaying for as long as I can, I pull out my Aberrtin tuning fork and packet of Aether to give the Identify Spell Core Cantrip another go. Soon as I set the tuning fork to singing, the Cantrip knocks me out of this plane of reality into another contained within the Spell Core itself. The scene it shows is simple and to the point, as I stand there enshrouded in cascading blue energies that protect me from the savage blows of the Aberrations assaulting me. That’s all there is, but it’s enough to shock me something fierce and wish Errol had been more circumspect about all this, so there’s only one thing to do now.

Lie.

“What are the chances?” I ask, flashing a wry little grin. “Another Ablative Armour Core.” As if. What I got in my hands is armour, but of the Mage variety, one of the most valuable First Order Spell Cores around. Uncut and unpolished, a Mage Armour Core is worth five grand easy, as it’s a Spell that scales well with increased Aether costs and requires minimal fiddling to get working right. It’s also highly coveted by folks from all walks of life, as the Spell offers increased protection with almost no downside. There are always folks looking to buy a Core like this, and almost never any for sale, because those who do find them would rather use them than sell them. Fact is, the Spell is so useful, I suspect this Core was tailor made by a proggie so the hobgoblin would have an Abjuror on hand to keep it nice and protected, lest it get killed out of hand by an angry bugbear or three.

Yea, this here is a right precious find, so instead of tossing the Spell Core to Sarah Jay, I give her a look that says in no uncertain terms to keep quiet and keep Errol quiet too, because if I give him the same look, his expression will give up the game. She catches on quick and sags heavily against Errol’s shoulder in a mock fit of pique. “Figures,” she grumbles, cozying up to her man as if to seek out comfort, and at the same time distracting him enough to pay no mind to the Core. “Two Spell Cores on one trip, and they both cheap and useless.”

“It is what it is,” I say, forcing myself to sound cheerful to sell the act, though it don’t take much, as this nice surprise is just what I needed after losing big to the crafty hob and thieving scavs. “Bright side is that my daddy didn’t like the number four anyways, which is why I gave you that last one.” Casually tucking the Spell Core into my inner duster pocket, I resist the urge to get it locked up quick and go back to chopping Abby. “Now we got five Ablative Armour Cores in total, so once the infrastructure in place to make use of ‘em, we’ll have a nice little armoured convoy ready and waiting to go, with enough Ablative Plating to drive through heavy weapons fire. Won’t that be a sight?”

This Mage Armour Spell Core is of more immediate use however, since it requires next to no finagling to get working. All you need to do is work up an Actuator and feed it Aether, neither of which is difficult. As is, it can only cast the Spell at base value though, which means it’s only any good in a fistfight and won’t last more than an hour, but that’s still better than nothing. With a bit of trial and error, I could probably Etch out an arcane circuit and put together a Metamagic matrix to make it slightly more effective, or at the very least last longer. Even Danny might not be able to do much better, but I’m sure the Marshal will be happy to put me in touch with a trustworthy Artificer who knows how to get the most out of a Mage Armour Spell Core and keep his mouth shut.

Then again, can I in good conscience keep this a secret until we get back to New Hope? Especially after seeing poor Nate laid up like that. A basic Mage Armour Spell wouldn’t have kept him from going down, but with another Bolt on another target, it could mean the difference between life and death. Mage Armour is a basic staple in the Ranger Spell Loadout, so aside from the boots, everyone present can cast it. Won’t take much effort for each of them to throw a Mage Armour on a boot or two before a major encounter, but those resources could be better spent. A Spellcaster can only sling so many Spells a day before needing to sleep, while a Spell Core can be activated once every five seconds without limit so long as you got enough Aether to do so. At base values, that’s only four Grain, meaning every bullet we fire could power the basic Mage Armour Spell two and a half times at the minimum. Wouldn’t be right to keep quiet about it, but that means letting everyone here know I got a Mage Armour Spell Core. I ain’t all that worried about getting robbed by Rangers or boots, but the only kind of secret that stays secret are the ones you take to the grave. Once word gets out that I got a valuable Spell Core like that, it’ll paint a target on my back to every outfit looking to secure one for themselves. Some will ask nicely if they can buy it before resorting to other methods, but there are always those who’ll shoot first and take it off my corpse, like them dirty scavs who robbed me earlier.

