Firstborn of the Frontier

Talk about your feelings they say. Get it off your chest. You’ll feel better. A burden shared is a burden halved. Bible even says, “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” Galatians, 6:2.

What a load of bullshit.

Catharsis ain’t got jack on anxiety, angst, and apprehension, as dredging up bad memories keeps me from the restful sleep I was supposed to get. Got me tossing and turning so much Cowie lets out a little moo in protest before I finally settle in for the night, but my dreams pick up where my conscious brain let off. It ain’t the killing which got me bothered, nor is it the memory of those cold, clammy, hands wrapped around my neck while the sour stench of his breath washed over me. Ain’t the Bolt bruise on my chest reminding me of the weight of his knee on my sternum neither, nor the wild, hungry look in his eyes, watching and waiting from mere inches away while eagerly awaiting the moment I broke. I didn’t break, and I killed him good and well, watched him kick and twist as he laid on the ground with a half-melted throat and blistered fingers from trying to stem the blood and Acid. Nah, he don’t haunt my nightmares, because I came out on top, but the problems he brung me have followed me since.

Ain’t ever told anyone about this particular close call. Not Tina, not Aunty Ray, and certainly not any Sherrif or Ranger. Wasn’t embarrassment keeping my lips sealed, but fear of repercussion, and not for myself. My part in things was all aboveboard. I was drugged and assaulted, so I defended myself with lethal force. Neat and tidy as can be, until you factor in Cowie’s part in all this. Rules are different for Magical Beasts, as the circumstances of the encounter become irrelevant. There was no ‘clear and present’ threat to my life or Cowie’s when he gored and trampled them three accomplices. No guns going off, no screams, no threats or anything, and that’s all that matters. The fact that they was accomplices to a crime don’t factor in for Cowie, because he’s an animal and can’t be expected to understand such nuances. Got the whole encounter on video, so can’t deny it, and if I came forward to report the crime and claimed I didn’t have a recording, then it would’ve raised flags with folks who knew me.

Meaning if the wrong Judge were to take the case, then he could rule that Cowie’s attack was unprompted or unjustified and label him as a dangerous beast.

Stupid is what it is. In the eyes of the law, a ‘dangerous beast’ is any animal that has caused significant injury or exhibited dangerous behaviour without a direct order. That’s a description so broad you could park a Titan in it, with no wiggle room for the animal’s intent or circumstance. The long and short of it is that if Cowie attacks someone on my say so, then he’s a tool and I bear the responsibility for his actions. If he attacks someone because he thinks they’re dangerous, then the circumstances no longer matter, because the law ain’t written to protect animals like him, but to protect people from them. That’s why I don’t like bringing him into fights when there are people involved, because all it takes is for one overzealous or overprotective judge to see Cowie’s actions in a different light to put him in the hot seat. If my partner gets saddled with the label of ‘dangerous beast’, he would at best be placed under strict restrictions when in town, and at worst, be ordered ‘destroyed’ for the safety of the people.

So even though Cowie killed those men to save me, the waters were muddy with regards to his justification. With Vicente, Cowie had a clear reason to attack, in defense of me after I got kneed in the face. In the shootout against the deputies, I gave him the order before he joined in. With them guards though, I was in the tent, so all Cowie had to go on was screaming, and he killed three men just like that. Wasn’t confident Cowie’s actions would hold up under investigation, so I figured the best way to keep him safe was to make sure there wasn’t one to begin with.

Which is why I covered it all up. Soon as I could stand, I loaded them corpses up in my wagon, cleaned up the campsite, physically and magically wiped all traces of our presence besides the bloodstains from the man I killed, and high-tailed it out into the Coral Desert and the badlands beyond. Once I as free and clear, I dumped the bodies and their wagon into the Divide and headed to the mesa to pay my respects to my parents and recover from the whole ordeal. Wouldn’t have taken long for Abby to pick the crash site clean of all biomass, leaving little to nothing behind, and I made sure to get my story perfect before heading back home to New Hope. Didn’t no one think twice about it neither, no one besides Wayne that is, and only because he was so desperate to find his lost cargo he started grasping at straws and somehow landed on the right target.

Even a stopped clock is right twice a day. The worst part is I didn’t even profit off his loss, because I didn’t know there was anything worth taking. Manifest was filled with cheap goods sold in bulk and I didn’t find anything worth keeping, so I didn’t think twice before pushing it over the edge and into the Divide. Now I know better, and it burns me to wonder what I missed out on. Wasn’t Aberrtin, because at 30 cents a gram, it would’ve been hard to miss if the wagon was carrying enough to make Wayne sweat. Same with crystallized Aether, so I figure the wagon was smuggling something light and expensive like processed Brightsteel, precious gems, drugs, or expensive Spell Cores hidden in a lead-lined compartment somewhere. Mage Armour is a big find, but there are plenty of Third Order Spell Cores that are much more valuable. Greater Mage Armour would be the obvious one, Protection from Elements another. Warrior’s Ward would be the biggest one, as it grants resistance to Force damage, which covers most of what you’re likely to come across from axes and Bolts to talons and tusks. Fly, Haste, Slow, Arcane Sight, the list goes on, and three to five of those Spell Cores would be easy to hide and represent a fortune for Wayne and his entire company.

