Dinner is once again a toothsome affair, but that’s to be expected in the Clay household.
The food is so good I feel all but obliged to let my prospects off for the night at Marcus’ request, but not without a warning first. “Don’t be getting in no trouble now, you hear?” I say, trying to keep my tone light and breezy. “No drugs or alcohol, and if you get in a brawl, you best win, because I ain’t postin’ bail for no losers. Spent enough on you both already.”
“No,” Marcus interjects, looking all offended like I’d said something controversial. “No brawling. What are you teaching them, Howie?”
“How to be winners.” And survive, because showing weakness is a good way to get yourself killed. Marcus don’t get it because folks don’t run Rangers out of town, not in any direct manner, but I’ve been around a bit and ain’t welcome in many a settlement, so I know what I’m talking about. Waving my prospects out the door with Marcus and Simone hot on their heels, I help Tina collect the dishes and get to washing while she rinses. “Ought to teach them to do chores instead,” I grumble as I scrub away at the first plate. “Didn’t pick up two prospects just to nanny them full time, so how come that’s what it feels like I been doing?”
“You tryin’ to say something Howie?” Tina asks, studying me from the side as she soaps up a dish. “You been real grumpy all night when it comes to Errol and Sarah Jay, picking at them like a vulture. Part of that bumpy start you won’t talk about?”
“Yea, more or less.” Which is where I intend to leave it, but between my need to vent and the fact that Tina might learn something from their mistakes, I tell her everything that happened. “So Cowie moves off of Errol and I take his guns right? And the whole time he’s looking at me like I’m some monster, accusin’ me of murder like them banditos wasn’t fixin’ to put a hole in his head.” Feels good to give voice to my grievances, which I been keeping close to the chest, since airing it out with Errol and Sarah Jay won’t do no good. They know they done wrong and aiming to fix it, so no sense kicking them while they already down. “And you know what really sticks in my craw?” I ask, getting a little too carried away. “Me and Cowie risked our hides to save theirs, and all this time, I ain’t heard word one of thanks. Ain’t like I want them grovellin’, but a simple, ‘hey thanks for taking that hit and keeping us alive’ would be nice, you know?”
“You got shot again?”
Oops. Meant to leave that out. “Grazed,” I reply, turning away to put away the dishes and hide my embarrassment, only to be reminded of what she said the last time I tried to play down getting shot. “Seriously, barely nicked me.” Left two holes in my duster though, which I Mended with the last of my spare materials. Gonna need to buy more Augmented leather and ask Aunty Ray for some wally wool sheets if I’m gonna keep getting shot. “But that just adds to my point. I got clipped, but they both seem to think it’s just business as usual, you know? Didn’t ask me how I was doing, did they? Feels a mite ungrateful is all.” Especially since I got shot from behind while I was taking down the bandit who’d come riding in. Could’ve hunkered down instead, gone after the ones in the woods, then taken out the rider once he was in my sights, but I didn’t because that would’ve given him a free shot or two at Errol and Sarah Jay. I figured my prized pupil would have my back, put down cover fire into the trees to keep them shooters hiding, but she didn’t fire off a single shot.
Which again, I didn’t bring up because I didn’t want them feeling worse than they already do. Can’t be crippling their confidence right when they start, because confidence is what they need. You get that sorted, and you halfway sorted.
Resting her head on my shoulder in a placating half-hug, Tina hip checks me after the fact to bump me off my high horse and goes right back to drying. “You tell them any of this, or you play it all cool and casual like you always do?” she asks. “Far as they know, that shootout was business as usual for the Firstborn.”
“It was, but it’s the principal of the matter, understand?” Even I know my argument is weak, so I heave a sigh and say, “Look, I know it’s petty and dumb, but I don’t mean nothin’ by it. Just venting is all.”
“I get it. You thought it’d be fun and games, but turns out teaching prospects is actual work.” Leaning forward to look at me sideways while I vigorously scrub a pot, Tina bats her big blues in mock sympathy and asks, “You doing alright Howie? You want I should find a marty for you to pet?”
Now, Tina’s making fun, but that actually don’t sound half bad. “I said I knew it was petty. Don’t got to rub it in.”
Sticking her tongue out and looking adorable as all heck, Tina says, “You can’t play the big bad gunfighter and get upset when folks buy the whole schtick. Besides, you keep riding them so hard, you’ll either push them away or watch them jump ship the moment they get a better offer.” Resting her head on my shoulder again, she asks, “You okay though? Asking for real this time.”
“Yea, I’m fine.” And I am, just annoyed is all. “Not so sure what to do though. Can’t trust them to do what they’re told no more, or even do what’s right for them. How hard is it to take cover when folks start shootin’?” Tina don’t got an answer this time around, and I sense something amiss. “What’s the matter Songbird? My bellyaching too much?”
“No, no.” Giving me the barest ghost of a smile, Tina shakes her head. “It’s nice to hear you complain for once. Better than you waving it off like nothing, at least. Shows you’re taking it seriously, though I’m thinking you’re more concerned about their safety than yours.”
