Firstborn of the Frontier

I love the smell of Aether in the morning.

Ain’t nothing else like it really. Closest I’ve found is blood, sharp and metallic, but less copper and more lead, sweet and tangy almost. It’s a heady, overwhelming smell that lingers for a fair bit, and many find it a touch pungent and overwhelming. Me? I drink it in like sunshine on a summer day as I linger on the border between the dreamscape and reality, reminiscing about the days when my daddy had to warn me off from licking crystal Aether because it’ll literally rot my tongue. Smiling as I return to the waking world, I open my eyes to find that it ain’t morning at all, but rather closer to dusk. The deep red of the setting sun illuminates half of the evening skies in a warm golden yellow, while the other half is cast in a dark earthy brown, all of which is blanketed in twinkling white lights in a woven tapestry of stars that speaks to my subconscious mind.

Now ordinarily, I’d lie here on my back and watch the stars while Cowie snores away in the crook of my arm, letting him sleep a little longer while I search for patterns of a Spell Structure which probably isn’t even there, but this ain’t no ordinary awakening. Wasn’t the smell which shook me from my slumber, nor was it the intermittent gunfire of townies taking shots at Abby when they ought to let sleeping beasts lie. Got no pressing need to bleed the lizard or pop a squat in the jakes, nor is my throat dry or belly rumbling enough to stir me out of my sleep. Nothing here woke up, no happenings inside or around me, and nothing urgent or life-threatening neither, so it takes a hot minute to parse through the haze and figure out what’s keeping me from catching all my z’s.

It's the voices in my head which done woke me, having what sounds like an important conversation.

Which ain’t as crazy as it sounds. The voices ain’t mine see, which I suppose is what a crazy person would say, but my voices belong to other people. Real, flesh and blood people, who are having a real conversation amongst themselves, only not in my general vicinity as I’m listening in on the sly. Rather than sit up and interrupt Cowie’s beauty sleep, I take a beat to calm my thoughts and gather my focus before tuning into my Arcane Bug. Not the one on my Stetson which is sitting in the sand beside me. No, the Arcane Bug I wanna listen in on is the one I Spelled into the set of speakers I handed over to miss Laura. Had it all planned out I did, the bits and pieces coming together as soon as I decided to come back to Pleasant Dunes. Was clear I only walked away alive the first time because Ron had a plan, one that included me leaving in one piece. That plan is done and dusted, carried out to completion the moment I shared my information with the Rangers, so I had an inkling I’d need a little insurance policy to make it out of town alive a second time. President and C.E.O Ronald Jackson don’t strike me as the type to forgive and forget, but unlucky for him, neither am I.

Which is why I asked Danny if he could make two sets of speakers. Could’ve put the Arcane Bug on anything really, but I figured speakers were something Ron would keep round the office and use for a good, long time. It’s also something I could hide the Bug in without being easily spotted. Ain’t no visible mark to see, only a magical one, but the Aetheric Energy that powers the speakers hides the Bug well enough. The only real way to spot it is to open the speakers up and pull out the guts to find the Arcane Bug I inscribed inside the case. Was an easy enough job, as speakers ain’t no complicated tech, but all them wires and magnets tend to make folks shy away from fiddling around for fear of mucking it up. Me, I tore up the first pair of speakers I got then asked Danny to show me how to put em back together after I spent a couple days trying to figure it out, but I guess that’s just me.

My plan to listen in on all of Ron’s plans got thrown for a loop when I rolled into town and didn’t see hide nor hair of him, which is why I had to resort to passing the speakers over to miss Laura. It seems my long shot paid off though, because Ron’s home and having himself a pow-wow with all his top men. As I tune in to the Arcane Bug, I filter out the sounds of Chrissy strumming on the guitar and focus on the conversation at hand. A heated one it seems, as I catch someone hurling slurs and epithets my way. “ – slant-eyed, slope-headed little shit shoots one of our own,” an unfamiliar voice begins, one full of rage and righteous indignation, “And your old lady warns us off? Tells us that there’s no blood to be spilled, even though they shot first? Says we’re supposed to let some pint-sized Charlie walk all over us and do nothing about it, and the word comes from you?”

See, this guy got it wrong. One, I didn’t shoot first. I shot second, and held off from shooting third too, so they ought to be grateful. As for calling me Charlie, that’s in reference to the Viet Cong, or Victor Charlie in phonetic alphabet, the armed movement who fought for Nanyue’s independence from the Qin Republic. Or Vietnam I guess is what it’s called now, which got a strange origin to the name. It’s the reverse of how the locals say Nanyue, which is Nam Viet, so I guess it’s supposed to be some reclamation of the name and state. Sad thing is after three decades of civil war, which was really a war by proxy between the Federation and the Soviets that the Métis and the Qin later piggybacked onto, Vietnam’s commie government hopped right back into the Qin Republic’s pocket the second they learned of the Frontier’s existence. Forgot all about them thousands of years serving as a slave nation with barely even an identity of their own, because there were profits to be made and benefits to be had in siding with their former and now future oppressors.