One I just pissed away and handed right back to Abby. All I kept were the Bolt Cores from their Aetherarms, a fistful of dollars out their wallets, and a couple baggies of drugs they had in their pockets. Brought those to Uncle Art to see if they was anything useful, like the performance or productivity enhancing drugs soldiers used in the Second World War to make you stronger or smarter, but no such luck. Earned me a long string of lectures about how drugs are bad and I ought to stick to alcohol, tobacco, gambling, or women if I was gonna pick up a vice.

Uncle Art don’t got no kids of his own, and sometimes, it really shows.

Either way, I been really feeling the squeeze of that particular lie lately, which makes my admission of guilt poorly timed and placed. Goes to show how terrible I am at taking my own advice about picking your moments, though in my defense, I was also following the advice I gave Kacey about talking things out. Plus, it seemed like Noora really needed to hear it to, know that she could come back from what she been through to become strong and capable like me. Should’ve kept my mouth shut though, held my tongue until we parted ways with Wayne at least, because the last thing I need is to lose sleep wondering if she’ll talk. Shouldn’t matter much, as I was careful not to mention any real details, and I doubt she’ll go running off to talk to anyone who’ll listen, but that’s the thing about illogical fears. Logic ain’t enough to be rid of them, so my brain conjures up all sorts of nightmares in which my secret gets out and I lose Cowie, as well as all the respect and goodwill me and my daddy worked so hard to build up these last seventeen years.

So it almost comes as a relief when the howling sirens pierce through my haze of fitful sleep, interspersed with arhythmic Aetherarm fire alerting me to yet another Abby attack in progress. Hopping to my feet with Cowie in my arms, I pat his flanks and hold him close until he’s good and calm before setting him down. Big, strong, and magical though he may be, he’s still a prey animal at heart, meaning he spooks easily and will usually choose flight over fight, as evidence by how he scampers over to the wagon and grows big to settle into his harness, all ready to cut and run at a moment’s notice. Them laws were written for the big canines and felines the old world favoured, predators one and all. Cowie ain’t like me, always spoiling for a good fight; he a big, cuddly sweetheart he is, so while you ought to respect the mass, muscle, and magic he packing, he’d much rather make friends than spill blood if given the option.

As for me? Riding with Errol and Sarah Jay for little more than a week was already stretching the limits of my tolerance, and things ain’t improved now that I’m riding with a bigger group. I just don’t like being around people much is all, and I don’t see why I gotta justify it. Nice as it would be to head the Firstborn’s Frontier Born, I never really wanted a crew. Just thought things would go smoother if I had one, but reality has shown me different, and truth is, I ain’t all that broken up about it. Don’t get me wrong. Would’ve been nice if things worked out, and I’ll still take ‘em on if they willing and Errol shapes up, but short of a miracle, I expect to go back to riding solo this time next year.

With that thought in mind, I wave at Noora peeking out the wagon to show her there’s nothing to be afraid of, then head out with Tina and about half the boots under Sergeant Begaye’s orders. We got two more Drill Sergeants with us and a Strike Team of Rangers to escort us, but it’s still the pipe-smoking, axe-wielding Native American’s show. “Hold fire until you have a clear target,” he says, after we get ourselves all lit up like a Christmas tree with Dancing Lights all around us. A waste of Concentration if you ask me, but it’s a Cantrip most learn early on, and a better option than using the Light Cantrip to illuminate something directly on our bodies. Time was when I figured on casting it on my bull’s head medallion, until my daddy pointed out I was broadcasting exactly where my head would be to anyone with eyes. With Dancing Lights, we can place them up to 40 metres out to light the way without directly exposing our position. Course, even Abby smart enough to infer our general position, enough so they can lob Spells in our general direction if need be, but between their short range, terrible aim, and general fondness for smacking things up close and personal, I’m feeling fairly safe from Abby as we march out beneath the dark shroud of night.

