One of the best things about travelling is trying all different sorts of cuisines.
Most folk don’t talk about the early years on the Frontier, and for good reason. Back then, they had to deal with all the same troubles we have now on top of building a settlement and securing enough food. Nowadays, you’d have to work hard at not working to starve during spring, as any fool could forage a full week’s worth of meals in half a day round these parts. Bapples, starmelons, grumble berries, sneezeweed, Alabaster nuts, potates, breadroot, and so much more, the forests and plains are brimming with delicious goodies to fill your belly without needing a knife or gun. Course, folks didn’t know all this before coming to the Frontier, and not everything is safe to eat, so a lot of settlers died of starvation, dysentery, and malnutrition while sitting next to a treasure trove of edible goodies. Real sad stuff, but they wasn’t exactly set up for success. Rather than teach everyone the simple First Order Spell Detect Poison, one that let you differentiate edible foodstuff from inedible, the old world governments spent a bunch of time and money researching how to make bio-organic baggies that could pass through the Gate, since dead or inorganic matter couldn’t make the trip. They succeeded, and gave every settler in the First Wave one of those special baggies, filled with all the seeds they’d need to start their first crop.
Problem is, like Carl said, all them seeds were rendered nonviable during their passage through the Gate, so none of them were able to germinate and sprout. No one really knows why, or why all pregnant women miscarried, not with any certainty, but the important thing is that the old world governments’ plans for getting familiar crops into the ground right quick was off to a disastrous start. And that’s only one way they failed us, which begs the question as to why anyone even cares about them after seventeen years of separation, but that’s neither here or there.
Now, the Detect Poison Spell wouldn’t have solved all their problems, since edible don’t mean the same as palatable. You can eat leather if you really had to, so it’s taken a good long while for folks to figure out what tastes good and what doesn’t. Nowadays though, there’s a new food craze showing up every other season as we connect with all the standalone settlements and start swapping ideas about. Believe it or not, Marcus served as a cook at one point during his time in the army, so it’s always a treat to sit down for one of his homemade meals. Today’s theme is what he calls Louisiana Creole Cuisine, with a nice spicy jambalaya, a thick gumbo stew, and clove-butter flatbread to mop it all up. Claims it’s not an authentic re-creation, what with the chewy pearl beans, savory allium root, and crunchy caddishes instead of kidney beans, onions, and green peppers, but I ain’t ever had the old world equivalents, so I think it tastes just grand.
To top it all off, Simone’s got fresh baked beignets for dessert, with sweetened condensed milk for dipping. A most welcome meal after so many days of travel rations and canned food, an ordeal made all the more miserable knowing it was self-inflicted. Didn’t feel right making my prospects eat jerky and hardtack while I foraged and cooked for myself. Was nice to have help clearing out my supplies though, especially since they’d been sitting around all winter. Will likely keep that last bit to myself, as what my prospects don’t know can’t hurt me.
By the time dinner’s done, I’m so full you could pop my belly like a tick, but I still find it in myself to help clear the table and wash the dishes. My prospects ought to know better than to treat this here like a bed and breakfast, but it’s been a hard couple of days so I suppose they’ve earned themselves a pass to sit kick up their feet and de-stress. Besides, can tell Marcus has got some interest in them, seeing how he asked Ava about them before we even arrived, so I leave them to chit-chat. Probably heard how Errol got washed out and wanted to help him get back on his feet, which makes things a touch awkward considering I’m about this close to calling it quits and going back to riding solo. Running my own crew is more work and less fun than I figured for, and today’s fiasco really opened my eyes to everything I been doing wrong. I’ve been too easygoing, expecting them to understand what I say and take it at face value. Instead, I need to instill some discipline and compliance into them so they follow orders in the heat of battle.
Which is gonna take more effort than I care to give. I got things to learn and skills to hone myself, so I can’t be dedicating all my hours to my prospects, now can I?
Errol’s the bigger problem, as he don’t listen all that good. Sarah Jay ain’t without her problems either, as she an ice queen who freezes under pressure. Nothing that can’t be fixed mind you, but the juice ain’t worth the squeeze. Like aging a whiskey eighteen years, it just take too damn long to reap what benefits I done sowed. Best case scenario? Marcus gets Errol and Sarah Jay back into Basic and on track to join the Rangers, leaving me free and clear to go on about my merry way without stepping on any toes. Could always shop for recruits after this first batch of boots finishes their first tour and their contracts up for renewal, and who knows? Maybe Errol and Sarah Jay will still want to sign on then. Means riding solo until after the Watershed though, and a big selling point of getting a crew together was having extra hands to help to cash in.
So I got a decision to make, but for now, I’mma keep on trying to train them up right, which means playing the drill sergeant for the next little bit.
On that note, I catch up with Elise until Marcus is finished telling his latest story, then it’s time to put an end to the fun. While Errol and Sarah Jay are still chuckling at the punchline, I step up to the table and give it a little knock to get their attention. “Thanks for the meal Marcus,” I say, and my prospects echo the sentiment while I turn my attention to them. “I want you both lights out in an hour. Lock your weapons in the wagon chest, then wash up and settle in.”