Either way, I didn’t shoot first, I ain’t no Charlie, and I am perfectly average in height, so far as I’m concerned, whoever’s talking has earned himself a Bolt thrice over.

Lucky for him I don’t know what he looks like, so I commit that edged, feral voice to memory as a more familiar one responds. “I recall meeting with each and every one of you this last month,” Ronald Jackson begins, in his neat and crisp intonation while no doubt hitting them with his piercing blue peepers to let them know who’s in charge. “During those meetings,” he continues, all calm and unhurried like he is, “I made sure to stress how you were to work with the Rangers, and cautioned you all against making trouble here in town.” Though he sounds like he casual and carefree, something said while leaning back with one arm over his chair maybe, what he’s really doing is showing these toughs whose territory they in, and how he ain’t afraid of them and theirs. “My town,” Ron continues, injecting a mountain of steel into the words. “My home. My breadbasket, and in turn yours. One which we all agreed to defend against the Aberration threat, with help from the Rangers, and so far our plan has gone smoothly without a single bump.” I can feel the shift in the room, as they all instinctively side with the king and turn to stare at the unfortunate sap who done raised his ire, someone sitting amongst the rest of them who has true and well fucked up. “So why,” Ron asks, giving his target the full measure of his displeasure, “Did your man Tank see fit to publicly confront the Rangers not once, but twice in direct contradiction to my instructions? Instructions laid out in service to a plan voted on and accepted by each and every man here, a plan Tank’s actions might well have jeopardized, ruining everything we’ve worked towards these last seventeen years. Over what? A piece of pussy?”

The scorn and derision is all but dripping from the bossman’s tone, and it has the desired effect. They came in here all hot and bothered about one of their own, but Ronald Jackson has turned the tide against Tank, or Sasquatch as I been calling him. Tank ain’t one of their own no more; now he a traitor to the cause, one who put his own interests above the interests of Vanguard National, and that, these thugs cannot abide. Much like the Rangers, these men see the world in black and white, a necessity when living the sort of life in which they might be called upon to take a life at any time. You’re either with them, or against them, and Tank’s actions have shown him to be working against them. A neat little turnaround from Ron to avoid a falling out with the Rangers or his men, but I’m too excited to be impressed by his charismatic ways, because I done hit the jackpot. Seems miss Laura went and set them speakers up in Vanguard National’s clubhouse, and I’ve fortuitously tuned into one of their board meetings or whatever, so I pull out a notebook and start scribbling down my thoughts, much to Cowie’s displeasure.

A kiss on the nose is enough to settle his grumbles, and I get to writing down everything I can. Not just what they saying, but what I’m hearing, descriptions of voices, tones, and the general mood so I don’t forget a thing. After a bit of muttering, Greaseball responds with his unmistakable voice, like gravel rubbed raw. “Told him it wasn’t worth the fight,” he grumbles, clearly unhappy to have been singled out. Nah, Greaseball got the skills to lead, but not the spine, as he happier following orders like a good little grunt. Ain’t nothing wrong with that, as the burden of responsibility is a heavy one, but he done picked the wrong horse to back in this fight. “But Tank got all fired up the second he heard that gook gash was there too. Hit him with a cheap shot in front of everyone that same afternoon, and he wanted to settle up.”

Sounds like Greaseball is making excuses on Tank’s behalf, but what he’s really doing is backing Ron’s statement. This wasn’t about Noora or Vanguard National’s profits or pride, it was about Tank’s ego, nothing more, nothing less. Ain’t no honour among thieves and no brotherhood amongst bandits, because if they possessed integrity enough to care about either of those things, then they wouldn’t be thieves and bandits in the first place. Course, Ronald Jackson is a scary smart man and knows abandoning one of their own won’t sit right with his people, so he swoops in to offer a helping hand, even though he the one who kicked the man off the cliff to begin with. “Tank is still one of us,” he says, and I hear his chair slide back as he stands to deliver the rest in what I imagine is his predatory lean, a man looking over his subject with a mind to command them. “So I won’t leave him to stand trial in a kangaroo court. His matter will be handled and his debt settled, but not by us. That’s the whole point of this whole dog and pony show after all, to make sure there’s no bad blood between the Rangers and Vanguard National. That’s why we brought in our friends from the Khaganate, to keep our hands clean. What do you think? Can you rescue our man and bring in the Ranger Captain alive on top of what we’ve already agreed to?”