“Well, yea. I know how to handle myself.”
“Says the man who’s been shot twice this month.” Turning on me in a huff, Tina hits me with her best glare, one that fall’s short of Aunty Ray’s, but not by much. “Don’t matter how good you are, Howie. Any layabout with an Aetherarm could take you out if they put a Bolt in the right place, and that there is the truth, no two ways about it. You best start taking better care of yourself out there, else I’ll set Chrissy to latch onto your neck and never let you out of her sights again.”
“Psh.” Touched as I am, I can’t rightly show it, because as the big brother in this here dynamic, it’s my job to rag on my little sister, so she toughens up and learns not to take no guff from no man. “See who buys you dresses then, once I’m stuck homebound and broke.”
“We can live without fancy dresses Howie,” Tina hits back. “Would much rather have you healthy and whole is all, so don’t you go risking life and limb for no clothes.”
“…Will do ma’am.” Ain’t no winning against Tina, not when she’s spitting facts, and truth be told, I’m really looking forward to fighting Abby with her. “So how you feeling now that you know what’s what? Scared? Excited?”
“Bit of both.” After a bit of a pause, she gives me a sideways look and adds, “More nervous really, after hearing how bad Errol and Sarah Jay had it. They weren’t at the tippy top, but they wasn’t mediocre neither, so now I’m not sure how I’ll hold up. What if I make a mess of things just like they did?”
Ah. So that’s why she was looking so sour. “Well, why you think I’m here?” Giving her a little hip bump of my own, I add, “Like I’d let you go into your first fight without being there to take pictures and watch your back. You’ll do great Tina, and if things turn south, then you just follow me and I’ll see you through it safe.”
Would be best if I could suss out that Proggie before any real fighting goes down, because Tina’s right. All it takes is the right Bolt in the wrong place to really ruin your day, and there’ll be a whole lot worse than just Bolts flying around if it comes down to a straight up fight. Luckily I got Cowie and my armoured wagon, which means if push comes to shove, I got a better chance than most of getting us out alive, me, Tina, and whoever else happens to be close by when the going gets good.
So lost in my plans of what to do about Pleasant Dunes, it takes a good minute before I realize Tina is crying, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. “What’s wrong, Songbird? Something I said?”
“Yea?” Nodding as the tears stream down her cheeks, she switches to shaking her head right away. “But it’s okay. Happy tears.” Which is about the most backwards thing I’ve ever heard of, but I’m more or less use to it by now. Since she looks like she wants one, I open my arms up for a hug, and she all but throws herself into my chest and cries a bit more. “Just you been so distant lately,” she says between sobs. “So its nice to know you still care.”
“Course I care.” Can’t help but feel guilty as I say it, because it wasn’t that long ago that me and Tina were thick as thieves, same as me and Chrissy really. Maybe closer even. Then Tina grew… well, everywhere, and I developed a whole host of hangups about it all. It ain’t her fault though, and I ain’t never said nothing, so I can see why she might’ve thought I didn’t care anymore. “I ain’t the best at showing it,” I say, hugging her for all I’m worth and fightin’ back the panic, “But we family. You know that right? Ain’t nothin’ ever gonna change that.”
Which oddly enough only makes her cry more and hug harder, so I keep quiet, pat her back, and count prime numbers to distract myself from her scent and softness. Thankfully, Tina regains her usual cheer after a bit and we go back to doing dishes, after which she invites me out to meet her friends for a drink and a chat. Waving the suggestion off, I make a face and say, “Terrible idea. Told my prospects they best behave, so how’s it gonna look if I get thrown in the clink myself?”
“You gonna have to meet everyone eventually, you know.” Hands on her hips and cheeks in full puff, Tina pouts and adds, “Besides, why can’t you just behave? Ain’t all that difficult mister. Just keep your hands to yourself instead of throwing them at the first fool who looks at you sideways.”
“Sounds complicated.” Giving her my best smile as I shoo her off to have fun, I add, “Besides, I’m getting somewhere with Mage Armour, and don’t know when I’ll have a chance to practice after tonight.” Bad form to waste Spells on training out in the field, since it puts more of a burden on those around you.
Tina gets it, but she also doesn’t, because familiarity with Spells comes too easily to her, unlike those of us who have to work at it. “I swear Howie, you obsessed with training. Ain’t anyone ever told you it’s alright to take a break every once in awhile?”
“Good habits are hard to make,” I reply, my smile softening as I hear the words in my daddy’s voice. “While bad habits hard to break. It is what it is, Songbird. Go have fun. You need some spending money?”
Thankfully, the answer is no, because I could use some myself. Least now the Rangers’ll foot the bill for my ammunition, and I’m even getting paid to haul cargo to Pleasant Dunes. Wagon’s all loaded up and ready for pickup in the morning, so I work out and sling Spells until I can’t do neither no more. My last shower before the long trek through the desert is a blissful one, and the second I step out, I already miss it, but them’s the breaks. I’m already up in the hayloft with Cowie by the time the others get back, and I tell myself I’m not missing out on anything much. I ain’t ever been one for friends, on account of spending so much time out riding with my daddy since I was eight. I mean, sure I know the names of people my age, but after my daddy passed and Aunty Ray sent me to school, only thing I learned was I didn’t have anything in common with any of the other students, not even Tina and Danny. They was all stressed and worried about homework and tests, or concerned about some drama or the other that only they really cared about. Then there was the stuff all the kids cared about, but didn’t matter one bit, like the latest fashion trends and where to hang out.