While my prospects don’t look none too pleased, they don’t argue either, though Marcus feels inclined to butt in after they out the door. “Howie, it’s seven thirty,” he says, wrinkling his big ol’ brow in a pouty frown. “C’mon now. I was gonna show them around town for a bit, let them see the sights and take a load off.”
“They can do the tourist thing after we get back,” I say, giving Marcus a look. “You seen the recording? They got a lot to learn and next to no time to learn it, especially when the price of failure is a Bolt to the face.” Errol was all but inviting those outlaws to walk up and shoot him, assuming he didn’t shoot himself first. Or worse, Cowie. Can’t understand what’s so hard about trigger discipline. Only one rule to it: keep your finger off the trigger unless you shooting. Don’t rightly know how to teach that better.
“Look, I get it Howie,” Marcus says, leaning back in his chair to look me in the eyes. Doesn’t have to look up to do it either, even though I’m standing straight as an arrow. “You’re worried about them, and you’re right to, but treating them like delinquents isn’t the way to do it. Besides, you ever consider they might need something to take their minds off what went down today?”
“If they gonna have trouble sleeping, then all the better to have more time to work at it.” Giving a little shrug, I stop myself from saying anything more, because Marcus is a soft sort who ain’t come to terms with the fact that the rules are different out here. Back in the old world, folks had the luxury of being squeamish about death. Here in the Frontier, it’s a way of life, so if Errol and Sarah Jay can’t get past it, then better we find out now rather than later. “I appreciate your concern Marcus, I do, but we been up almost twenty-four hours now, and we got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” I’d already figured on leaving them here, and honestly ain’t entirely convinced they ought to come with. I know they can shoot Abby, but any fool can pull a trigger at some monstrous miscreation. What I need is a crew that’ll have my back in a fire fight, not weigh me down like they did today. Sarah Jay sitting pretty like a paper target while Errol almost shot his own damn foot off before waving his gun around in a panic. Ain’t no second chances out here, and no team to help babysit, so I gotta make sure they’re prepped and ready to survive the wild Frontier without a five-pointed star on their chests and a whole organization at their back.
That’s what Marcus don’t understand about riding freelance. Folks treat him different because he’s big, burly, and a Captain in the Rangers, so he thinks everyone is afforded that same level of respect and caution. Me, I’m small, wiry, and unaffiliated, and Qin to boot, which only makes things harder. They been known to raid settlements from time to time, which is why I have to go through all that rigamarole with palms forward and arms out to the sides, so I don’t get shot on the approach. I ain’t talking about no outlaw raiders neither, I’m talking government backed military attacks made under the guise of banditry. Ain’t much of a cover when all tracks lead back to official Qin settlements, but no one cares to call them out on it. Reason is the Gate connecting the old world to the Frontier sits deep in Qin territory, right next to their capital in fact. The Forbidden City, that’s what the Qin call it, because it once served as their Immoral Monarch’s personal residence. Can’t even imagine why one man would need a whole city to themselves, though I suppose hiding a portal to another world would do it. The people of the Qin Republic didn’t even know about the Gate to the Frontier until twenty-five years after the death of their Monarch, and the rest of the world didn’t figure it out until ten years after that. Then they spent some more time researching methods to stabilize the Gate and negotiating passage through it, which the Qin government didn’t like much. They felt like the Frontier belonged to them and them alone, but the other nations weren’t about to let them monopolize the resources of an entire second world.
Thing is, possession is nine-tenths of the law, meaning that so long as the Gate sits in Qin lands, they’re calling most of the shots. That’s why the government-affiliated organizations of the Frontier ain’t willing to risk raising the ire of the Qin, because once the Watershed hits, there’ll be a period of time when we can communicate with the old world before anyone can pass through the Gate. Anything that happens here could have political ramifications back home, so ain’t no one willing to risk it. It’s why the Rangers disavowed my daddy after his death, because they didn’t want to step on no Qin toes. I get why they did what they did, I really do, but that don’t mean I like it any, because history shows appeasement be a slippery slope. How much they gonna let the Qin get away with then? Can’t rightly say what the Rangers would do if the Qin Vanguard official declared war on some lesser, unallied faction, like say the España Conquistadores or the Prussian Grenzewehr, or one of them Middle Eastern or African countries.
Probably shout day and night about how it ain’t right, then do precisely nothing about it. Still better than what they did to my daddy, spitting on everything he’d ever accomplished. That’s why I don’t care to be American, or pledge fealty to any other nation of the old world. Government don’t care about the people here, only how we best serve their interests, and the interests of the old world, but here’s the thing. This world don’t belong to them. It belongs to us, the settlers of the First Wave and the sons and daughters born here. We put the work in, so reason stands that we ought to reap the benefits, and if the old world thinks different, then they’re in for a rude awakening.
That ain’t neither here nor there though. Long story short, Errol and Sarah Jay are already at a disadvantage, what with being a mixed-race couple riding with a Qin as their point man, so they can’t afford to be anything less than absolutely ready. As is, I ain’t comfortably bringing them back out into No Man’s Land, much less into the desert again, not after today, and I’m worried they’ll learn all the wrong lessons riding with the Rangers. Told it to them the first day I met them, we ain’t Rangers, but I doubt the warning stuck. Not much else did, so why expect otherwise?