“Deee-fi-cult. Very difficult,” comes the instantaneous reply, which tells me this here is another smart man, because he don’t sound afraid. Does sound Soviet though, as he speaks in that thick sort of way them Soviets do, hitting the emphasis on the wrong syllables as he talks from the chest. “Kill all? Proshche parenoy repy. How you say? Ah… Easier than steam turr-nipp. Take the Iron Maiden alive?” The Soviet laughs, a bright and jovial sound that doesn’t fit the man I imagined or the topic of discussion. “And that mal'chishka?” The man spits. “A child, you say. No trouble to capture. But Gunin, I smart. I go. I look. I find Firstborn. Spawn of Yellow Devil Ming.” A litany of Slavic follows, which I don’t understand, but if you read between the lines, you can tell he ain’t happy. Me, I’m pleased as punch. For two reasons really, the first being the fear and respect in old Gunin’s tone when talking about me and my daddy. Much as I hate folks calling him the Yellow Devil, it’s good to know folks still remember him with the appropriate amount of dread. Second reason is because I done pieced things together and think I’ve found my scavs and debtors. The Khaganate, led by Gunin, a little tidbit I put aside for later as my Soviet fanboy finishes his tirade. “Payment already too little to take Firstborn alive,” he concludes, and the crowd gets to murmuring in discontent. “Now you want Iron Maiden and your man Tank too? With the Judge and that manyak Revenant at her side? You think Gunin a fool?”

Sounds like all’s not well in paradise as the Khaganate and Vanguard National butt heads, but credit where it’s due, Gunin got a set of stones on him, coming out swinging in enemy territory. Course, if I were him, I’d much rather take on Ron and his goons too, because Ava Jung, Marcus Clay, and Tim Hayes ain’t folks to fuck around with. Forget the first two, Tim alone is enough to put the scare in most, as he ain’t a man to come at you clean. Nah, he ain’t no Angel of Death like the Iranian media dubbed him. His own people clapped back and said he’s so much worse, a Revenant devoid of mercy or emotion capable of claiming damn near any life he pleased. If Gunin and his goons take their shot and miss out on killing Tim, he’ll stalk them to the ends of the earth and send ‘em all to meet their maker from well over a kilometre away. You’d think the prospect of being strung up by the Judge or killed clean by the Iron Maiden would be worse, but ain’t nothing scarier than the prospect of getting got without a chance to fight back.

The crowd starts sounding ugly, but then, out of nowhere, order is restored without so much as a word. Ron’s got his boys trained up good, and it worries me something fierce, because discipline is most of what separates the Rangers from the rest. There’s more to it of course, but the difference between an unruly mob and a disciplined militia is a significant one, especially when they led by a scary smart man like Ron. “I admit,” he begins, in the same calm and measured tones as always, “The job is a lot harder than the one I envisioned. The Iron Maiden was to be expected, but we didn’t think the Judge and Revenant would come along for the ride too. With a little luck, Abby will take care of them for us, but I’m in talks with my man to handle them if need be. Should things go well, then you won’t have anything to worry about, and can concentrate on the job like we said.”

“Talk. Is. Cheap.” Gunin ain’t one to be won over by Ron’s charms and promises, a Soviet after my own heart. “Price go up two times. Half up front. If things go as you say, and Judge and Revenant no issue, then we do job. No capture, only kill. If not, we walk away. No refund.” With that, they get to haggling like fishwives at market, but what really grinds my gears is the lack of specifics. The plan is easy enough to guess. Rangers help Ron fight off Abby and bag themselves a Proggie, only to get hit by Gunin’s Khaganate after the fact. Sounds like Ron’s got other hired hitters to help too, someone who thinks they can take on Marcus and Tim, not to mention a source close to the Rangers who told him to expect boots and Captain Jung. Don’t matter who it is or what hitters he got lined up, my money’s on the Rangers all day every day, so I ain’t none too concerned about them, but there’s gotta be more to the plan. Even if everything works out perfect, how’s Ron expect to murder twenty-eight Rangers, thirty-one boots, and the Firstborn on his doorstep and not incur the Marshal’s wrath? Won’t matter if it happens three days out or even five and he got a patsy to point at; if this little expedition is killed to the last man, the Federation Rangers are gonna have plenty of questions for Ronald Jackson and no remorse as to how they go about getting their answers.

Were this a different man heading a different outfit, I’d’ve chalked it up to hubris and moved on, but Ron is much too clever to make such a stupid move. There’s gotta be more to it, but ain’t no one saying nothing about it. Soon as Gunin and Ron finish talking terms, they call an end to the meeting and get to drinking and partying like only outlaws know how to, so I tune the chatter out to think on my next move, until I hear Greaseball’s distinctive, grating voice cut through all the noise.