While inwardly grappling with my moral dilemma, I’m so distracted it takes me a second to realize someone said something to me, someone that isn’t Errol or Sarah Jay. Looking around as my brain catches up, I can’t help but scowl as I fix my gaze on the speaker in question, rat-faced Wayne sitting slouched on his saddle, which is resting on the sand. “Just doesn’t make sense, is all I’m saying,” he continues, after asking why I’m the only one who gets to profit from today. “I mean, we all worked together to kill these Aberrations, but I don’t see anyone else pocketing Spell Cores or Aberrtin.”

“You buy that 1911 on your hip?” I ask, knowing full well he didn’t. “Or the SKS you got holstered in your saddle there? Tell you what, let’s lower the bar. Since joining the Rangers, you ever buy your own ammo?” Giving a good-natured chuckle that is anything but, I shake my head and stare the man down. “Armour piercing semi-automatic carbine, that SKS’ll come in handy where we’re headed, except I couldn’t even buy one, because the Rangers snapped them all up. Had to pick up this pretty piece instead.” Leaning back to tap the tiny Szass and Tam Model 10 on my left hip, I add, “Cost me a quarter-grand, and nice as it is, it ain’t a match for the SKS, nor am I anywhere close to breaking even just yet.”

Well, Bolt for Bolt, my cute little baby revolver is definitely more reliable and powerful, but the SKS can put a lot more Bolts downrange in very little time, and it only takes one to really ruin your day.

Course, Tina and Sarah Jay’s Szass and Tam 45’s cost me even more, while the two Whumpers cost the most if you include the compressors, but they were all well worth the expense. Okay, maybe I didn’t need two Whumpers, but I wanted one for myself. The Doorknockers are nice and all, but their five-metre range means I don’t get many chances to use them, and Blastguns are just fun to shoot. Marcus knows what I’m talking about, as he carries the Judge, a revolver Blastgun in pistol form with so much kick I almost broke my wrist the first time I tried shooting it. Granted, I was twelve at the time, but I doubt I could shoot it one handed even now, though Marcus makes it look easy. Then again, I doubt most regular pistols would even fit in his big ol’ meaty mitts, so it is what it is.

Before I get too far off-track thinking about guns, I stop myself short and stick to the matter at hand. “Weapons are just one of my expenses,” I say, directing my words to the curious boots rather than Wayne directly, because I know he only brought it up to drive a wedge between us. “Those Floatin’ Disc sleds ain’t free to run, and the cost climbs exponentially under heavy loads. Any ammo I use? I gotta keep track of and fill out a requisition form to be reimbursed, and the same goes for Spell components. Maintenance is all on me too, not just my guns, but the wagon and my gear, not to mention the fortune it takes to keep Cowie fed.” After pausing to soothe my partner’s bruised ego and let the boots laugh, I continue, “I pay for my own food as well, and Errol and Sarah Jay’s too, because what the Rangers feed you most days is downright criminal.” That gets me another chuckle from the crowd, which gets Wayne looking real sour, but I pay him no mind. “I got a lot of expenses, and seeing how I ain’t getting paid in cash, gear, or training for this here excursion, they treating me like a freelance mercenary. Little less actually, as I ain’t drawing no base pay and only get to keep what I kill on my own so long as it don’t interfere with my job. Didn’t see me collecting Abby corpses from the big battle, now did you? All this is from what I hunted while running that horde around the desert for a good forty minutes or more, buying time for you lot to dig in and prep.”

“How’d you do it?” Michael asks, which is surprising, because he’s a quiet man who treats his words like gold and silence like it’s the most valuable thing in the world. “Run like the wind and slide down the sand dunes like that? Haste and Fly?”