Seemed trivial is all, especially knowing how much worse other folks got it. There people out there worrying about freezing over the winter, so excuse me if I can’t sympathize with the poor teen who couldn’t get his fancy new shirt in the colour he wanted. Didn’t help that the lessons were way behind what my daddy had been teaching me. Even English, which was odd, considering it was the only language most of the other students could speak. You’d think they’d be better at it, but some of them could barely even read, though mostly for lack of trying. So I talked to Aunty Ray, then Uncle Teddy, aced a bunch of written tests, and got myself out of school right quick. Spent the year doing odd jobs instead, building up that nest egg and whatnot, but there’ve been times when I wonder what I’d be like if I went to school and made friends like a normal kid. Having seen the results, I can’t say I’m too torn up about missing out, but I also can’t say I wasn’t looking forward to making friends with Errol and Sarah Jay, except now I can’t. A friend ain’t what they need. What they need is a teacher and a leader, someone they’ll listen to when things go south. For better or for worse, I’m all they got, so that’s what I gotta be.
It's okay though. I got Cowie, who’s all the friend a man could need.
The next morning is a busy one as I wake up bright and early again to help Simone with breakfast, since Marcus has got things to do and places to be. Nothing fancy, but fresh bread, hot beans, and crispy bacon always hits the spot, and once we all fuelled up, me and my prospects meet up with the Rangers at the northern warehouses, where my wagon sits waiting. Packed to the brim with ammunition no less, because there are only so many bull-driven tanks laying around, so they might as well put it to good use. I wouldn’t want to be driving no open-backed wagon packed with crates of ammunition, no sir, not when a stray Bolt has a chance of setting the whole payload off and sending shards of brass in all directions. I know I said crystallized Aether is stable and don’t explode much, but even a small explosion can get you when it sets off a big ol’ chain of ‘em. The chances ain’t high, but it ain’t nothing either, and those chances rise sharply when you throw in Spells like Elemental Orb, Shatter, or good ol’ reliable Fireball. Least if my cargo gets set off, it’s contained inside a steel box, and doubly so considering how gobbos have proven themselves clever enough to target things that go boom.
Which is why everything is packed in similar looking crates, so as not to give away what’s inside them. Well, everything except water, and while there’s enough to be found in the desert proper to get by, I’m still hoping the pencil pushers did their math right. I’d feel much better having my own stores of water in the wagon, but that’s my trust issues talking for me.
Easy to see that Errol and Sarah Jay are mighty nervous as we gather around my wagon, eyeing the other boots and trading nods or glares as appropriate. A few familiar faces stand out, like the crewcuts I smacked around almost two weeks back, standing with chests puffed and guns shouldered, or Cute Bow Girl who’s name I’ve forgotten again, looking fetching as can be with her long, golden-brown hair plaited in a side ponytail hanging over her left shoulder. The off-white army hat kind of ruins the look, as does the bandolier she wears just brimming with knives. Meant for throwing, I’m guessing, as they ain’t got no proper hilts to them, not like on the two bigger knives tucked into her belt. Suppose I ought to call them small swords instead, as that’s what they are, both criss-crossed together in their sheathes on her left hip. She’s also got two quivers fixed to her belt, one on her hip and the other behind her back, both jam packed with arrows to use with the recurve bow she carries around in place of a rifle.
“Seen enough?” Catching my gaze with a narrowed glare, Cute Bow Girl’s soft brow eyes peer out from under her ruffled, uneven bangs and bore deep into the back of my head, like she’s fixing to put an arrow through me. She got a real cute glower though, on account of the baby fat that she ain’t lost off her cheeks just yet, and I can’t help but swoon inside. Especially given her accent, one so slight it’s barely there, but you can tell from her clipped tones that she’s really working to enunciate each syllable proper.
“Just wonderin’ if you got somethin’ against guns is all,” I reply, though in truth, I might’ve been admiring the way her bandolier settles against her modest curves, which are again accentuated by her slender frame. “If you need to borrow one, I got a couple spares in the trunk.”
Which is a genuine offer, but in hindsight I realize it could sound condescending. Luckily, she ain’t as hot tempered as her little brother and settles for more glaring, which I meet head on because I like the look of her honey-brown eyes. Would love to see her smile, but it’s not meant to be, so I break it off before I get lost in her gaze and go on about my wagon inspection.