“Fucking Tank is a real one,” he says, his voice so full of fake regret I almost shed a little crocodile tear for him. “Told him it wasn’t worth it, but that gook gash man. Tuned him up good, catching him by surprise like that. Bet that bitch would’ve folded like a lawn chair in a proper fight.”

I disagree, but Greaseball’s buddies are all as delusional as he is, and they all chime in about how they’d teach her a lesson with the only tools they know, sex and violence. Makes my stomach churn it does, and I only wish I could put faces to voices so I could sort them all out soon as I see them. Not because I think Captain Jung needs me to handle it. Nah, she can take care of herself, but these men don’t deserve the mercy of a quick death, one she’d no doubt afford them. Only proves my point when they get to talking about the reason Tank got jammed up in the first place, because Greaseball wanted to get his rocks off with Noora. “Let me tell you,” he says, sounding like a kid in a candy store as he does, “That girl is something else. Got a real can-do attitude if you know what I mean. Don’t matter how much you slap or throw her around, she just smiles through the pain and works harder to please you. Best damn pussy this side of the Divide.”

Unable to listen any longer, I gather my notes and mark Greaseball down for a slow and painful death. With his head laid out in my lap, Cowie don’t look or sound none too pleased, grumbling up a storm as he reads my murderous mood and synchs up with it, but I pat his cheeks and tickle his ears to keep him from getting angry. “You gotta watch your temper,” I whisper, smiling because it’s like the pot calling the kettle black. “Mine might get me tossed in the clink, but you, they’ll kill outright if they decide you a danger to people around you.” Got real strict standards for Magical Beasts like Cowie, and so far we’ve met them by making sure all his anger and aggression is pointed towards outlaws with death warrants on their heads, but all it takes is one mistake and they’ll put him down hard and fast.

So no sense tempting fate. That’s why I was so reluctant to call Cowie in when I was pinned down in the Sheriff’s Office. Good thing Vicente is a real one and didn’t raise no complaints about Cowie, which is why I was more than happy to hand off a case of mead to the man. Looking around, I find the camp quiet and still, but not lifeless as there are boots up and about, the second shift standing guard against townies and Abby alike. Much as I’d love to take this to information to Marcus and get all of Vanguard National brought up on charges, nothing I overheard is admissible in court, because I wasn’t in the room right there with them. Hearsay is what they call it, and I’d need recorded evidence to make it an open and shut case against Ron and his boys, because anything less will be seen as the Rangers overstepping their authority. I could’ve used Transcribe Audio to record the conversation, but anything manually recorded without arcana-tech can’t be authenticated, so again, inadmissible in court. Can’t even pick out the speakers in a line up, as Arcane Bug got no video component attached and it’s all too easy to fake a voice. A Third Order Clairvoyance Spell would’ve given me audio and video, but it would’ve also been too expensive and too powerful, making it stand out even while hidden inside the guts of a speaker.

And again, inadmissible in court unless paired with Record Audio and Record Video Cores. Annoying is what it is, this heavy burden of proof, as them old worlders wrote the Accords like they expected everyone to have a recording device on them at all times.

So what did I learn? Ron’s in good with them scavs that done robbed me, and maybe the head honcho with the fancy gun is Gunin himself. Together, they hatching a plan to hit the Rangers after the kerfuffle with the Proggie, likely kill us all and split the spoils between them, but as things stand, that plan seems a bit too dumb for Ron. He also said something about the plan going smoothly, but considering Pleasant Dunes is still under siege, I gotta imagine the Rangers failed to bag the Proggie, else this horde would’ve scattered to the winds already. If things are going according to plan, then Ron wants this fight to happen, but why? What benefit does he gain, having the Rangers and his people stuck in a holding pattern here in town while the Proggie makes its way towards us? Soon as it gets close, it’ll drive every Abby around us into a murderous rage and send them at the walls en masse, and then it’s bye-bye Pleasant Dunes, so what’s his angle?

That’s the tricky thing about baby Proggies. They young and hungry, so they don’t care how many Abby they waste taking their new home for themselves, because all they care about is biomass. A baby Proggie will be so hungry, it’ll likely eat all its minions anyways, so what does it matter how many die taking the town? Older Proggies understand the value inherent in their minions, and the value in keeping them alive, because while a base goblin ain’t worth shit, a hobgoblin is worth its weight in Aether. Won’t get many hobs if you send all your gobs into the grinder day after day, which is why older Proggies take a hands-off approach to directing their minions, all too happy to sit back and relax so long as the biomass keeps coming in.