“Wasn’t no Haste or Flying involved,” I reply, enjoying the attention for once, because now I got a captive audience eager to hear me talk Arcana. “No Levitatin’ either. Fact is, flattered as I am by your high opinion, I wasn’t using no Third or even Second Order Spells.” Not that they saw, at least. “What I did was use Longstrider and Expeditious Retreat to get a running start up the sand dunes, then I’d jump onto my Floatin’ Disc and let gravity and momentum carry me down. The Floatin’ Disc Spell mind you, as a sled won’t work, but they all First Order. A combination y’all could easily learn, and you should because it’s not only useful for gettin’ out of dodge, but a whole lot of fun.” Grinning from ear to ear, I meet Tina’s imploring stare with a little nod and say, “Was planning on taking you up Mount Rime to learn after you graduated from Basic. My daddy took me when I was ten, but Aunty Ray had a conniption when I showed her the video. Told him that if he ever took you snowboarding, she’d hang his sorry hide from the peak and leave him there to freeze, so we all thought it was best to keep quiet.”

“I can’t wait,” she says, and it ain’t a figure of speech. “Can’t you teach me now?”

“Wait, wait, wait. Floating Disc?” The voice is an unfamiliar one, belonging to a stuffy little brown fella with brows as thick as a thumb. “Doesn’t that Spell destabilize and come apart when moving at high speeds?”

“Sure does,” I reply, happy to engage. “But that just means you gotta concentrate on maintaining the Spell when you go over the speed limits. It’s a simple matter of drawing Aether from the Immaterium to keep the Spell stable, same as what you’d have to do if you wanna extend the base duration. With a Spell Core, it’ll draw excess Aether directly, but regulating how much it draws is difficult to do on the fly without overloading the Core, and impossible with our current level of tech. Hence why a sled won’t work and why you gotta cast it manual.” It’s also why I would’ve brought Tina up Mount Rime, because falling on snow is a lot softer than rock or sand.

“But Expeditious Retreat also requires the Caster to maintain Concentration.” I can hear the capitalization in the words as the brainy brown says them, which tells me he book smart, but maybe a little short on experience. “How were you able to maintain both Spells at once?”

“I didn’t,” I reply, trying not to smile too much in case he thinks I’m mocking him. Not my fault, is just how my face looks, so I try to sound as patient as I can. “Expeditious Retreat only lasts a minute. So long as it gets me the peak of the next dune, ain’t no big loss dropping it to Concentrate on the Floating Disc while boarding down. Besides, I didn’t want to get too far ahead of the horde either, since I wanted them chasing me down.”

It's clear the boots got other questions, but Wayne ain’t done being a giant pain in my backside just yet. “Seems odd is all,” he says, smiling his rat smile while looking out from behind his narrow, beady eyes. “You taking a cut of the spoils. I know your daddy never did that. Worked for a wage like the rest of us. The Yellow Devil Ming was a lot of things, but greedy wasn’t one of them.”

My smile widens even as the cheer drains out of my eyes, and I fix Wayne with a long, unblinking stare. Credit where it’s due, he don’t flinch at all, even though he knows that I know he’s on the take, because he knows I got no proof, or at least nothing I could come clean with. The boots ain’t fools, and most pick up on the tension, while Tina shuffles over to sit beside me and maybe hold me back. The silence hangs for a good minute as I work through my rage, and another as I come up with an answer that ain’t a direct attack on Wayne. That’s what he’s hoping for, because he’s trying to get under my skin. Why, I can’t say, as I thought we’d had ourselves an understanding, but I don’t care anymore. He started it, and I’m of a mind to end it.

“You right,” I say, my voice soft and quiet, because I don’t trust myself to speak too emphatically. “My daddy was a kind and generous man. Worked hard every day here on the Frontier, spending weeks away at a time trackin’ Proggies, defendin’ settlements, or buildin’ walls if that’s what was needed. Gave freely too. Ain’t a church, temple, or mosque in New Hope that he didn’t donate to, and we both had a hand in helpin’ build most of them. For fourteen years, he risked his life and gave his all to make the Frontier a safer place, without ever asking for anythin’ besides basic Ranger pay and the right to wear that badge on his chest.” The heat in my voice is impossible to douse, the fires of rage and indignation burning too hot to ever die out, but I take a deep breath, then another, before finally trusting myself to continue.