“Play nice Howie,” Tina whispers, showing she don’t know me as well as she thinks she does. That was nice, or an attempt at least, so I wave her off and crouch down for a look at the axles. Once down there, I’m promptly greeted by a white fanged furball sitting prim and proper as can be, a little beastie you could pick up and punt like a football. Growling up a storm, it bares its fangs and lashes its three tails about, which is the only clue I need to remember that this is Cute Bow Girl’s conjured partner. Tina called it a fox, but what’s its name? “Hiya, Fluff,” I say, having long since forgotten, as names ain’t all that important to me. “You eat?” Reaching into my duster pocket, I fish out a tin of star-melon candies and rattle it about. “Want a hard candy?”
The little furball instantly stops growling and its pointy ears prickle in interest as I pop the tin and take a candy out for it to inspect. After a dainty little sniff, it accepts the offering and carries it off in its tiny, fanged mouth faster than my eyes can follow. By the time I spot it again, it’s curled up in Cute Bow Girl’s arms looking adorable as can be, its head raised and mouth working as it licks the candied treat. Course, Cute Bow Girl ain’t none too pleased, glowering for all she’s worth. “Do not feed Inari strange things,” she says, though I notice she’s making no effort to take the candy away.
“My bad,” I reply, because to be fair, she’s right. I figured eating couldn’t do it no harm, what with it being a Summoned beastie and all. Far as I know, they don’t actually need sustenance, since they’re Ectoplasmic constructs bound by a strand the caster’s Soul or Spirit or what have you. They’re simply conjured into existence by the Spell, and fade back into the Immaterium when it’s done. Don’t see why they can’t enjoy a little taste while they here though, hence the offer. Then again, I suppose Inari there could be an exception to the rule, since Cute Bow Girl has some way to keep the little fox around 24/7.
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It's only after the tin is back in my pocket that I realize I should’ve offered her one too, but it’s too late for regrets. Instead, I spend an inordinate amount of time staring at the bottom of my wagon and lamenting my lack of social graces before I feel ready to stand up again. While I was hoping no one noticed anything, Sarah Jay’s knowing smile dashes those hopes to pieces as she raises one eyebrow in comical question. Rather than engage, I shrug and ask, “Y’all check your saddlebags? Make sure everything there?” Suitably chastised, she hurries off to do as I say with Errol in tow, I ignore Tina’s warning glower and turn away, only to come face to face with a dour and matronly grimace.
Ain’t a lot of yellow to be found round these parts, as they mostly stick together, and not without reason. Siam, Xiongnu, Tubo, Nanyue, Khmer, Srivijaya and more, all those minor nations in South East Asia spent centuries living under the Qin Immortal Monarch’s boot, slave nations one and all that were just barely able to hang onto their own distinctive cultures. Then, after the Qin Immortal Monarch’s death, most understandably rose up in rebellion. Given how the Qin Republic was busy sorting their own government out, they couldn’t be bothered with keeping their ‘inferiors’ in line, but that didn’t make those uprisings any less bloody. After the Second World War, almost no one wanted to keep fighting, as the world lost some 100 million plus lives over the course of five or six years of fighting. That didn’t stop those foreign governments from wanting a piece of those new nations of the East though. Was decades before it became common knowledge that all those civil wars were being funded by world superpowers backing their own regimes, and the people living in those war-torn countries were not happy to say the least.
So unhappy that most actually went back to the Qin Republic for aid, which I don’t really get, but that’s how it is. Either way, aside from Nippon, who were never under the Qin Immortal Monarch’s thumb and hitched their wagon onto the U.F.A, and Goryeo, who got in good with the Soviets, most yellows have joined up with the Qin Republic on the Frontier and tend to stick with their own. Course, there are plenty of immigrants who moved to other countries, like Captain Ava Jung standing before me, a Goryeon-American whose family immigrated shortly after the Immortal’s war in 1946, yet is still somehow considered foreign by most American nationals. “Howie,” she says by way of greeting, standing all of five-foot five and no less imposing for it. Stocky is the only way to describe her, though sturdy and athletic fit the bill too, with hair as dark as mine and cropped close in as masculine a hair bob can get. Fair of skin and hard of eyes, she studies me up and down as I fight the urge to stand up straight or go for my gun, because next to the Marshal, Ava Jung might well be the most dangerous and accomplished Spellslinger this side of the Divide.
And that’s in general. If we talking about pure destructive abilities alone, then Ava takes the prize, no contest.
A prize well-deserved, as she comes from a military family and has served all her life. Before coming to the Frontier, she was a door-kicker for the U.F Marines, an accomplished Evoker who’s seen more action in the old world than most have seen here on the Frontier. That’s not what makes me nervous though, because I know plenty of dangerous folk, but most of them have a bit of a soft spot for the Firstborn. Not Ava, and while I believe it’s because she don’t like people in general, I can never shake the feeling that she hates me just a little bit more just because I’m Qin. Course, she’s never said or done anything to give me reason to suspect, but when you live your life trying to overcome your racial heritage, it’s hard not to suspect it when things go disastrously wrong.
“Spell Loadout?” Ava asks, and I mentally correct myself and change it to Captain Jung before I make a huge mistake. This minor delay is all it takes to darken the scowl on her face, and her piercing gaze does what Cute Bow Girl tried and failed to accomplish. “I asked you a question, boot. I expect an answer.”