That’s the only reason Pleasant Dunes is still standing. Because them Abby out there? They got numbers enough to overrun the town in one concentrated push, only they ain’t united or driven enough to make that push. They are an unruly mob, and the smarter, stronger Abby all want to survive. In the face of massed Aetherarm fire and Magus Spellslingers, they know their best chance of doing so is to avoid a fair fight wherever possible. That’s why I told Sarah Jay and the rest to be prepared for the unexpected, because they desperate to kill us before their big boss gets here and lays down the law. Without a Synapse, a Proggie can’t take direct control of its minions, but it can take away their ability to reason. Pump them full of Battlerage it will, send every Abby in a dozen klicks into a berserk frenzy that’ll have them raring to tear down Pleasant Dune’s walls without a care for their own continued survival, and ain’t nothing anyone in town can do about it.

Besides run of course, which is why I told my little impromptu strike team to stick close to the wagon. I’ll take anyone I can on my way out, but you gotta help yourself before you can help anyone else.

Unless the Rangers can get another Company or two to Pleasant Dunes within the week, I ain’t feeling so hot about holding the walls. To hear Sarah Jay tell it, the chaff almost broke through on her end, and I’d bet my last dollar that wasn’t the only close shave either. If we give up on the town and everyone in it, we could clean things up easy over the course of a week or so, but our priority is the safety of the townies, as well as the thugs conspiring to murder and rob us. Annoying is what that is, but it feels like I’m still missing something. Ron’s sitting pretty right here in town, and a man like that don’t stick around when the going gets tough. Then a question strikes me, one I ought to have asked earlier, except I didn’t because I thought it best not to push my luck. Sergeant Begaye made it sound like there still a chance I get tapped to run point down into them Abby tunnels so I can take my shot at the Proggie, so I kept quiet and played nice, but I can’t afford to sit on my hands any longer.

Soothing Cowie’s grumbling discontent with a cuddle and a kiss, I pat his flanks and slide him down next to Tina, and he looks at me like I done signed the papers to send him off to the butcher’s block. Grinning at his adorable antics, I throw my hat on and set off to find Marcus, over in his command tent on the northeast corner of camp. Greeting me with a nod, I throw caution to the wind and get right to it. “Your Scout,” I begin, earning me a look of displeasure because the Rangers operate on need to know, and Marcus thinks I don’t got to know. “He wouldn’t happen to be one of Ron’s men, would he?”

Now Marcus is a big, muscular, black man, and for some reason, a lot of folks think that must mean he dumb. They would be wrong, as he catches onto my meaning right quick. “You think they’re sandbagging?” Which answers my question more or less, so I keep mum as Marcus sits there and glowers at the sand. “Why though? What’s to be gained?” He arrives at the logical answer, except he missing out on a few details, so I hand over the notes I scribbled down regarding what I heard over the Arcane Bug. Credit to the man, he don’t ask how I know this, just trusts that the information is good, which saves me the trouble of having to explain, and his eyes go wide with alarm as he reaches the same conclusion I did.

Ron doesn’t want the Proggie dead. If he did, he’d have no qualms about helping the Rangers score the kill, because the corpse would end up in his hands anyways. A real valuable catch it is, chock full or Aberrtin and all the materials you’d need to craft yourself an Aetheric condenser, a little techno-doodad that’ll draw formless Aether right out of the Immaterium and turn it into crystal. It’s what them Proggies do while they alive anyways, and it’s like a money printing machine almost, but it seems like Ron’s got eyes bigger than his head. He ain’t content with an endless source of crystallized Aether; he wants an infinite supply of Aberrtin, Spell Cores, and Aetheric materials too, rare, magic-infused resources that only appear in Proggie dens that have been around for a good, long time.

Has something to do with the localization of Aetheric crystallization and the presence of the Proggie itself, because it creates those materials so it can infuse them into its own body or the body of its Synapse. Doesn’t happen overnight, and a baby Proggie won’t get working on that sort of stuff right away, so Ron’s in this for the long haul. He wants the baby Proggie alive so he can feed it, farm it, and watch the cash come rolling in. Man’s crazy as a soup sandwich if he thinks it can be done, because there ain’t no way he can keep the baby Proggie from reaching out to its mama again. She might not want her spawn crowding up her stomping grounds, but it don’t mean she’ll turn a blind eye to its suffering neither. Ron’s plan has been tried many a time, and every time it ends in disaster as endless waves of Abby descend down upon their would-be farm to free the captured Proggie, or put it out of its misery so it’ll stop bothering everyone in ear shot.

Or radio range, I suppose, since that’s how Proggies communicate. Over the Aetherwaves just like us, only not in so many words.