Sounds bitter, even to me, which is how I realize I’m still holding a grudge over what went down. Hardly surprising, knowing me and my temper, so I head to the barn and work out a little harder than I usually would when away from home. Push-ups, pull-ups, squats and suicides, I push myself to the limit and cast Mage Armour on Cowie in between sets, familiarizing myself with the Spell in an effort to make it better. Unfortunately, Abjuration is my third weakest school of magic, only slightly better than my shoddy Illusions and abysmal Enchantments, so it’s an uphill battle. That’s how it is though, as every Spellslinger got their own strengths and weaknesses. Me, I can’t draw and got the natural charm of a hog in heat, skills which are pretty important when casting Illusions and Enchantments. I can learn and sling the Spells just fine, but most require the caster to specify the parameters, which I ain’t great at. If I want to cast an Illusion of an orc, I gotta picture it in my head, and apparently, I don’t pay enough attention to details that ‘matter’. Who cares how far apart an orc’s eyes are, or how light casts shadow across muscled flesh? Illusionists that’s who, because you need to if you fixing to craft a believable Illusion.
As for Enchantments, they typically Spells meant to allure, enthrall, or embolden, like the signature Charm Spell the School is so reviled for, or Errol’s Heroism Spell to ward off debilitating fear. It’s a School of emotion, and apparently I don’t do emotions right. Has to do with my inability to open up with genuine sentiment, and the fact that I come on too strong, wielding emotion like a hammer when instead I need a lighter touch. That’s what Aunty Ray says at least, but despite having a world-class Enchantress to school me, I never could get them Spells working all that good. In my defense, they ain’t exactly fool proof to begin with, as sentient minds are pretty resistant to outside influence in general, though they work pretty good on dumb, rank-and-file Abby.
That’s why I typically stick to using arcana-tech when I need an Illusion or an Enchantment, but for Abjuration, that’s a whole other story. I say it’s my third worst school because it’s the one school of Spells that scales best with practice and familiarity. The more you use a Spell, the better you are at using it, but with Abjuration Spells, that effect is even more pronounced. Has to do with the nature of the Spells, being defensive and whatnot, and how a rigid defense is typically less effective than a flexible one. Rigid shatters. Flexible distorts, and an experienced Abjuror can do a lot with a distorted defense Spell. Take the Mage Armour Spell I’m practicing with. The Spell sheathes the target in a formless protective barrier, almost like a second skin. The barrier ain’t physical in nature, as in you can’t see it without Detect Magic, and it defends the target by shunting force off into the Immaterium before it reaches your skin. Least that’s what my mama’s notes say, and while my Mage Armour is only good for blunting punches and kicks, the same Spell cast by an experienced Abjuror can ward off Bolts, blades, and other heavy impacts. That’s a Bolt from a proper Aetherarm mind you, an Intensified, Empowered, and Maximized weapon like my Rattlesnake. While a direct hit on Mage Armour could still leave the target bruised, broken, and internally bleeding, it’s worlds apart from dead or dying.
Theoretically, I know what I gotta do to improve my Mage Armour. I gotta make it better at shunting force, but there’s no easy way to make it happen. No definable method at least, as it’s a bit like trying to explain how to stand up straighter. Most folks just do it, and those that can’t usually got good reason. There’s no twelve-step process or tips to focus on, because we’re working with an invisible, intangible, and ineffable barrier. All you can really do is keep practicing until you get results, except it's like tying knots you can’t see or touch, and can only judge by success or failure. There’s no feeling, no sensation, no sense of progress or improvement as I finesse the Spell Structure this way and that in an effort to get a better outcome. Doesn’t help that there’s not much I can do with the Structure itself. It’s like the baseball analogy I told Errol and how you switch from a fastball to a curve ball by switching up your grip, except in this case, I’m changing up my grip a millimeter at a time and trying to gauge if my invisible fastball changes any.
And it never does, or maybe I just can’t sense the changes. It’s all the same, just solid, stable nothingness that don’t seem no different no matter what I do. So unlike the controlled chaos of Evocation, the blossoming mathematical concepts of Conjuration, or even the intrinsic cohesion and propagation of Transmutation. Course, I love Divination the best, and not just because my daddy taught me most of what he knows, but also because the hidden patterns of the Spells seem so easily discernable once I get in the right mindset. It’s like… knowing the right way to get home, or walking around a familiar place in total darkness. You just know, and it’s that easy.
Truth is, Abjuration is my third worse school mostly because it’s my third least favourite. I been getting shot a lot lately though, so it’s high time I put a bit more effort into it. Would much rather have a Mage Armour Spell Core, one Metamagicked up the gills, but they’re so rare, expensive, and contested I couldn’t hold onto one even if I found one. Paint a target on my back for every merc, scav, and opportunist if I did, and while I got skills, ain’t no one that good.
Besides slinging Spells is pretty much free, and a penny saved is a penny earned.