Not so safe from idiot townies though, who come rabbiting out of the gloom at full speed with no regards for target identification, situational awareness, or even trigger discipline as they move towards the only safety they can see. Stupid is what it is, and I lose years off of my lifespan getting spooked by fools who ought to know better than to go running around in the dark during an Abby attack. Even if Abby broke through the walls, and it don’t sound like they have, running around in the dark is good way to get got. As if that ain’t bad enough, they tag along behind us, meaning now I gotta worry about getting shot in the back. Accidentally or on purpose, the intent don’t matter, because a Bolt through the back of the head will kill you either way. Not to mention how they all in the way and blocking our lanes of fire, meaning if Abby slip around us and come from behind, they got a good chance of getting stuck in close.

After the eighth or ninth scare, I’m starting to think some of these folks are too stupid to leave breathing, because they got no idea how close they just come to death. Not to mention how they ain’t necessarily safer with us, considering our job is to take care of whatever got the sirens sounding off in the first place. Really makes you consider the basic foundation of democracy, because if these idiots were American, then their vote would hold the same weight as a vote from Marcus, Captain Jung, or Sergeant Begaye. That’s how it works after all, as what the majority says, goes, but seeing how dumb the average person is and realizing half the is population probably dumber makes me reconsider democracy as a viable means of government. Ain’t saying they ought to switch to something different, just saying I wouldn’t trust the average idiot to pack a rucksack right, much less pack my ammo, so why would I care to consider their opinions on matters of state?

Sometimes, it feels like people are too damned complicated for their own good. All this division between countries, creeds, cultures, classes, political ideologies, and more, I can barely keep track of who hates who much less why. Better if we all got together and hated Abby instead, but humanity can’t even agree on that, what with the Proggie worshipping crazies who yearn to become a part of the ‘hive mind’ or whatever.

After pushing through a whole mess of townies who no doubt fled their posts on the wall, we finally come across the source of all this hoopla. The Dancing Lights illuminate a small pack of orc and gobbo commandos who’ve snuck in over the wall to kill townies with impunity. The stunty greenies scurry across the sand with crude weapons in hand, chasing after the scattered townies who were supposed to be keeping watch. They so mixed in, we can’t go guns blazing without risk of friendly fire, a risk I’d be willing to take, but Sergeant Begaye ain’t me. “Ready stuns,” he says, reminding me of the nifty new grenades I bought off of Danny, and I grab one off my belt and Prime it. Tina readies up right beside me, while I catch Errol and Sarah Jay still fumbling for theirs inside their pouches when Sergeant Begaye shouts, “Stuns out.”

The flashbangs fly out into the crowd, and I watch them arc through the air with a grin. The greyish orbs deform in the air and crack when they land, emitting a blinding flash and a thunderous clap that’s got my head spinning, eyes blinking, and ears ringing. Making a mental note to close my eyes and look away the next time I throw a flashbang, I do my best to shake off the daze and blindness and come back strong. Seems obvious in retrospect, but it’s the first time I ever used them and wanted to know how effective they’d be. Very is the answer to that, because even from a good thirty, forty metres away, it takes a good three seconds to get my vision back, but the Rangers and smarter boots got me covered. While the townies and Abby are all reeling from the effect, our forces cut the greenies down to size with a smattering of controlled fire from their Aetherarms. Soon as the threats are all down and out, the Sergeant leads us forward to execute any greenies still squirming around and rescue the disoriented townies. Ain’t none too pleased about getting stunned, and I wouldn’t be neither, but it beats getting carved up by Abby knives and talons, so there’s that.

From there, it’s a textbook clean-up as we shoot anything green and clear the area, which is a harder fight than expected. Between their natural armoured plating and single-minded dedication to spilling human blood, they’re hard to put down with my Ranger Repeater, and I gotta quick-draw my Model 10 more than once, all the while making sure I don’t hit any townies with a through and through. A cunning bunch, Abby are, hiding in shadows and around corners in hopes of catching us off-guard, and I keep the boots around me from making too many poor decisions while clearing every nook and cranny we pass. When we get to the first bunker, we find the door torn off its hinges and a tableau of carnage and destruction waiting within.

A military report would say the gunners were slain and the weapons rendered into scrap, but it fails to do justice the sheer madness found within. After opening the first door, it takes me a good second or two to realize what I’m looking at, as them gunners been torn apart and mashed underfoot like Abby was fixing to turn them into wine. The destruction of the gatlings is even more complete, which goes to show them greenies ain’t as dumb as you’d think. These orcs and gobbos stationed in here were likely ordered to target the big guns specifically, because even though they ain’t the hardest hitting weapons we got, volume of fire ain’t nothing to sneeze at.

Luckily, the Ranger heavy weapons are all back in camp, guarded by the other half of the boots and twenty plus Rangers, but Abby was smart enough to give us a wide berth. Rather than risk heading inside to clear the bunkers, I ready my Model 10 and send in a Dancing Light, which is all it takes to tempt an orc out of hiding. The muscular greenie takes a swing at the floating, glowing light, thinking there’s someone behind it, as their vision ain’t the greatest when it’s bright. Earns it a Bolt to the head and chest delivered by me and Tina standing side by side at the door, and it slumps down dead. Holding a hand out to keep Tina from heading in, I whisper, “Minor Illusion.”