“Son of a bitch,” Marcus growls, running a big meaty hand over his manicured moustache. Regulation length, no longer than the corners of his lips and not a whisker to be seen on his chin, though I gotta say I ain’t a fan of the look. Then again, I also seen him fully shaved, so I can understand why he needs the mug rug. He takes a good long time to think about what to say, hand over mouth and eyes distant as can be, before turning to me with lips pursed and brow furrowed. “Be straight with me,” he begins, leaning in loom over me despite sitting while I stand. “You think you ready for this?”

Meaning running point with a Strike Team to hit the Proggie in transit, I assume. “Nope,” I reply, giving him a shrug, and it’s God’s honest truth. The thought of going delving scares me something fierce, as I ain’t ever been down in no mining tunnels before, much less an Abby warren. “Willing to try, but I’d much rather break out my last few mollies.” As in Molotovs, to use right here in town. Would solve all our issues really, and make a right real mess of Ron’s plans too, if I were to toss a flaming bottle of high-proof liquor through the window of the building he currently laid up in. Just down the street from here really, the other bookend of this row of buildings, on the same side as the saloon. Can feel my Arcane Bug transmitting from there, like a static pull leading me in that direction. The building’s made out of stone, but the floors and supports are all wood, so I say we set it on fire and shoot everyone who comes out. Might end up killing some innocents, but the butcher’s bill will look a whole lot worse if Ron’s plan comes to fruition. So long as the Proggie is still squirming, them Abby nearby ain’t gonna rest until they all dead to the last, or we are and the Proggie is freed. I wouldn’t take that fight in New Hope, with walls twice as tall and ten times the guns as what we got here in Pleasant Dunes, so either Ron ain’t as smart as I pegged him for, or he hiding an ace up sleeve he don’t intend to use before the Rangers are good and bloodied.

“Move like that would turn the whole town against us,” Marcus says, looking at me with those sad, puppy dog eyes of his. Same eyes that Conner gave me when I told him I’d sort Wayne out myself, all full of fear and denial because he looks at me and sees the old me, the young me, the Howie who had yet to lose his father and understand how dark the world really was. My daddy tried his best to show me the worst, but he forgot how bright he shone and how reassuring his presence could be. Made things in the dark look only half as bad as they really were, and now that he’s gone, the world feels twice as dark and scary.

So I gotta man up and embrace that darkness, because there ain’t no way to survive clean. “Might could,” I say, meeting Marcus’ eyes dead on to show my complete and utter lack of concern. “Yesterday, I’d be worried, but today? Them townies ain’t gonna do shit, not with that Abby army out there. The smart ones, at least.”

“And the not so smart?” Marcus asks, just to be certain.

“Bury them with the rest,” I say, and it hurts to see Marcus break inside. Not because he thinks I’m wrong. Collateral damage is unavoidable when dealing with scum like Ronald Jackson, and ain’t no one knows it better than Marcus Clay. No, he’s hurting because he was hoping I’d turn out different, better than him, but now he knows we birds of a feather, a fate he hoped to spare me from.

“Stow the mollies and get some rest,” he says, after a long and lengthy silence. “We’ll do things the hard way.” Giving me a look, he steels his gaze and adds, “Because we’re Rangers and that’s what we’re paid to do.”

“Hooyah,” I reply, sharing a sad little smile with the Captain before leaving to follow orders. My four-hour nap was nice and all, but I was running damn near empty and need more to get back to full Spellslinging capacity. Eight hours of R.E.M sleep is usually what it takes to fill up a full tank, regardless if you can sling two Spells a day or two dozen. No idea why, but there’s a lot we don’t know about magic, else we’d have long since started calling it science instead. Frustrating is what that is, because there’s so much about Spells and Spellslinging that I just don’t know and ain’t written down in any textbook. Like the fact that items created by the Conjure Weapon Spell can attack on their own volition. That ain’t written on the tin, which is why I never paid it no mind, because spending a Spell to conjure up a hatchet didn’t seem all that useful. Now I got Sarah Jay telling me how Sergeant Begaye set his tomahawk to harvesting heads like a farmer reaps grains, and I feel like an idiot for not knowing it sooner.

Then again, how was I supposed to know? Ain’t got no one teaching me anymore, which is why having a teacher is so important. I figured I’d be fine, since at the end of the day, slinging Spells is a personal journal. Once you got the Spell Structure in place, whether it be through math, intuition, or bloodline, then it’s all up to you. Ain’t no telling someone how to squeeze a Spell Structure a certain way to get two Mage Hands instead of one, and believe you me, I’ve tried. There’s just a point in the pattern of the Spell Structure where it feels all too natural to split it apart, like a seam in the Spell that apparently only I can see and feel, and no matter how many models or diagrams I make to explain it, I ain’t been able to get the point across even once.