Once I’m all Spelled out and feeling dizzy and lightheaded, I take a quick shower and change before heading back out to the barn, dressed in my PJ’s with Cowie in tow. Carrying him up the ladder into the hayloft, I grumble about his bad manners getting us 86’d from the house, but it ain’t entirely his fault. Hard to gauge your size when you always shifting from big to small, and Marcus was the one who got him all riled up, wrestling in the living room like they were. Personally, I think Simone overreacted, as it was just a tea set, and I even replaced it right quick, but that wasn’t enough to get him back in her good graces. So it’s the hayloft for the both of us since neither of us like sleeping alone, which is fine by me. Giving the back of Cowie’s head a good-night kiss, I snuggle up as the big spoon and hug him tight. “You did good today,” I whisper, and he blows a raspberry to say ‘I know’. “Don’t you sass me. Still, you took a big risk. Errol could’ve shot you when you rushed him like that, and then where’d I be? Stuck on the Highway hauling my own wagon, that’s where, so don’t do you ever do that again.”
Because if it’s a choice between Errol and Cowie, I’ll pick Cowie each and every time. No contest.
Not entirely sure how much Cowie understands, but he gently butts his head against mine and grunts, so I leave it at that and sing him a lullaby. We’ve been skipping out lately because it’s embarrassing to sing in front of people, but ain’t no one here in the barn. Feeling nostalgic, I sing ‘Cat’s in the Cradle’, an old favourite Uncle Raleigh used to perform that hits close to home. Doubly so since I wish he was still around, or my daddy, so I could ask them for advice. They ain’t around no more though, so I got no one to lean on but myself. Aunty Ray got enough on her plate as is, and I can’t be imposing on other folks so much. It’s Howie and Cowie against the world, business as usual really, except today, it feels lonelier than ever.
Despite the long night of scouting and tense day of travel, I wake up with the morning sun. Mostly because Cowie’s gotta do his business and knows better than to do it in the feed, so I carry him down and get an early start to the day. Course, misery loves company, so I go a knocking at the guestroom windows without looking in, just in case my prospects decided to flaunt the rules once again. That’s a fight I’ve all but given up on, because there only so many ways I can politely remind Sarah Jay the dangers of being a woman, and it’s wearing thin on the both of us. As they get up and about, I cook up some breakfast at the firepit outside so as not to wake Marcus and Simone, while adding camp duties to the list of things I’ve got to discuss.
Wasn’t counting on being a full-time chef when I started a crew, or dishwasher neither. How’s it I’m paying for two sets of helping hands and got more work for it?
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While chowing down on canned beans and pan-fried bacon, I study my prospects and note their distant gazes and deadpan expressions. “Troubles sleepin’?” I ask, knowing full well the answer is yes, and when they both nod, I say, “Hard thing seein’ a man die, even ones who mean to see you dead.” Not really, but people say it is, and I tag on that last bit just to emphasize the fact. “If you wanna talk about it, I’m here. Or not and we can move on, but I want you to know that you’re free to speak your mind around me.” Better we find out sooner rather than later if they ain’t got the stones, but it’s too early to say just yet.
Taking a deep breath, Errol stares down at his plate and says, “Every time I close my eyes, I see his face again, hear his voice blaming me for his death.”
“Wasn’t your fault,” I reply, and Sarah Jay gives me a look that tells me it was the wrong thing to say. Especially considering how I all but threw those deaths in his face yesterday. “They came at us with violence in mind, and I responded in kind. Simple as that. I take no pleasure in their deaths, but I won’t lose no sleep over it either, because it was them or us. Might not make things easier for you, but them’s the facts.”
Errol nods and moves his food around his plate while I try to think of something else to say. Got nothing though, as I never been bothered by the death of a stranger, much less a criminal. Shooting bunnies, now that was hard, because they was innocent and me well fed, but criminals? Seen too much of the harm they done to sympathize, or maybe I’m one who ain’t right in the head. Errol’s all out of sorts, and Sarah Jay got that same distant look in her eyes, but she’s much less talkative, unwilling to even give voice to what’s bothering her. Could be the same as Errol, or it could be something else entirely, but can’t know unless she says something, which don’t seem likely. Aunty Ray would probably know what to say to cheer them up, but the best I can offer is a hot meal which they don’t seem all too interested in.
Maybe next time, I ought to shoot someone in the stomach or something, then set one of my prospects to finish the job. Do it right, like with that outlaw in Pleasant Dunes who was bleeding out his gut, and I can honestly say that the man’s already dead, his body just don’t know it yet. Then it won’t be Errol or Sarah Jay’s Bolt that kills the man, but rather their Bolt which frees him from his pain. Mercy killing’s easier than doing it in cold blood, and from there, it’s just a matter of repetition. Course, nothing’s easier than killing in the heat of anger, believe you me. Only bad part of it is wishing you could kill the bastards again, but sadly Resurrection ain’t a real Spell, just make believe from stories and movies.