“Sir, Sorry Captain Jung, Sir. Scout, but Heavy,” I reply, and only just barely stop myself from snapping off a salute. “Sir.” I hope she won’t be in charge of the next class of boots, because truth be told, she’s kind of a big part of why I refused to sign up in the first place. The Iron Maiden scares the bejesus outta me, and I ain’t ashamed to admit it.
I can tell she’s not entirely pleased by how vague my reply is, but she also accepts that no Spellslinger likes to share their list of prepared Spells. “How heavy?”
“Uh… Not very?” Shrugging, I say, “I’ll make do in a pinch, but won’t be good for much else after. Sir.”
Giving a short growl in discontent, Captain Jung gives me a heated glare for daring to waste her time even mentioning it. Jerking a thumb over her shoulder, she says, “I want you scouting out ahead. Won’t have you napping instead of earning your keep. Check in with Lieutenant Wayne for your assignment.
What does she mean earn my keep? Am I getting paid? I probably should’ve asked Marcus for more details, but I don’t dare ask Ava, so I turn to my prospects and say, “Change of plans. If I’m scouting, y’all are wagon bound so we can keep the horses well-rested.”
Mostly because there’s a lot of back and forth when you scouting, which wears out a horse more than usual. To their credit, neither prospect complains, and Sarah Jay even looks happier for it, though I know I won’t be after a full day of riding. Still, nothing for it except to give Cowie a goodbye pat before grabbing my Ranger repeater and hopping onto Ivory to see how he handles. Doesn’t take long to find Wayne in the press, who greets me from atop his horse with his little rat-faced smile, all bug-eyed and toothy. “Howie,” he says, and I give him a nod in reply. “As I live and breathe. The Firstborn riding point for the Rangers. Never thought I’d see the day.”
Rather than rise to his needling, I just give him a shrug and wait for my assignment, which he gives after a beat. “You and Michael here are on the right flank, sweeping a half hour ahead of the convoy. You are not to engage unless fired upon. At first sign of any possible threat, you are to safely fall back and report in. If you are pursued, then the call is Forecast, followed by Rain when asked to confirm. Signal word today is Action, response, Surge. Clear?”
“Crystal,” I reply, riding off with Michael in tow, who turns out to be a slim, white, all-American crew cut like most of the boots in Basic. He don’t say much as we ride out the gates, and proceeds to dive straight into the trees without so much as a how-you-do. He’s taking his job serious, so I keep mum and let him sweep our surroundings for signs of infiltrators as we proceed east alongside the Highway, as if there’d be bandits hiding behind every tree trunk or under the bushes. Were there an ambush lying in wait, the only way he’d find them is if he stepped on them, and by then it’d be too late to make much of a difference. Got a lot to learn before he’s ready for the Rangers, but considering where Errol and Sarah Jay were at when they washed out, I doubt Michael here knows enough to keep himself alive.
“Eyes up,” I say, and Michael’s first instinct is to obey before his brain actually kicks in to wonder why he’s gotta listen. “Won’t do you no good spottin’ an ambush you about to walk into, which is what’ll happen if you keep starin’ at your feet. Look off into the distance instead, because while ambushers will work to stay hidden, they also gotta keep an eye out for their target, so that’s what you looking for. Try not to focus on any one thing at a time, just take it all in as a whole. See the forest without getting lost in the trees, if you know what I mean.”
Judging by Michael’s deadpan expression, he doesn’t, but he nods and accepts the advice anyways. Having long since gotten into the habit of lecturing on the go, I give him the crash course on stealth and awareness. Between snippets of advice, Michael reveals that all the boots are on rotation and having a try at the different combat roles, just so they get an idea of what they ought to be doing. Makes sense, since I didn’t think anyone would bother ambushing a sixty-plus-man Ranger caravan anyways, even if more than half are boots. Marcus sent a full company of twenty battle-trained Rangers to help Pleasant Dunes, alongside thirty-nine boots and their teaching staff. Add in me, Errol, and Sarah Jay, and it makes for a right formidable force it does, and there ain’t any outlaw outfits round these parts big enough to hit a target like us. Not even here in No Man’s Land, but I learned it’s always better to be safe than sorry.
Fact is, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, you could mosey right on down the Highway without so much as a care in the world. It’s that one time that gets you though, and I suppose the stakes are higher than usual considering what our caravan is carrying. Weapons and ammo enough to wage war against Abby, and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn there’s another full company of Rangers headed towards Meadowbrook to escort a larger, slower moving munitions caravan. That’s all above my paygrade though, so I focus on the job in front of me, namely showing Michael the ropes. He’s a good enough sort, far as I can tell. Not great for conversation, but he a soldier born, or one who been training since he could walk. Shows in the way he yields to authority, naturally without appearing meek or naïve. He stays on task at all times and absorbs everything I teach him while integrating it with what he already knows. Not the best horseman, but not terrible either, and he holds his Strelky Type 56 Carbine like a man who knows how to use it. Doesn’t take long before he looks like a proper scout too, with his head on a swivel and eyes forward as he rides at a calm and steady pace.