No one really knows why its like this, but Uncle Teddy, he tried his best to explain it. Told me there a working theory that Spell Structures actually exist, that the pattern of lights I embed into memory can be found somewhere out there in the universe or the Immaterium. That’s why the timing is so important, because the Spell Structures in our minds must match the movements of the Spell Structure in reality, which is how we’re able to draw on it to cast our Spells. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, so it stands to reason that when a Spellslinger throws out a Fireball, all that energy gotta come from somewhere, because it sure as shooting don’t come from the caster. It comes from the Spell Structure, the real one we sync up to using our conscious minds. We borrow its power and use it like a stamp to make an impression upon reality, with each Spell Structure only ever giving one result.

Unless you know how to squeeze it of course, which is easier said than done. There’ve been Spellslingers for as long as humans have been around, and we’ve been going at it as a society for nigh on five-hundred years now, but we’re still barely scratching the surface of our understanding. What chance do I have of getting all the right answers by myself?

Would be spitting on Uncle Teddy’s reputation if I went and found myself a new teacher, but I got too much stubborn pride to go running back to him help. If I did, it’d be all too easy to trick myself into thinking I owe him and the Rangers for training me up. Think about it. Most real Rangers from the old-world never made the cut until they were twenty-five or older. They were career soldiers, in it for the long haul and good enough to stand out, and that’s the minimum criteria to be eligible for Ranger training. Even if I count myself ahead of the curve, getting Ranger qualified at twenty-two seems like a bit of a stretch. Assuming I signed on today and stayed on for a ten-year term of service until I turn twenty-seven, they’d only really be getting three or four years of actual Ranger service out of me, which don’t seem all that fair. That’s why I gotta go at this on my own, because on-the-job experience ain’t the same as dedicated training, so I won’t owe them a thing if I figure things out up myself.

These last few years haven’t been easy, and I been tempted to give up more than once, but I persevered because I believed I could do it. I’m the Firstborn, so if anyone can do it, it’d be me, except now I ain’t so sure it can be done. Conjure Weapon is a First Order Spell, meaning I missed out on a whole lot of practice and study which could’ve helped me improve my Mage Hand Cantrip. Spiritual Weapon is an even more obvious choice I also missed, but being a Second Order Spell, I can only cast it six times a day assuming I don’t cast anything else, so I haven’t missed out on too much. For Conjure Weapon though? I can currently cast fourteen First Order Spells a day if need be, which over the course of three years is tens of thousands of missed opportunities even after accounting for days on the road and my personal growth.

And that’s one fuck up, caught relatively early on. Who knows how many more obvious connections I’ve missed out on, fumbling around in the dark like I am? I’ve been an idiot thinking I could do this on my own, a fool blinded by unfounded confidence and wilful ignorance. After all this is done and dusted, I ought to head home for a bit and spend some time thinking over my future, because far as I can tell, there ain’t one in the path I’ve chosen for myself in the here and now. I can eke out a living for a few years more, but between new tech, stronger Abby, and the Watershed, I’ll soon find myself outgunned, outclassed, and outnumbered on all fronts.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Lost in my haze of disillusion and despair, I’ve unknowingly made my way back to my bed of raised sand, and have been sitting here cuddling Cowie for comfort. Must make for a right sorry sight, a grown man hugging his baby bull for emotional support, so I straighten up and flash my best and brightest smile for Noora to see. “Just tired is all,” I say, and it ain’t even a lie. Gesturing at Cowie, I add, “And this one snores, so it’s hard to get a full eight with him curled up at my side.” Cowie don’t mind the joke, as he too busy enjoying the head and neck scritches. Terrible thing, a life lived without scritches, and I imagine the only reason humanity is so good at domesticating animals is because we got the fingers to scritch them.

Taking a seat beside me, Noora leans in close and whispers, “Can’t do much about his snoring, but I imagine you’d be much more comfortable sleeping in your wagon.” Batting her eyes, she adds, “I wouldn’t mind the company either.” Tempting as the offer is, my mind goes back to what I heard Greaseball say, and I’m overwhelmed by pity for poor Noora. Must show in my eyes, because she draws back as if struck, and her beautiful hazel eyes go all angry and hard.

Remembering how she reacted when I turned her down earlier, I stretch an arm out behind her in open invitation for a hug, and I’m met with seasoned suspicion. “You make me an offer like that, but balk at an arm over your shoulder?” My joke does the trick, and she scoots in to sit hip to hip while I wrap my arm around her. “Thank you, but I’ll have to pass,” I say, still smiling as gently as I can. “Told you I was tired, and you go and offer to exhaust me some more? No can do, little lady. Gotta keep my strength up for when them Abby find courage enough to come a knocking.”