Unable to stomach their moping any longer, I clap my hands after a full five minutes of silence. “Finish your food and wash up so we can move on,” I say, trying not to sound too harsh about it. “Got a busy day ahead, which might take your mind off things.” While they do that, I borrow Marcus’ Abby pot from the barn, a big metal cauldron I could comfortably curl up inside if it wasn’t for the stink. After setting it up for a cook, I say, “Time we got those gobbos cooking, else the wagon gonna stink something fierce.” Showing them how to detach the container from the undercarriage, I use the Floating Disc sleds to drag it closer to the cauldron so we can begin the unpleasant process of loading the corpses into the pot. Getting them to fit is even worse, as it involves a lot of chopping and folding to get the corpses packed in tight, but thankfully, Abby don’t go all stiff after they die.
“It’s fascinatin’ really,” I say, more to fill the silence than anything else, though my voice is muffled by my kerchief tied over my nose and mouth to ward off the sour stench and keep errant splashes from getting in. “Abby are unlike any other known lifeform, with the closest analogue being fungi, and even then it ain’t all that close. That’s why we call ‘em Aberrations, ‘cause they don’t fit what we know about biology or chemistry in general. You know Abby bodies don’t rot? Not the way we understand it, as their corpses will break down into a stinky goop within a week or two, but stays close to the surface and draws other Abby like flies to honey. They’ll slurp that goop right up and become stronger for it, or bring it back to their Proggies to turn into new Abby. What we doin’ here is speedin’ that process along so we can break them corpses down into Aberrtin, which we then mix with other elements and compounds to create new materials, like Darksteel, Brightsteel, Mithril, and Adamantine among other things.”
To get at that precious bio-mineral goodness, we gotta cook the Abby, a task far less appetizing than it sounds. Once the pot is filled with gobbo parts, we add in water, soda ash, soapweed, alum, gypsum, and a few other ingredients, all of which I keep in my wagon. Then we bring it to a boil, which makes it stink something fierce as Abby meat melts right of the bone. Those we fish out and break them apart before throwing back in to cook some more, because there be Aberrtin in the marrow, or whatever the Abby equivalent is. As I’ve mentioned before, goblins don’t got much Aberrtin in them, so once the first batch is done cooking, we add in more corpses water, and ingredients and keep right on cooking. Takes a few hours to render all the corpses into goop, whereupon we fish out all the chopped-up bones, teeth, tusks, nails, and whatnot to use as plant fertilizer before adding a good amount of lime powder and turning up the heat. From there, it’s just a matter of waiting for all the Aberrtin to separate, as the hydrophobic ‘black gold’ comes right up to the surface to be skimmed off and collected in a tin mould shaped like a popsicle tray.
Don’t go lickin’ any Aberrtin popsicles though. Rot your tongue right off it will, and hurt something fierce doing so.
It's a lot of work for not a lot of Aberrtin, far less than the expected sixty-three grams in fact, but not because we done goof. It’s an expected result after fishing out a pleasant surprise while removing the junk, an irregular lump of purple crystal no bigger than my eye. Shaped like five cubes all fused into one another in a random mess, a Spell Core which sets a fire in Sarah Jay and brings her right out of her funk as I fend baby Cowie off to keep him from eating it whole. “What kind of Spell Core is it?” she asks, though I know what she really wants to ask is how much it’s worth. Hungry to learn and earn she is, and a right proper prospect it makes.
“Let’s find out.” Grabbing a baggy of crystallized Aether and my Aberrtin tuning fork out of my component’s pouch, I pull out a single grain and chant the words to the relevant Cantrip, one aptly named ‘Identify Spell Core’. At the culmination of the chant, I strike the Spell Core with my tuning fork and it comes alive in my mind’s eye. There, I watch as it draws upon the Immaterium to cover me in ectoplasmic plates adhered to my skin, plates which chips away as I’m hit by another me slinging Bolts from afar.
Course, Sarah Jay and Errol don’t see what I do. From their perspective, I muttered a bit and tapped the Spell Core with my eyes all distant, only to snap back without warning and draw a deep breath. It’s always disorienting to have images and experiences shoved into your head, but I’ve had worse, so it only takes me a moment to collect myself. “Ablative Armour,” I say, and Sarah Jay’s hopes fade right quick, because while it ain’t the worst First Order Spell Core to have, it’s not the best either. Much like Elemental Orb, Ablative Armour has a good number of quirks that make the Spell Core difficult to use as is, but the Spell itself is solid. A First Order Transmutation Spell, it turns ectoplasm into armour shaped by the caster’s will. The British Protectorate and Knight Templars love to conjure heavy plate armour, while Abby typically go for chitin plates, but you can do anything you like really, as the form the armour take don’t affect how it work much. No, the real value of the Spell is the ability to stack multiple instances of the Spell for more coverage and durability, or even repair damage done to the armour. Great Spell for a one-trick pony since it gets more effective with each cast, and you can’t argue against the convenience of magically conjured armour. Not so great if you got a wide array of Spells to sling, like yours truly, since it ain’t all that useful when you only cast it once.
Wish Cowie could learn it, but them’s the breaks of being Innate. Don’t get to pick and choose what Spells you learn, and I ain’t about to risk feeding him a second Core.
“That first goblin I shot was bigger than the rest,” Sarah Jay says, already back to sulking as she the eyes the Spell Core like it’d done her wrong. “Might be because it was using this Spell Core, with a second layer of armoured skin over itself.”