To my surprise, we actually find something worth reporting after two hours in the brush, and it takes a split second to figure out the game. Rather than ruin the surprise, I sit back and wait for Michael to take notice, which he does a few seconds later. “Possible contact,” he whispers, unslinging his rifle, but I’m right there ready and waiting to make sure he don’t do nothing dumb.
“Orders are to not engage,” I whisper, and wait to see if he argues the fact, but good soldier that he is, he nods and looks at the threat once again, a little poorly camouflaged tree stand less than a hundred meters away with what looks like a person sitting inside. It’s a dummy, just a bunch of twigs wrapped in a cloak with a hat slapped overtop, but to Michael’s eyes, it’s a sharpshooter lying in wait. No idea when the Rangers had time to set this all up, but it’s a level of detail I can appreciate.
Which is why I don’t interfere and follow Michael’s lead as we slip away quick and quiet as can be, only to pick up the pace once we’re out of ear shot. Not fifteen minutes later, we hear the challenge, “Action.”
I pull up to a stop, but Michael keeps ploughing on ahead and says, “Uh… Surge.”
“Too late. Already dead.” Popping out of thin air, Tim dismisses his Invisibility and shakes his head. “Stop when you’re challenged and answer quick, because friendly fire ain’t all that friendly, understood?”
“Sir, yes sir.”
“Report.”
Again, I leave it to Michael to handle all this, since he’s the one who needs practice. Doesn’t do a terrible job either, as it’s all been ingrained into him from young. Once he’s got the message across, we head back with Tim to check on the threat, which he assesses from long range as soon as Michael points it out and not a moment before. “Bang, threat neutralized,” Tim says, without any dramatic flair whatsoever or even unshouldering his beautiful battle rifle, an M4 Gromph with a gorgeous caramel wood stock and blue-steel barrel. 44-40 that hits hard and hits often, but hell if I know how its name is supposed to be pronounced. Gas-operated semi-automatic that’ll shoot as fast as my Repeater but hit at least twice as hard without the need to work a lever or bolt. Unsilenced and accurate as all heck, I want one real bad, but they’re designed with machining in mind, and we ain’t got no factory for it yet, meaning Tim’s rifle was hand made with painstaking effort and far too expensive for me to afford.
Since Tim doesn’t care to say much else, I pat Michael on the back and say, “Good job.”
“What?”
Still having yet to catch on, Michael looks at little lost, so I explain, “Training exercise.”
It’s a treat to watch the adrenaline drain right out of him. “Oh,” he says, both relieved and disappointed after getting all amped up for a fight.
“You did good,” I say. “Tell him Tim.”
“You did okay.” Turning his horse around, Tim sets off at a slow and sedate pace. “Walk him through what he did wrong, Howie.”
Tim ain’t one for kind words, or many words at all, so I talk Michael through all the stuff he missed, like the other target to our left closer to the Highway, and the ‘pitfall’ trap he led all three of us right over, except it wasn’t actually a pitfall, just a pile of suspicious looking leaves and twigs made to look like one. Rangers are real dedicated with this training, which is good because these boots need it. This is the sort of thing I can’t afford to do with Errol and Sarah Jay, because it’s just too much effort for one man. Besides, chances are, there are more boots playing scout behind us that are gonna go through this same exercise, so it’s not like they went to all this effort just for Michael.
That said, it seems like there’s only room for one encounter per boot, as another soon arrives to take Michael’s place. Nate is the newcomer’s name, another white-skinned, brown-haired, all-American buzzcut, but this time with blue eyes instead of brown. He’s not as disciplined as Michael, and even though he’s willing to listen to my advice, Nate ain’t great at following through. Man rides right past the waiting ‘ambush’ before I can think to warn him, but no one told me what to do if the boot fails, so I shrug and ride on with him. Not a minute later, Tim’s voice sounds once more, only this time he don’t reveal himself. “Bang,” he says, scaring Nate something fierce, though I heard the man moving a while back. “You missed the ambush. You’re dead, Howie’s dead, and the caravan’s all but. Howie.”
“Yep.” Turning around, I bring Nate back to the scene of the crime and point out the clues he missed, but he doesn’t seem all that twisted up about it. More annoyed than anything else, so I don’t put much effort into it. Since its almost lunch time, I ride back to the caravan with him and switch out Ivory for Fifi, and after a quick meal of dried jerky, I head back out with yet another boot at my side. This time it’s a familiar one. Alfred is his name, and he checks the same boxes, as he’s big, blonde, and white with a crew cut. He was the first of little Dick’s goons who I beat up, but I ain’t one to hold grudges when I win. “So, how much you know about scouting?” I ask, making no apologies and not caring about no awkwardness.
“Not much.” Ain’t one for many words either, as Alfred plods along on his horse, looking this way and that without really knowing what he’s doing.
“Want some advice?”
“Sure.”