Her big blues go wide with delight as she thumbs the ring on her left index finger, touching the clear crystal gem embedded within. Muttering a chant beneath her breath, she utilizes the Cantrip to create an image of a bald, featureless man leaning in through the door to look at the orc we just dropped, and is rewarded with a chittering screech as a crafty little goblin tries to run the Illusion through with its dagger. Can’t tell if it’s my Bolt or Tina’s that brings it down, but it dies mid-scream and twitching, at which point I activate my Shield bracer and head in to clear the bunker with my sorta-sister on my heels.

Ain’t a pleasant sight, and the smell is enough to make a man want to hurl, but there ain’t no more greenies hiding within. Circumstances aside, I can’t lie and say I ain’t having fun working with Tina, because this is the sort of work we always dreamed of doing while we were growing up. Don’t say as much, as she looking a bit green around the gills herself, so we head back out for fresh air and move onto the next bunker. Which the other boots were smart enough to leave to the Rangers, which I suppose is fair. Sergeant Begaye don’t come down on me for it though, just nods in approval as we pass. It’s a hectic, no holds barred moment for the Rangers and boots alike, meaning the Sergeant got his hands full as is, and I’ve got a healthy smattering of sympathy for him. Hard enough for me to wrangle Errol and Sarah Jay, so I can’t imagine having three people solely responsible for fifteen. The Ranger Strike team is long gone, off to take the fight to Abby, and judging by the short bursts of controlled gunfire sounding out in the distance, doing a good job of it.

As Tina and I approach the next bunker, Alfred steps up and says, “Mind if I take this one?” My first thought is to wave him away, but Kacey pops in to volunteer with a glare, like she daring me to say no.

Glancing over to see Sergeant Begaye busy watching Ike and Antoni clear a bunker, I figure why not and gesture for Alfred and Kacey to take point. The shorter, smaller, fiercer girl takes charge and uses hand signals to lay out their plan of attack, to which Alfred replies with a nod before muttering a chant and making a motion that’s probably familiar to everyone watching. “Aut cum scuto, aut in scuto,” he intones, while bringing his forearm up in front of him. Latin translation of a Greek phrase which means, “Return with your shield or upon it.” Do or die, pretty much, because coming back alive without your shield typically means you fled from battle. Hardcore is what it is, and Alfred embodies it as a glowing blue spectral tower Shield manifests on his arm, one tall and wide enough to cover his hulking figure from shoulder to foot. A damn sight more coverage than the round, two-foot diametre Shield my bracer offers me, but in my Mama’s defense, it was one of her earlier works on par with the single-shot, breech-loaded rifle and pistol I got mounted on my wall back home.

Been meaning to upgrade and improve my Shield bracer for some time now, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. It ain’t just a piece of equipment, its one of the only things my mama made which I can still use other than the Metamagic bead bracelet I got on my wrist.

Sentimentality takes a backseat as Kacey goes zooming in, going criss-cross applesauce with Alfred on her heels. Not the way I would’ve done it, and a lot riskier too, but a few seconds followed by a thump and a bang later, the big guy gives the all clear and I let him know we’re coming in for a look-see. Aside from the same human gore and gatling debris, I also find four gobbos lying on the floor, two on each side, with Kacey wiping blood from her blade while big Al scrapes greenie guts off his boot. Yea, I figured him for trouble, which was why I wasted a First Order Absorb Force Spell to put him down hard and fast during our first encounter. The big guy literally stomped one of the little bastards to death, and somehow, Kacey is still the scarier one, so I flash a smile and nod while reminding myself never to get on the girlie’s bad side.

No matter how fun it might be to rile her up and see her fetching pout.

Unfortunately for Sarah Jay, whose Cores are Primed and competitive spirit burning, there ain’t no more bunkers for her to clear as Sergeant Begaye looks for volunteers to man the corpse-riddled bunkers. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t blink twice about stepping forward, but I tell myself I’m giving the others a chance to toughen up while avoiding the unpleasant truth. Bad dreams and worse memories got me feeling skittish of tight spaces, so I’d much rather stand up top and get shot at than hunker down in a roomful of gore. Thankfully, the Sergeant gets more than enough willing boots, including Sarah Jay who drags Errol along with her, while me and Tina head up the stairs to stare down the Abby horde waiting under the dark skies on the coral sands ahead.