“Might be,” I say, though there’s an equally good chance the Core came from a goblin that just didn’t have time to cast the Spell, or burned up before we noticed. “Either way, it’s yours. I got three I’m holding onto back home, and don’t really need a fourth, so you can keep it or sell it as you please for a few bucks. Just don’t let Cowie get at it.”
“Why?” Errol asks, looking up from the boring dry fire drills I got him practicing to work on his aim and trigger discipline. “Cowie’s already an Innate, isn’t he? What happens if he eats another Spell Core?”
“Best case scenario, he gets stronger and nothing else,” I say, rubbing my partner’s fuzzy cheeks to distract him from the Spell Core. “Worst case, he gets stronger, goes insane, and tries to kill us all. Could also just die on the spot, or turn stupid, or one of a million different things. Attunement ain’t an exact science.”
“Ah.”
I can see Errol wants to know more, and I’m happy to oblige. “See, Spell Cores are tailor made for Abby. Rather than mechanical tools or weapons, Proggies make biomineral Spell Cores to equip their Abby with, or Abby grow one themselves. Turns them into the Abby equivalent of Attuned, where they start out knowin’ only the one Spell the Core provide, and developin’ more as time goes by.” Holding up the shiny purple crystal, I continue, “Important thing is, the Spell Core remains separate from the Abby like an extra organ. That way, if the Abby usin’ it dies, another can snatch it up for their own use. Good for us, since it lets us harvest and use them. If a human or animal ingests a Spell Core however, it dissolves like salt in water and merges with the host. Y’all know about D.N.A?” They both give a tentative nod, which is good because older children tend to have gaps in their basic knowledge, on account of how unstable life was growing up. “Well, among other things, the Spell Core will change an Innate’s D.N.A, which is why those magical abilities are passed down to their children. Nifty right? Except when you take in more than one Core, you’re rewritin’ D.N.A which has already been rewritten, which could lead to very bad things. I mean, things could go wrong the first time around too, but the more you push the envelope, the riskier it gets.”
Like mutation and psychosis, creating Innates who don’t even look human no more. Chrissy’s inability to communicate stems from the same issue, because even though both her parents are single Core Innates, their combined bloodline shouldn’t be much different from a double Core Innate. Far as I’m concerned, she got off light, so I ain’t about to let my partner gobble up a second Spell Core, no matter how much his instincts are telling him to get at it. Giving Cowie’s cheeks a pinch, I go back to massaging them and say, “So yea. One Attunement is usually as far as you want to go, though there’s a Brit who fought in World War Two by the name of David Elten who had seven separate Attunements.” And was more or less insane because of them. Committed all manner of war crimes which mostly got swept under the rug, then defected after the war ended and had to be put down. Not before destroying vast swathes of London and killing a couple Royals in the process. Regular Royals, as the Brits had long since overthrown their Immortal Monarch. I know all this because I’ve met the guy’s grandson. Edward Elten. Real nice fellow all things considered, and a good friend. Fact is, my daddy got the idea of using non-verbal communication with Chrissy from interacting with Edward, who spends most his time bird watching, when he ain’t tearing Abby apart with his bare hands. Claws. Whatever.
Always eager to earn, Sarah Jay brings the conversation back to the Spell Core in her hands and asks, “Why you hanging onto three of them?”
“Because of something Danny told me,” I reply. “Long story short, Ablative Armour is a useful Spell Core, but we don’t got the infrastructure to make use of it just yet. Time was, everyone considered it a junk Core, because to get it working, you’d have to calibrate it for each specific user’s physical dimensions. Then, if they gained or lost weight, you’d have to recalibrate it again, which made it real awkward to use long term. During the First World War however, some Sicilian automakers got the bright idea of using the Spell Core to armour an inanimate object, like a truck or tank. Took a lot of finagling and more energy than you’d like, but it worked real good. Didn’t really take off in popularity until the Second World War though, when some Prussian Artificer figured out how to configure the resulting ectoplasmic armour to draw power from an Aetheric dynamo, which all vehicles have. With that in place, you could cast the Spell using the Spell Core and crystallized Aether, then restore the damaged bits using Aetheric energy from the dynamo, which really stretches the longevity of each cast and the protection it provide.”
“That’s nifty,” Sarah Jay says, stuffing the Spell Core into her breast pocket. “How come we can’t do none of that just yet?”
“Because the tech needed is too difficult to make by hand,” I replied, giving a little shrug. “Something about silicon wafers and circuit boards and other such doodads. Also Aether concentration levels are too low to make it cost effective, so we gotta wait until after the Watershed anyways.”
Stopping Errol before he asks another question, I point at the target on the barn wall and he goes back to his drills. Draw, aim, shoot, reload, repeat, with a second-long pause between each step to make him think every action through. Inane though it may seem, this isn’t to punish him, but to help. He’s always too rushed and skips over a few steps, like pulling the trigger before he aim’s down sight. The exercise trains him to build good habits, including keeping his finger off the trigger at all times except when firing.