It’s all old hat now, so I give him the run down then let him work at it a bit, pointing out where he went wrong and what he could do better. Unlike Nate, Alfred spots the ‘trap’ lying in wait, a tree that’s been marked up as if it’s been made ready to topple onto the road at a moment’s notice. Pretty sure it’s an Illusion though, because that would be really dangerous to set up and leave, but we hurry back anyways where Alfred passes his tests with flying colours.
As we head back out and wait for him to be relieved, Alfred sparks up a conversation for the first time. “Richard left,” he says, keeping his head on a swivel to avoid meeting my eyes. “Went back home.”
“Really?” I shrug. “Broken left arm, broken right hand, couldn’t take more than a month to recover with a daily Regeneration Spell cast on him.” The Spell don’t heal nothing quick, just speeds the process along so you knit bone in weeks rather than months. Not great at treating lethal injuries, because even an enhanced healing ability can’t stop you from bleeding out, but it cuts down on recovery time pretty well. “Didn’t figure him for a quitter.”
“Said you threatened him.”
“Did he now?” Giving Alfred a wry smile, I say, “Didn’t figure him to scare so easily either. And I didn’t threaten him. I just told him the truth.” My smile stays, but my eyes go dark and hard. “That folks in New Hope don’t take kindly to the sort of talk he was spewing, and that he might want to watch himself. You best remember that too.”
“I get it,” Alfred says, ducking his head down and looking real small for a fellow so big. “I’m just saying… Richard’s dad, he’s a powerful man, so you should be careful.”
Words delivered like advice, not a threat, so I accept the sentiment for what it is. “Thanks Alfred,” I say, paying no mind to what some bigwig peckerwood might do. Unless he cares to ride up to my town and try and lynch me, there ain’t nothing I care to address, especially since I got little Dick on recording spewing hatred and technically assaulting me. Hurt him in self-defence I did, and ain’t nothing anyone can say that’ll change that, so I’m in the clear. “You ought to find yourself some new friends though,” I say, remembering how reluctant the other three goons were to jump in. “Yours didn’t seem none too keen on helping you.”
“They got us in mixed squads now,” Alfred replies, and to his credit, he seems happier for it. “Working with whoever they put us with, instead of the people we choose.”
“Good to hear it.” Never one to make small talk, I go back to teaching Alfred about scouting and being a Ranger in general until Errol and Sarah Jay arrive to replace him. Bidding the big guy goodbye, I give Errol a look to see how he feels about Alfred, and he simply shrugs and says, “Got no beef with anyone besides Richard, so long as they don’t pick up where he left off.”
“Fair enough.” And I suppose this is what Ava was talking about, earning my keep, as now I get to put my prospects through the same song and dance the rest of the recruits got to play in. Having seen three other boots at work now, I’ve a new appreciation for Errol and Sarah Jay’s competence, as they listen sharp and put everything I tell them to work. Move a few steps past it too, and don’t need everything explained, or at least Sarah Jay doesn’t. While Errol is first to spot the ‘ambush’, Sarah Jay sticks around for a second look and finds three more ambushers lying in wait, information which we bring back to Tim who looks tired and done with it all.
“Full marks,” he says, before even riding back out to check, and he heaves a small sigh. “You sure you don’t want back in the Rangers?” Tim asks, directing his question solely at Sarah Jay before gesturing at Errol. “Nothing I can do for him, but he’ll be fine with Howie.”
“Quit trying to steal my prospect just because you don’t want to do paperwork.”
“That’s not the only reason I’m fixing to steal her,” Tim retorts. “I also need her to handle all this training bullshit.” His eyes light up, as much as they ever do, which is usually a bad sign for whoever he’s looking at, or in this case, me. “Hey Howie, you know, you’ve done a real stand-up job prepping those boots. Three out of four passed, which is pretty good. How you feel about doing this again? Like say in a few months?”
“In a few months, I might well be one of those boots,” I reply, and I notice Errol and Sarah Jay’s immediate alarm, so I explain my reasoning while inviting them along for the ride. From there, we make small talk as we approach the outpost, which has grown quite a bit since we first saw it. It’s still just a bunch of trenchwork and log spikes, but now there’s room enough for all our wagons inside the perimeter. Not enough for all of us to cram inside though, which is fine by me since I like my space. Dinner is a sad, sorry affair of dried rations eaten as the sun sets over the horizon, and I give Michael, Nate, and Alfred a nod as I pass them to set up for the night close to Tina.
“Look Howie,” she exclaims, turning to reveal a round, feathered kiccaw in her arms, one with tiny wings, and big, soulful eyes. No doubt the little beastie was charmed by her Animal Friendship Spell, the same one Aunty Ray uses to tame horses and marties alike, and Tina nuzzles it cheek to cheek with a grin. “Take a picture! Chrissy will love this.”
Snapping off a couple photos, I inwardly grumble at how easy she has it when it comes to charming animals. I tried casting the same Spell on a bunch of kiccaws before, because they’re pretty bold and unafraid of people, but all I got in return was suspicion and mistrust. The bird in Tina’s arms looks like he or she is in love, and the rest of the flock is wandering around looking mighty interested in her as well. Whatever. Those dumb round birds ain’t even all that cute, not up close at least, though there are a lot of them. Good eating too, with the big, thick legs and soft tender torsos, but they eat a lot of bugs so most folks leave them alone.