Say what you will about their stupidity, but Abby got more discipline than these townies at least. They all gathered up right out of rifle range, or at least far enough I wouldn’t chance a shot without Eagle Eyes. Can see them bold as can be even without lights to illuminate or Darkvision to pick them out, a bunch of shifting shadows spreading out across the dunes. Despite all the movement, there’s a very clear line that none of them cross, no matter how eager or bloodthirsty they might be. Been told the greenies from the Snake Fang Mountain Range are a cut above the rest, but this the first time I’m seeing the truth with my own two eyes. These ain’t the bloodthirsty, battle-crazed gobbos I’m used to dealing with. These a smarter, slicker bunch, led by a brutal and cunning leader that’s been plaguing these lands for a year now.

Gobbos in general are a tribal bunch, who typically follow the biggest and baddest greenie into battle, but these ones have learned that muscle ain’t the only thing you need to lead and kill. I can almost smell the hob lurking out there, wrangling its little army and keeping them on a short leash while it watches and waits for an opening. One it won’t get it seems, as the minutes roll by and the gunfire in town dies down to a trickle, but still the horde stands ready and waiting so we stay up top to match. Me, I’ve long since hunkered down behind a crenelation to hurry up and wait, but Tina and the other boots up on the wall with me are all too nervous, excited, and or afraid to relax and unwind.

Can’t really blame them, as contrary to appearances, I ain’t all that relaxed myself. Even if them Abby commandos failed to open the gates, they’ve tilted the odds back in their favour when it comes to an all-out push. Holding a wall is really a do or die situation, and Abby had numbers enough to overwhelm us before taking so many gatlings out of operation. Now all the hob has to do is send in waves of unarmoured gobbos to soak up our fire, then hit the walls with armoured orcs and bugbears. Without rapid-firing gatlings to clear out the chaff, the townies mostly got single-shot Rolling Block rifles and single action TEC-LS’s, meaning they don’t got the volume of fire to hold back a push. Then it comes down to a matter of time, as the orcs and bugbears either climb the walls or tear through them unimpeded, because the defenders will be too busy shooting at gobbos who ain’t none too shabby at climbing themselves.

No wonder Tim was expecting the walls to go down. I’m too used to seeing Ranger-trained town guards equipped with cutting-edge Aetherarms, advantages the townies of Pleasant Dunes don’t got. Bet someone was sleeping on watch duty, or worse, not at their post, which is how them greenies snuck in in the first place. Ain’t all that difficult when the walls are only illuminated by fixtures which require a manually cast Light Cantrip. Only gives a decent amount of light out to about six metres, and dim, murky light another six metres beyond that. For Abby, crossing twelve metres horizontally and six metres vertically takes maybe two to four seconds total if they ain’t bogged down by blood and bodies. Wouldn’t even need an Illusion to sneak in, so maybe I’m not giving the townies enough credit. Can’t make a meal without ingredients, and can’t defend against Abby without the right tools, and I ain’t just talking about better guns or expensive Darkvision goggles for each of them. Something as simple as better lighting would work wonders, like spotlights powered by Aetheric dynamos, or a perimeter Alarm set to alert the guards if Abby come within a hundred metres. Cheap, easy, and highly effective, these two changes would work wonders to keep the people of Pleasant Dunes safe.

Minutes turn into hours without anything of note taking place, and Sergeant Begaye sends half the boots back, mostly the ones who volunteered to hunker down in the bloody bunkers. Can’t blame him for it, and I ain’t complaining either, as having an enemy to focus on does wonders for my mental health. Says a lot about me when I’m more comfortable waiting to fight off an army of Abby than being left alone with my innermost thoughts, but my misgivings will fade soon enough. Noora won’t talk, not about this, and I’ll tough it out and come out stronger for it. Wayne ain’t got no proof to pin the crime on me, and if he starts sharing his suspicions as fact, then I’ll deal with it depending on how Marcus and everyone else reacts. All I gotta do is stick to my story, which again makes me regret sharing my troubles with Noora, because regardless of how I think she might act, a secret shared is no longer a secret.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for a pretty face and a damsel in distress.

And maybe, just maybe, I had a dire need to talk to someone who didn’t know me, someone who wouldn’t judge me for my mistakes.

While looking for patterns in the shadowy movements of the horde, I catch wind of heated discussion underneath me, and a second of listening tells me I want to hear more. Signalling to Sergeant Begaye for permission to approach, I head over and explain my reasoning, and he gives me the all clear, but makes it clear in no uncertain terms that I am not to make any promises on behalf of the Rangers. Giving him a proper salute so as not to rock the boat, I resist the urge to burn the Featherfall Spell in my boot to make a flashy entrance and head for the stairs instead. Makes for a long and roundabout route, but I make it in time before the discussion I picked up on earlier has gotten all that far. “I keep telling you to follow the diagram,” the squeaky voice says, sounding tired and annoyed as can be. “It’s circle, square, triangle, circle, square, circle, square, triangle, circle, square.”