As for Sarah Jay, her issue is a bit trickier to tackle, and I ain’t got no idea what to do about her stage fright in the short term. It’s a matter of confidence, and her’s is shattered after what went down, so I gots to build it up. She does fine when she’s got a plan laid out for her, it’s just the element of surprise throwing her for a loop. Competence breeds confidence though, so training and experience will get her there, so I set her to doing drills too while talking them both through a couple common schemes they might run into on the road. Fake missing children, lured Abby attacks, staged drownings, and so much more, the number of schemes I’ve come across in my time on the Frontier are too many to list, but most got one thing in common. They target your emotions, because people tend to think less when emotions run high, which is a luxury we can’t afford.
“Doesn’t matter how dire the circumstances may appear,” I say, correcting Errol’s posture with the El-Minister so he ain’t bending his neck and head sideways over the sight. “You always look before you leap. You only got one life, which means you gotta take care of yourself first before helping others. Even if the problem is real, what good are you if you jump in to save a drowning kid only to find out he’s caught in a riptide?”
Neither one of my prospects answers, which is how I know it’s time for a break. Once they’re done locking up their rifles, I lead the scrawny horses I claimed from the bandits yesterday out of the barn. “You’re bringing them out to sell?” Errol asks, and I nod in reply. “Ah,” he says, looking hesitant as he shows his hand to one of the nags and winces as she dances away in fear. “I thought, you know, you might want to keep them. I could train them up right. Get them healthy and presentable so you get a better price.”
It's a weak argument and Errol knows it, so I don’t turn him down right away. “It’d double our travel time just to get them back to New Hope,” I say, trying to let him down gentle. “They barely had the legs to make it twenty klicks yesterday. It’ll take weeks before they’re travel ready, and longer still to make ‘em presentable. Besides, who’ll look after them while we’re out and about? Better if they’re sold to someone who got the time and inclination.”
“Most won’t bother,” Errol says, still holding his hand out for the same horse while he’s turned to the side. If I did that with old Tux, he’d nip me good, but these scrawny horses are too scared to even try.
“Don’t you worry, Errol.” Flashing a smile, I tell him, “Meadowbrook’s got plenty of ploughs which need pulling. These horses will be treated right so they can be put to work, and we’ll trade them for one that can carry you out tomorrow.”
Even with the trade, it costs me a pretty penny to buy a horse to replace Bruno, a snowy white gelding who Errol immediately names Ivory. While resisting the urge to make the obvious joke, I must’ve made some sort of face, because he looks at me with a wry little smile. “I know you must think I’m stupid or something,” Errol says, “Naming the horse again after everything that happened. I get why you told us not to get attached, because you’re worried we’ll lose the horse and it’ll hurt more because we named it. Makes sense, but I think that’s the wrong way to go about it. If we don’t name him, and we lose him, it might not hurt as much, but if we do name him, we might also think twice before doing something stupid that could cost Ivory here his life.”
He's got me there, and I can’t help but grin as I give Ivory a pat on the nose. “You a wise man Errol,” I say, as I lead him down towards the market distract for a spot of lunch. “And I hope you right, because my wallet can’t handle much more of this.”
An arm appears over my shoulder and closes in on my neck. My heart seizes and stomach clenches as I duck under the attack and pivot about to meet my assailant. My fingers just barely graze the Rattlesnake before I realize who it is, and I stop myself short before drawing on Sarah Jay. “Sorry,” she says, her eyes wide in a mixture of surprise and amusement as she stands there with one arm around Errol’s shoulders to pull him in close for a hug. “Just wanted a bit of a group hug is all, seeing how my boys were getting along again.”
Heaving a sigh of relief that is wholly at odds with my burning embarrassment, I cough and try to make light of my overreaction. “Sorry,” I say, pretending not to notice her unspoken invitation to complete the hug and turning away. “Was surprised is all.”
“I’ll say.” Sarah Jay is too clever by far, and she can see something is up, but unlike miss Laura, she don’t recognize it for what it is. Lucky her, but as her brow furrows in genuine worry, she decides to change the topic rather than push the issue. “I know you joking about your wallet and all, but you gotta be hurtin’. You talked about a few types of jobs you don’t take. What sort of jobs do you take then?”
“Odd jobs mostly.” Even though it’s not the answer she wants, it’s all I really got. “Could’ve made a bill or two selling my wares up in Nakoda, but the real profits come from selling to the settlements off the Highway. They don’t get as much traffic, so they tend to pay more, though you gotta be willing to accept payment in barter.” It’s also dangerous, because the folks who don’t live in proper towns do so for good reason, but I don’t want to overwhelm them with tales of the cultists, cannibals, and crazies you tend to encounter when moving off the beaten path. “Come summer, trade usually slows down as the big companies pick up the slack, so I’ll usually find a contract shuttlin’ supplies somewhere. This year would mean going south past Redeemer’s Keep. Three new fortresses slated to go up this summer means plenty of work to be done, and I’ll typically hunt Abby and collect whatever resources I come across on my way back.” Doubt I’ll do much of that with Errol and Sarah Jay in tow, because they ain’t gonna be ready for the badlands anytime soon. “Can make a mint finding Abby burrows and Aether node too. Never tried clearing or mining ‘em myself. Too dangerous, but the finder’s fee is a decent wage for not much work, and I usually get paid for transport too.” Once my prospects are up to snuff though, then work can really start picking up, though I leave the first part unsaid. “Early winter, I usually head north to join a muscari hunt. Ain’t much profit, but pemmican stores well and there always folks in need of pelts. Come next spring, there’ll be plenty looking to move into the new settlements down south, so we could make a decent wage escortin’ them to their destinations. Won’t be easy, as there’ll be outlaws looking to prey on newcomers, but the Rangers will probably offer a blanket bounty on any bandits killed while operating in the area.”