Because what did all his hard work, dedication, and sacrifice get him? Nothing. Worse than nothing in fact, as they took his badge away and spit on his legacy, so I ain’t one to make that same mistake.

“Yea, my daddy was a good man,” I say, straightening up and looking as calm and relaxed as can be while keeping my hands away from my guns. “Better than me, I ain’t ashamed to admit. He taught me well enough though, which is why I’mma warn you this once.” Meeting the rat-faced weasel’s eyes with a hard stare, I let go of the hold I got on my anger and let the savage loose. “You call him that again, Wayne, and I’ll show you what a real Yellow Devil looks like.”

Wayne’s fake smile falls off his face as he struggles to look amused by the threat, but anyone with eyes can see that he’s shook. Whether his suspicions are true or not, he ain’t wrong when he says I got the skills to cover up a murder, and now he’s wondering if he’s given me motivation enough to commit one. It ain’t ever been a question of ability. Any fool with an Aetherarm can kill another man. Getting away with it is another story, and he already thinks I got away with at least one.

That said, his smile returns in full force as he realizes he’s accomplished his goal and made me show my true colours. Holding both hands up in mock surrender, Wayne puts on a comically scared face and says, “Alright there killer. Meant no disrespect to your daddy, that’s just what folks called him. I didn’t realize it was such a touchy subject. Won’t happen again.”

I don’t dignify his non-apology with a response. I just stare him down till he turns away to chat with Reggie sitting beside him. Always close by, Conner puts on a helpless expression, one that says he’s sorry for what Wayne said, but that he don’t approve of what I said either. I got no response, not one I care to say out loud at least, and while I’m thankful for the supportive nods from the Rangers who overheard the exchange, I note none of them care to voice their dissent. I also note none of them said word one after my daddy was disavowed, and it’s hard not to resent them for it. Even Tim and Art didn’t protest the decision, just offered their commiserations in private, and they were his closest friends. I know it’s asking a lot for them to speak out against their Lieutenant or their own organization, but what happened to ‘Once a Ranger, always a Ranger’? Guess it don’t count when you ain’t American, except I don’t see how that changes things. My Daddy fought for them, bled for them, and while he didn’t die for them, he almost did more times than I care to list. I figured that’s gotta count for something, but I guess not.

Unwilling to risk alienation from the Rangers, most of the boots go back to cooking while waiting for Marcus to grill up whatever Tim and the other hunters brought back, but I ain’t got an appetite anymore. Instead, I let Errol and Sarah Jay have the rest of the night off while I finish up our Abby cookoff. Ain’t no more surprises to be had, only bones to fish out, which I leave to dry and will later break up to serve as fertilizer for the first patch of plant life I come across. Tina sticks around after she’s done instead of leaving to grab a plate. Knows me well enough to leave me alone when I’m in one of my moods, and spends her time playing with the kiccaws and teaching them some tricks. That plus Cowie’s adorable efforts to cheer me up eventually bring me out of my funk after an hour of sulking and put a smile on my face, if only a small one.

“What you gonna name him?” I ask, settling in beside Tina and giving the fat bird a belly poke. Makes him squawk out his namesake, puff his chest, open his round eyes wide, and spread his tiny wings to either side, which only makes the little kiccaw look cuter.

“Dunno,” Tina replies, giving the little guy’s head a gentle scratch and beaming as he deflates and closes his eyes in unmatched bliss. “I figured I’d let Chrissy weigh in first. She’ll love having them around to sing along while she plays guitar.”

Cuteness aside, there are practicalities to cover. “You figure out what we gonna do with them?” Trying not to look too hopeful, I say, “I mean, I hear they good eating.”