Poking my head into the room, I find a scruffy, skinny teen wearing a scruffy Vanguard National vest bent over a new and shiny half-assembled gatling. The bodies have been cleared out for the most part, and I don’t envy the people who got that job, but there are two older, vest-wearing members standing around with tools in their hands and exasperated looks on their faces. Disappears when they see me though, and one nudges the oblivious teen who’s busy slotting barrels into the weapon’s frame according to their markings.

“Interesting workaround you got there,” I say, and the kid looks up to reveal a pimply, big nosed face that only a mother could love. “Setting your barrels up in antipodal symmetry with no two barrels in sequence being the same. Keeps the Neuman Forces between matching barrels moving towards the empty centre for the most part, rather than along the rotary circuit. Prevents it from throwing off the dynamics along each individual barrel for the most part, though it’d be better if you came up with five sets of pairs, rather than three.”

“Oh two more configurations,” the kid scoffs, his lip curled in derision. “Why didn’t I think of that? It’s so easy making three different configurations of the same Metamagic Etchings work in close proximity without resonant forces fucking things up, why don’t I just add two more? You ever heard of string theory? I gotta account for all those extra dimensional spaces and how the various Metamagic forces interact there too, not just in three-dimensional space, idiot.”

Ha. Hello Mr. Gunsmith, who ain’t a mister at all, but a snot-nosed brat in desperate need of an attitude adjustment. “It gets a lot easier if you calculate each pair as existing within its own manifold.” Seeing his confusion, I grin and say, “Yea, the resonant forces will interact and throw things off, but with a Bolt Cantrip Core, the effect it has is fairly negligible, so you can just rule them out. Aside from the Neuman Forces of course, but you got that part figured out.”

The kid meets my eyes with an unblinking gaze, because he sort of understands what I’m getting at, but doesn’t get why. Book learning ain’t the same as being taught, and this one ain’t ever had no teacher. Or if he did, his teacher failed him, because while it’s nice to get things perfect on paper, it’s always better to focus on what really matters. The disruption from those resonant forces will make the resulting Bolts ‘wobble’, for lack of a better word, get it all shaky and cost it range, power, and accuracy, but not as much as the loose fittings he’s got on his barrels. For ease of replacement, since they do tend to overheat and melt pretty often, but he’s already sacrificing a lot by using stamped Etchings, so it ain’t like a little bit of metaphysical instability is gonna ruin the end product.

To really hammer the point home, I add, “Could also mix things up and have two barrels reserved for Elemental Bolts. They’d act as tracer rounds, let your gunners get a better idea of where their Bolts are going, and the different Metamagic loadout would act as a dividing line between the barrels on either side, dampening the resonant forces between them because you won’t be using all the same Metamagics. Best I can tell, your gatlings are using Distant, Extend, Stabilize, Empower, Prime, and Efficient, but you switch Empower and Stabilize for Precise, Elemental, and Lingering, and you’ll be good to go.”

Now the kid looking real thoughtful, because if he can swing it, it’d solve like 60% of his problems with the gatlings. I’m sure Marijke would have a lot more to say, and she’d say it a lot harsher too, but if this kid is self-taught like I suspect he is, then with a little bit of schooling, he got the makings of greatness. Still a foul-mouthed little shit though, as he falls back on belligerence when he realizes he ain’t got no way to refute what I said. “Who the fuck you think you are telling me my business, Qink?” Looking me up and down with a scowl, he adds, “Guess you’re the Firstborn people been talking about.” He makes a big show of hawking a loogie into the sand, and I wince to hear it. “Don’t look like much to me.”

Usually, that there is my cue to step in and rearrange his face, but considering how I’m hoping to steal him away from Ron, I put on my least threatening smile and shrug. “You know how it is,” I say. “Stories got a way of getting away from the truth, but facts speak for themselves.” A little reminder of what I done here in town, but the kid don’t seem all that impressed. I tried talking shop to interest him, and that didn’t take, so I fall back on a tried-and-true method which Aunty Ray claims has never failed her. Flattery. “And the facts say you got a fair bit of talent at this sort of thing.” Gesturing at the gatling, I shake my head in begrudging admiration and say, “Federation got blueprints for an eight-barrel gatling, and it fires ridiculously fast, but they retired it on account of the lack of stopping power. You went for two extra barrels and dropped Quicken for extra stopping power, which is a decent trade off.”