The kiccaws are a big hit with most the boots around camp, and plenty stop by to pet them while trading a few words with Tina along the way. I suspect more are interested in her than the bird, but can’t say I blame ‘em. She’s all sorts of lovely and got a good head on her shoulders, a killer combination if there ever was one. She’s also real popular for other reasons, namely her ability with the Bardcraft Cantrip to play a memorized recording of Chrissy’s guitar play to accompany Tina as she sings ‘Walking Slow’ for the camp. Not to show off or anything, but as a Spell in the form of a song, one Imbued with magic to refresh and revitalize her listeners after a long day’s ride. Song of Rest is what the Spell’s called, adding magic to music beyond what the words and notes convey to ease our troubled minds and minor aches. Don’t do nothing to heal us, just makes it easier to bear, but that’s enough for the kiccaws and boots to gather in close for a listen as we all wind down for the night.
Tina ain’t the only popular one, as plenty of boots drop by to catch up with Errol and Sarah Jay. I catch a few snippets while cleaning my guns and practicing reloads on the Whumper, but it’s mostly polite greetings and well wishes, nothing too deep or friendly. Still better than what I get, which are plenty of stares and whispers. If it’s not a challenging stare from some boot I beat up, it’s one chock full of curiosity, like I’m some exotic, never before seen animal or something. I pay it no mind though and switch to practicing the Mould Earth Cantrip to make myself a bed, though in truth I’m just playing around and listening in on all the boring conversations the boots have. Not eavesdropping, just observing my surroundings and overhearing what they’re saying. Ain’t nothing special or secretive, mostly stuff about how they did in each role, how saddle sore they are, how bad the food is, and more such nonsense.
Not much has changed since I dropped out of school it seems, with people my age still fixated on all the wrong things. Me, I’m amazed at all the support these boots get just for signing on to Basic. Not just in material goods, like boots, uniforms, guns, and ammo, but also safety and security beyond anything I’ve ever had. None of them seem to appreciate that they’re at the edge of the Coral Desert and badlands both, where the people don’t recognize the authority of the American government and most wouldn’t spare their own spit for a stranger dying of thirst. Starting tomorrow, these boots will march six full days through the desert to hold the walls of Pleasant Dunes against an army of invading Abby, but you wouldn’t know it from the mood of the camp.
Because these boots don’t got to worry about it just yet. They got a full Company of Rangers watching their back after all, twenty strong, dependable soldiers making sure everything is taken care of. On top of their teaching staff, who are Rangers one and all. The boots remind me of me, back when the world seemed safer while I was riding at my daddy’s side, but I’ve spent the last two years and change learning just how dangerous it really is. I seen the way Errol and Sarah Jay roll their eyes when they think I’m being extra, and even Tina thinks I overdo it when it comes to training and caution, but they don’t understand what it’s really like out here, the same way I didn’t understand until after my daddy died. Don’t camp near strangers. Don’t share food and drink. Don’t let on what you can do. Don’t give anyone the benefit of the doubt. I live by these rules and plenty more for good reason. Sure, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, won’t nothing come of breaking them, but I learned the hard way what happens when things go bad that one time out of a hundred, and I wouldn’t wish those lessons on anybody.
As I lie back and stare up at the stars, I allow myself a moment of honesty to admit I’m jealous of these boots. I love the open road and the freedom my lifestyle provides, but my first two years riding solo wasn’t without it’s bumps. Folks have noticed the toll it’s taken on me, even if they don’t know the reason why, and it’s got my loved ones all twisted up with concern. It’s been tough, but wasn’t any other way to go about it without wasting too much time. Still stings to see how much hardship could’ve been avoided if I’d joined the Rangers. Was a time when all I wanted was a five-pointed star to wear on my chest. Truth is, I’d still want it if I could have it. That’s what most don’t get. The Marshal, Aunty Ray, Marcus, and the rest, they all think I hate the Rangers and refuse to join out of principle, but far from it. My daddy would’ve been the first person to tell me to stop being stubborn and give in, because ain’t no good ever comes from sticking out like a sore thumb. That’s why he brought me to church every Sunday even though we wasn’t Christian, and never bothered correcting anyone when they collectively changed my name from Hao Wei to Howie. He knew being Qinese would make our lives hard enough as is, so he wanted us to become as American as apple pie.
Problem is, it didn’t take. When the chips were down, the Rangers disavowed my daddy all the same, and they’d do it to me in a heartbeat. Wasn’t me who said I don’t want to be a Ranger. Was the Rangers who told me I could never be one, not even if I earned the right to wear that star on my chest. It is what it is, but don’t mean I got no regrets. Howie Zhu, American Ranger. Got a real ring to it, don’t it? Shame really. Started as a dream, and now it’s nothing but a fantasy, one that won’t ever come to pass.
No matter how much I wish it were otherwise.