Despite her open and somewhat shameless approach, I can tell Noora is scared as a trapped marty, and it shows in her expression. Her eyes dart left, then right, not in constant motion, but one end then the other, looking for something in the shadows that only her imagination can see. Her lip quivers, her shoulder trembles, and her restless leg jangles as she sits there beside me, and I do my best to become the calm in the storm. Telling her to calm down won’t do no good, so I embody the calm she needs, breathing deep and slow until she subconsciously matches my rhythm because that’s how people work. It takes some doing, but soon enough she calms down enough to carry on a conversation, and I spend a bit of time reassuring her further. “It’s gonna be a hard fight,” I say, squeezing her shoulder ever so slightly, “But the Rangers got this. Only gave Abby a small taste of the mortar, machineguns, and recoilless rifles. Plus we got plenty of other surprises in store too.” Like my Big Stick, which’ll come in real clutch if we gotta cut and run, but here’s hoping we won’t. “And if the worst should happen, well then I’ll do what I can to get you out.” Or make sure you don’t suffer for long.

Ain’t nothing a Proggie loves more than catching themselves live prey. Living, breathing, self-repairing Abby incubators don’t come around every day after all…

“So this what you do on the regular then?” Noora asks, having recovered enough to crack a joke. “Ride around playing the hero and saving damsels in distress?”

“Nah. Mostly I sell mead and wool.” Shrugging, I add, “Started bounty hunting recently, and you know how that went. Ain’t exactly sustainable work, but it’s a nice bonus to get where I can.”

“Not easy either, is it?” Don’t know if I tense up first or she does, but we both got our hackles raised as we sit side by side in silence. Stay that way too, until she finds courage enough to break it. “That story you told,” she begins, gesturing at the saloon only a little ways way. “About hanging a man out the window. Wasn’t made up. Saw that much from the look in your eyes. Seen it a lot.” Don’t much like what it says about me, Noora drawing comparisons between myself and the folks she regularly sees, but she pushes right on past to add, “Also seen the way you recoil away from touch.” She turns to look at me now, her eyes showing that same pity and compassion mine must have earlier on, because like recognizes like. “Recognize that look anywhere,” she whispers, pursing her lips before slowly and gently reaching out to stroke my cheek, and damn if it doesn’t take everything I have not to move away. Nodding sagely upon seeing my reaction, she meets my eyes with an expression I can’t quite place. Something sad, but hopeful, and not quite determined, but almost. “Which is why you keep turning me down,” she whispers, and I almost smile to hear it.

“That what this about then?” I ask, a little sour over being analyzed so openly, but mostly joking. “Your pride? Already said it. Another time, another place, and things might go different, but you gotta pick your moments better.”

“No. That’s not it.” Shaking her head, she continues to stroke my cheek and say, “See, I figured you for a do-gooder at first, but I was wrong. You walked up to me in the saloon, asked if I worked there, then headed right off to start a killing spree. That’s not how heroes work.” Pursing her lips in the barest hint of a smile, Noora meets my gaze and all the anger contained within, and sees me for exactly what I am. “Who would have thought it? The Firstborn is just as broken as I am.”

Much as I want to fly into a rage and deny it, there’s no arguing against facts. More to the point, Greaseball’s statement is still eating away at my head, and seeing Noora sit there and smile makes it all the more real. Me? I hide behind anger and bloodshed, while she hides behind smiles and flirtatious advances. Two peas in a pod really, bound together by mutual trauma, except she owns her pain, while I hide mine from everyone because I’m afraid they would think less of me if they knew the truth. “I ain’t broken,” I whisper, putting as much steel as I can into the statement without breaking. “Neither are you.”

Noora gives me a look, one that says ‘agree to disagree’, but she don’t press the issue. Instead, she turns away, leans back into my chest, and pulls my arm to wrap lightly around her waist. “You wanna talk about it?” she asks, and God help me, I do, but a secret ain’t a secret if more than one person knows it.

Rather than say that though, I shake my head. “Nah. Ain’t nothing compared to what you been through.”

“Not like it’s a competition.” Snuggling into my arm with a sigh, she says, “Up to you. Say the word and I’ll go.”

But I don’t say squat, just sit there like a log, unable to even enjoy the sensation of a pretty girl in my arms because I’m too twisted up inside. Price of admission to the school of hard knocks, or at least that’s how I saw it, but now it seems like I’ve been wasting my time chasing after a dream that was never actually within reach. So I sit there with one arm around Noora and the other hand busy scratching Cowie, ignoring all my dark thoughts and wondering what in the hell am I gonna do with my life.