Or it would be if he knew how to get Empower and Intensify working together, instead of only using the former and tacking on Stabilize, which is a junk Metamagic. Makes sense he used it since he was having issues with resonance, but proper Etching and arrangement would take care of those issues for him. Ideally, I’d want Maximize and Intensify in place of Quicken, but considering the rate of fire on the El-minister, a gatling don’t make much sense anymore.

Which is where I intended to go with this line conversation. You know, put him up on that pedestal then smack him down with the cold hard facts and show him how much he could learn, but then the kid opens his mouth and ruins it all. “Fuck that,” he says, waving me off dismissively before grabbing his crotch. “You ain’t getting none of this dick, faggot, so find someone else to suck off.”

I have never before wanted to punch someone as much as I want to punch this kid. He’s probably older than Kacey’s little brother, so like… fifteen? Maybe sixteen even, or close to it, which is hardly that much younger than me. Keeping a lid on my explosive temper, I stare him down good and long before trusting myself to speak. “What I’m tryin’ to say,” I begin, in as cordial a tone as I can manage, “Is that you got skills, but need some teaching to really shine. You working with outdated tech, as we’ve progressed a lot since the Advent, but once you catch up, there’ll be plenty of work for someone with your skills. You’d be a rich man before twenty, and that’s working under contract, as you could stand to make a lot more by opening your own company.”

Like Mr. Kalthoff, who ain’t American neither, but was granted dual-citizenship after my daddy passed alongside a number of other important folks. Guess Ranger HQ realized just how many of their significant residents weren’t actually U.F.A citizens and didn’t want them worrying about what’d happen if they got caught in a political struggle. Funny thing is, despite knowing everyone would end up randomly distributed across the Frontier, the old world governments thought the settlers would all rally together by nationality instead of working with whoever was close by. To be fair, the Qin did just that, which is partially why my parents were still living isolated and alone by the time I was born, because they were avoiding anyone who wasn’t Qin.

Just another way the old world let us down, expecting us to adhere to their political and national boundaries instead of encouraging folks to work together.

“Ha. Wait. Hang on.” The kid’s looking so smug and smarmy it’s a struggle not to slap the teeth out of his mouth. “This some kind of sales pitch?” he asks, before glancing at his fellow club members and breaking out into laughter. “Sent the wrong fucker to make it then,” he says, after a bit of a chuckle. “Should’ve sent that tasty blonde bitty you always with instead, though I doubt we’d be doing much talking.” I don’t rise to the bait, just give him a look, one that got his two older and wiser friends looking antsy. The kid don’t see it though, just shakes his head and says, “You know who my daddy is? Jacob Horner, that’s who. Sergeant-at-arms of Vanguard National and the President’s right hand man.”

The name is somewhat familiar, and with that, the pieces all fall into place. Jacob is Hobb, the lanky, knife-twirling idiot who was hanging around the last time I was here. “Ah, I see the family resemblance now,” I say, but the cheer drains out of my eyes as I toss out all plans of recruiting the kid and start thinking up alternative ways to deny Ron his gunmaker.

The kid misses the subtle insult and takes my words as a compliment. “Yea that’s right, I’m Jacob Horner Junior, so there’s no way you ever gonna convince me to work for no stinking, thieving Feds. Who the fuck you think you are, coming in here dressed like their Qink mascot? Telling us how to go about our business and to come work for them, when the Feds have never done anything for me or mine.” Junior spits, and as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t entirely disagree. Ain’t the Federation I care about, but New Hope, the Blue Bulwark, and the people taking shelter behind it here on the Frontier. The Federation is just the figurehead, but it’s not like the Bulwark will only protect Federal citizens.

No point saying as much anymore, so I shrug and give him a tip of my hat in silent farewell. “Hey wait up,” Junior says, and for some reason, I actually stop and look back. “Run up and send blondie over anyways. Figure you owe us a bitch, seeing how you snatched up that Nubian gash all for yourself. Don’t you worry, I’ll treat blondie real nice, break her in hard and fast. Maybe I’ll even keep her when I’m done, as she wasted going round with you.”

I take a step towards Junior, but the older members draw their TEC-LS. They don’t point them at me, but they hold them at their sides, hammers cocked and ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. “Why so scared?” I ask, and I don’t even got it in me to smile, because don’t nobody talk about Tina like that and walk away in one piece. No one.

“Back the fuck off,” the bigger one says, and I name him Mullet for the sake of record keeping. Only logical to keep track of the people you hurt, because they the most likely to try and hurt you back. “Or else.”

I give the other one a look too, and christen him Nelly, because he sweating buckets already and I ain’t even done anything yet. “So what are you, his babysitters? Or you his big daddies, filling in when Jacob Senior ain’t around to tap that ass?” Facing Junior head on, I ask, “This how it is? You do the talking, they do the fighting, and you pay them back the only way a nancy-ass little bitch like you knows how?”