There’s plenty more work out there if you’re willing to do it. I tend not to, because there more money in hunting Abby, so long as you ain’t hunting goblins. Feral Abby are bigger and stronger, but also less numerous, which makes them easier and more profitable to kill and cook. They also tend to have more Spell Cores, because unlike goblins, orcs, and their ilk, Ferals ain’t the best at slinging Spells any other way. This’ll all have to wait until after Pleasant Dunes though, when I can dedicate time to really training Errol and Sarah Jay, not to mention maybe get them into Basic with me come summer. I still don’t think I need the extra training, not after having seen their lackluster results, but the Marshal made it clear he won’t give me any more difficult jobs unless I go through the rigamarole and show everyone I got the chops.
Not gonna lie, I’m good at what I do, but I ain’t so arrogant as to think I can delve down into an Abby burrow and take out a Progenitor by my lonesome, or even with my own crew. Best to do so with the Rangers at my back, which means going along with the Marshal’s plans. Doubt he’ll send me delving anytime soon, but might be he gets me work supporting an operation, let me see how it goes down and get in good with the delving teams. That’s where the best money is, albeit for good reason; only the best can fight Abby down under dark in their cramped tunnels and make it back out alive, much less clear it out to mine for crystallized Aether and other precious resources. Me, I intend to be the best there ever was, but everybody’s gotta get started somewhere, and ain’t no better option for me, Errol, and Sarah Jay besides learning with the Rangers.
That’s long term of course, but for now, it looks like I’ll have to tighten my belt for a bit unless I can find some time to slip away this summer and get a good hunt in the badlands.
These thoughts and more run through my head as I put my prospects through more drills for the rest of the day, while simultaneously getting ready for the long trip to Pleasant Dunes. The busywork brings us all around town until I call it quits about an hour before dinner, when we head to the south gates. Soon enough, the Ranger delegation arrives right on schedule, and I see a number of familiar faces, including Tim who’s much too busy wrangling boots to spare time for a tongue wag. Don’t stop Errol and Sarah Jay from chatting up their friends, and soon as the boots are set loose, my sorta-sister rides over atop old Tux, the black and white piebald that carried my daddy about for nigh over a decade. He almost as old as I am, which is downright ancient for a horse, though he looking hale and healthy as ever as he trots over and tosses his mane before leaning in for a nibble of my outstretched hand. A love bite is all it is, and his reunion with baby Cowie is a sight for sore eyes as Old Tux sets to grooming his best little friend.
As for Tina, she looks like a right proper Ranger sitting up top in her peach-white button up and brown Stetson. Should get her a hat-band and a recording medallion of her own, maybe something with a bird, but that’ll have to wait until I have cash to spare. Strikes me that she’ll have finished Basic by the time summer rolls around, so maybe we could find time for a quick hunt in the badlands to put her through her paces and make sure the Rangers trained her up right. With her skills to back me up, we could earn some real cash if we hit the right targets, a thought which puts a big smile on my face, which in turn puts a smile on Tina’s. “Howdy stranger,” she says, tipping her Stetson with a grin. “Fancy seeing you here. Figured you’d be in Wabasca by now.”
“Well, you know how it is,” I say, using the same hand old Tux slobbered on to help her off the horse. Earns me a puffed cheek pout as she wipes her hand off on my duster instead of going for a hug, which was pretty much the plan. “Heard about a new Ranger outpost north of town and figured it for the perfect chance to get some huntin’ in with my new prospects. Earned us a fistful of Aberrtin and a Spell Core to boot. Ablative Armour.”
Giving me a look that says she ain’t buying what I’m selling, Tina leans in and asks, “How they doing then?”
“Off to a bumpy start,” I say, before lowering my voice. “Ain’t looking good, but here’s hopin’.”
“Mmh. We’ll talk more about that later.” Glancing around to make sure she isn’t overhead, Tina blows her blonde bangs out of her blue eyes and asks, “So what’s this all about then? They said it’s a live-fire training exercise, but I know something’s up, and I know you mixed up in it too, else you wouldn’t be hanging around. They handed out Forzares and Strelkies instead of our usual El-Ministers. Armour Penetrating Aetherarms, just like the .45 you bought me, so you gots some explaining to do, mister.”
“Not here,” I say. Catching Ava’s dark scowl from across the street and responding with a grin, I lead Tina and Tux out and away from the crowd. “C’mon. Marcus has been cooking all afternoon, so you in for a real treat. I’ll tell you all about it while we eat.”
Feels like forever and a day since I sat across the bar from Ron Jackson, and now that we’re almost there, I can’t wait to get back. Won’t be riding in alone this time, so with a little luck, I might not even get shot again.
Course, with how the dice have been rolling so far, chances of that seem slim to none.