“Don’t say that!” Covering the fat kiccaw’s feathered ears, Tina gives me a teary-eyed pout. “You can’t eat them, no matter what. You wouldn’t eat Cowie, would you?”

“Ah, he’d barely be a snack.” Giving him a kiss on the head to show I don’t mean it, I pat his neck and eye the kiccaws gathered around us. Some are begging for attention, while others are busy pecking at the sand for grubs, and still more have got their tiny wings spread while doing a little bouncy, back and forth dance that’s either a ritualized challenge or mating behavior. Or both. Who knows. “Still, we need to find some way for these birdies to earn their keep. Besides, even if Aunty Ray can keep the stray marties from eatin’ ‘em, you sure these kiccaws can survive the winters in New Hope? Gets a lot colder down there than it does up here.”

“We’ll build them a barn then,” Tina replies, always with her head in the clouds, but that’s a part of her charm. “You got the room for it. Or they can live inside with us. Won’t be hard to get them house-trained. Already taught them not to make a mess of your roof.”

“After they made one the first day,” I counter, and she concedes the point with a subdued nod before falling silent, resting her chin on her kiccaw’s head and losing herself in her thoughts. Even though I’ve shaken the foul mood brought about by Wayne’s mouth, it seems she’s not quite over it just yet. I’ve always treated her like my sister, but it’s easy to forget that my daddy was a father figure to her too. One she lost only four years after losing her real daddy, so in some ways, she’s had it even worse. “You alright, Songbird?”

“Yea,” she says, though her tone and posture says otherwise. “I just miss him, is all.”

“Me too.” Sitting up so our shoulders are touching, I hesitate too long and miss my moment to throw my arm around her. Had I done it earlier, it’d be normal and brotherly, but now it’d seem calculated with ulterior motives, so I just sit there and awkwardly bump against her, shoulder to shoulder. “You know, they’d have been so proud of how you handled yourself out there. Drawing down on them Abby with your dual 1911’s, even pulling out the 45 towards the end. Flawless transition between carbine and pistols, smooth and quick as can be, just like your daddy. Mine always said you had a knack for it, one I had to work twice as hard to match.” Ain’t lying either. Most folks see me switching guns with my Mage Hands and think it’s natural talent, but I must’ve fumbled the handoff more than ten-thousand times during all my hours of practice. Tina don’t got the Mage Hands to work with, but she has to transition from dual pistols to single when casting Spells, and I know for a fact she had to work hard to get it flawless and win all them speed shooting competitions back home.

That’s the part most people miss when they see our skills, how hard we gotta work at it. Ain’t nothing more aggravating than having all that effort belittled by chalking it up to ‘talent’ or some non-existent ‘ancient Qin secret’.

“Thanks Howie,” she says, giving me an amused, but patronizing smile that says I’m doing a terrible job of cheering her up. Then her smile blossoms into a genuine one, and I get all twisted up inside reminding myself that she’s my sorta sister. “And thanks again for being here,” she adds, resting her head on my shoulder in way that ain’t awkward at all, and I’ve no idea how she manages it. “Was so nervous waiting for the fight, could barely hold my Strelky up right. Then I saw you sliding down that sand dune with that big smile on your face, and all my worries just melted away. Means a lot to have you here, especially since I know you could be off earning more. Heard you sold all your cargo at cost, and didn’t even consider selling on consignment.”

“Would’ve been too much paperwork.” Shrugging, I add, “It’s fine, though I don’t think Jay’s forgiven me just yet. Besides, I ain’t just here for you. Didn’t you see my haul? Had Wayne all jealous and twisted in knots.”

“Uh huh.” Giving me a knowing look which pales in comparison to the one her Mama hits me with, Tina asks, “You gonna tell me what’s going on between you two?”

“He thinks I cost him a lot of money,” I reply, keeping the answer as generic as can be. “Can’t prove it though, so instead he’s fixing to be a pain in my backside.” And working his way towards earning a Bolt between the eyes if he steps on my daddy’s good name a second time.