Now, I got nothing against the gays, as what consenting folks do in the privacy of their own bedrooms ain’t got nothing to do with me. Judging by where Junior’s head went when I tried to talk him up however, I’m guessing he got strong opinions on the matter, so this just the easiest way to rile him up. Unfortunately, the little shit ain’t got no pride or shame and hits me with an ugly sneer, “Aww, is the Firstborn scared? Don’t got your gook gash of a mommy here with you now, do you, bitch?” Flipping me the double bird, he opens his eyes wide in what I’m guessing is supposed to be an intimidating glare, but only comes off as goofy.

Giving Mullet and Nelly another look, I ask, “You sure this how you want to play it out? Things don’t just end if I walk away. I’ll give you a chance to reconsider. Put your guns away, and put up your dukes. I beat the both of you, give that asshole a much-needed attitude adjustment, and he learns his lesson. You don’t, and well… Things get ugly.”

They don’t answer, so I shrug and step out.

“Yea, run away, you little bitch,” Junior shouts, as I stop just outside the door, Prime a flashbang, and wait a full second before throwing it in. “Faggot-ass, chicken-shit, slant-eyed chink. Don’t you worry about blondie though, because I’ll take real good care of her, me and all my – ”

The flashbang goes in, and goes off, while I stand next to the door with my back against the wall. Still loud, but I’m spared the flash, and I wait half a beat to see if Mullet or Nelly fire off a shot. No dice, so I dart in and go for Mullet first, who I clocked as the more competent of the two. He’s bent double from the flashbang, but still got his TEC-LS in hand and finger on the trigger, so I grab the gun by the frame while the barrel’s pointed downward and twist it sideways. Breaks his finger with a clean, crisp snap, and to my surprise, the gun doesn’t go off. So I make it go off, just to sell my story, before taking the gun out of his hands and emptying the cylinder right quick. A flick of the wrist and press of the rod, that’s all it takes to render the pistol harmless, and I do the same with his other sidearm before tossing both aside and moving on to Nelly. Who doesn’t have his finger on the trigger, so I sock him in jaw and put him down hard, before again firing off a shot at nothing to make it seem like more of a fight.

All in all, maybe four, five seconds at most, giving me a good, long time to spend with Junior. I start with his kidneys, because if you ever been punched there, you know it ain’t pleasant. Sends a sharp jolt right through your body, and most go down after a single hit. Blind and disoriented though he may be, Junior don’t go down and throws out a wild swing, which I duck under mostly to keep him guessing where I am. A kick to the back of his calf brings him down to one knee, and I grab him by the hair to hold him upright as I deliver a right hook to his ribs, then stomach. Throwing his head forward into the sand, I stomp him on the side that ain’t been punched yet. Not enough to break bone, not even enough to fracture probably, but he gonna have trouble breathing for a bit.

Which strikes a chord in me as I flip him onto his back and drop my knee on his chest, driving the full weight of my body down on him. His arms flail feebly as his breath wheezes out, and when he tries to draw a breath in, I slam my hand into his throat and lean in close. “Look at me,” I whisper, seeing the fear take form as he blinks away the blinding shadows to reveal me hovering over him. Pressing down even harder with knee and hand both, I let him squirm beneath me for a full second so he knows he can’t escape. “You ever talk about her like that again, look at her sideways, even think unsightly thoughts about her, and I’ll come back for you, Junior.” Slapping his face to keep him from passing out, I hiss, “Focus! You pass out, and you die boy, so listen close.” He blinks as his face turns red and expression turns pleading as the last shred of his courage breaks away, but there is no mercy in me here today. “You cross me or mine in anyway, and I’ll come back and kill you slow,” I whisper, and his bug eyes go even wider because he believes it. “Chop you up and feed you to yourself, bit by foul bit. We clear?”

He nods, so I ease back off his chest and neck long enough for him to draw a breath. “Now clench your jaw,” I say, once he got air in his lungs again, but I can tell the oxygen ain’t made its way to his brain yet, because he don’t understand. That’s fine though, as he don’t need all his teeth anyways, and the first two come loose as I deliver a big right to his jaw. Then another. And another, and a left for good measure.

Only then do I stand and brush myself off, before moving to stand next to the doorway just in time to greet Sergeant Begaye as he surveys the inside of the bunker from the doorway. Better him than one of the other sergeants, as it saves me the trouble of having to explain myself. Doesn’t yell, doesn’t smile, doesn’t even look all that surprised. He just looks at the two men and Junior bleeding from the mouth all laid out on the floor, then looks at me, and I can see my ranking plummet even further to cement my place as worst boot he’s ever had.

Which is fine by me. I never responded well to authority anyways, so I suppose I was never destined to become a Ranger either way.