“Okay…” From the look in her eye, Tina is wondering if she wants to know, but she settles on ignorance is bliss for now. Mostly because it don’t interest her, which is why I made it sound boring as I did without any mention of missing guards, dead merchants, or ill-gotten goods. Moody as ever, her good cheer dissipates into a mopey pout as she brings her knees up and lays the kiccaw on them, where she proceeds to tickle his round belly. After a long moment of silence, she asks, “Hey Howie? If you ain’t ready to talk about it, you don’t have to, but could you tell me more about how Uncle Ming died? All I know is that some Qin Vanguard did him in, but that’s all you’ve ever said. Why’d they go after him? How’d they get him? How’d you get them and get away?”

Because it’s my fault my daddy died. The words get stuck in my throat, and no matter how much I want to unburden myself of this guilt, I can’t bring myself to voice my shame so directly, but she deserves to know this much at least. Taking a deep breath, I fight the urge to bury my face in my hands and explain, “Ain’t much to say. We were headed to the house in the badlands, to pay our respects to my mama. After so many days of hard travel, I was tired and ready to rest, so when we got to the mesa, I rode on up ahead with Cowie. Figured the wards and traps we’d laid on the ramp meant we were home free. I was wrong. They were waiting there at the top, three Vanguard armed with shoddy, one-shot rifles. I spotted them right quick, because there ain’t many places to hide atop the mesa, and they didn’t work too hard at it. Didn’t shoot me neither, because I wasn’t their target, but I froze up. Didn’t draw my gun, didn’t shout out a warning, just sat there and stared into the killer’s eyes for a good two seconds at least. Then daddy cleared the plateau behind me, and those Vanguard shot him centre mass.”

If I’d have warned him, he could’ve come out guns blazing and sent them Vanguards diving for cover. If I wasn’t wearing the Shield bracer, he might’ve blocked their shots and come out ahead. Hell, if it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t have bothered to target my daddy, because they saw me as a victim of his hubris, a wayward Son of the Republic led astray by my ‘traitorous’ father. Thought I’d be grateful once I saw what awaited me amongst my own people. It was patriotism which drove them to kill my daddy, a delusional desire to bring me back into the fold, because they thought I’d be better off as one of them. That’s why those Vanguard didn’t shoot me, and why they didn’t resist when I drew my Squire and opened fire. A full second between each shot, that’s the rate of fire on the Squire, and I shot all three of those Vanguards without moving a step. They didn’t run, didn’t fight, didn’t fumble their reloads, hell, the first one didn’t even blink. Died throwing up a salute, like he was honoured to go in service to his county, but the other two broke down and cried. Tossed their guns aside and pleaded for mercy in Qinese, going on about how they had wives and children waiting for them back home. I had no mercy for my daddy’s killers though, and they accepted their deaths with fatalistic grace, robbing me of any and all satisfaction.

Worst of all, I think seeing me kill those unresisting men hurt my daddy more than the three Bolt holes in his chest. He hated his country for what it put him through, but that don’t mean he hated his countrymen, his brothers and sisters in arms who’d been brainwashed just like him. Wanted to be an example to aspire to, show them that they could make it out here on the Frontier without the Republic telling them what’s what, so seeing me kill in cold blood as he lay there dying was the nail in the proverbial coffin. Might well be the only thing keeping me from going on a rampage in search of his killer, the knowledge that he’d disapprove. I can’t tell Tina any of this though. Couldn’t even tell Aunty Ray, or anyone else for that matter. The fact that my daddy spent half of his last words chewing me out for my dark deeds is my dirty little secret, one I will take to the grave, because I am too ashamed to ever admit the truth out loud.

I didn’t just get my daddy killed. I disappointed him too.

“That’s why you don’t talk about it? Because you think it’s your fault?” Tina’s voice is barely a whisper as tears stream down her cheeks. “You know it’s not, right? You was only fourteen.”

“Yea,” I lie, one which comes all too easily to my lips, because it’s one I’ve tried telling myself for years. “I know.”

If only it were true.