Eager to put all the heavy talk behind us, I spend the next little bit reminiscing with Tina about our daddies.

We was only eight when Uncle Raleigh passed, but we both remember enough to know how much he loved us. He was always saying it, and he showed it by spending every free moment he had with the three of us and Aunty Ray. Got plenty of good memories of him teaching me how to ride, swim, sail, build a snow fort, and lots of other little lessons too. Nothing important, but just like a town ain’t a town without a touch of the non-essential, a life ain’t a life without a bit of fun, and Uncle Raleigh was a fun man to be around. Before I started riding solo, Aunty Ray sat me down to learn how to be charming and disarming, but most of what I do is just copying Uncle Raleigh, right down to the big smile and disarming story telling. He was a friendly and charismatic man who could always bring a smile to your face, with a mind like a steel trap that never forgot a name, face, or conversation.

As for my daddy, he wasn’t the affectionate or emotional type, but he showed his love in other ways. Never raised his hand or voice to any of us, even when we might’ve deserved it, like that time I snuck into Mr. Kalthoff’s gun store for a look-see at his latest prototype. My daddy was more worried about me hurting myself than angry at my gumption, though Aunty Ray was mad enough for the both of them. He always made sure to bring us something back from his trips too. Toys, candies, or just little bits and bobs, like seashells interlaced with metallic veins picked off the beaches of Thunder Bay, or hardened amber fossils mined out of the Serpent’s Teeth mountain Range. My favourite were the books he bought to read to us at night, because amazing as he was, he wasn’t great at telling stories on the fly. That was more Uncle Raleigh’s thing, but after he passed, my daddy stepped up to fill in for his absence. Did it right up until we was too old for bedtime stories, though he’d gotten better at the craft and would talk while we travelled, telling me about my mama and how she became the light of his life in so short a time.

Their story always sounded more unbelievable than most fairy tales, so inconceivable I still don’t think its real. Two people who’d never met in the old-world crossing paths on the very first day of the new, only to fall head over heels in love and set out to start a family together. Sounds nice, but I ain’t so sure about the love part. Even though I wholeheartedly believe my daddy loved my mama right up until the day he died, the cynic in me wonders if the circumstances of my conception was less romance and more propaganda.

I ain’t the Firstborn solely because of my premature birth. Might we’ll have earned the title even if my mama carried me to term. Means I’d’ve had to have been conceived within the first week of the Advent, or maybe even on that very first day my parents met, else I’d have died alongside my mama. Uncle Art told me so himself, said it was a damn near miracle I pulled through the first night, cradled in my daddy’s arms as he braved the long, dark trek through the badlands in hopes of finding help. Might well have starved if Aunty Ray hadn’t been in that Ranger camp, five months pregnant and unwilling to let Uncle Raleigh face the dangers of the Divide without her by his side. Always said he was a reckless, feckless, and impetuous man, traits his daughters thankfully didn’t inherit, but might’ve rubbed off on me a little bit.

Either way, the point I’m getting at is that my daddy said I was a planned baby, not a happy accident like Tina and Chrissy as Uncle Raleigh often joked. I believe it, as my daddy wasn’t one to paint a pretty picture over the ugly truth, except I don’t understand how two strangers can meet under less-than-ideal circumstances and decide it’s a good time to start a family during their first week on a hostile and unfamiliar world. Would’ve been much safer to wait a few months to get things in place, or better yet, until they had a community to lean on. If Uncle Art had been there with my mama, he might well have kept her alive, and my daddy wouldn’t have had to risk life and limb trekking through the badlands at night with a newborn in hand. Difficult to reload a single-shot, breech loaded Aetherarm with only one hand, and impossible if he actually had a musket like I told Carl and them other guards.

Now, my daddy told me a lot of things about my mama, and what stands out the most is how smart she was. Brilliant even, according to Uncle Teddy, who helped my daddy translate all her notes and studied them almost religiously after the fact. Wasn’t just her ability to memorize all those theories, formulas, and concepts so she could jot them all down after passing through the Gate, but also her idle notes on how certain Spell Structures could be calibrated or manipulated for added effect. Theories she came up with for Spells she had yet to learn or sling mind you, as she could only cast up to Second Order Spells. Didn’t stop her from offering insight on Spell Structures up to the Fourth Order, as she had those formulas locked in mind and ready to go as soon as she arrived on the Frontier. I seen the formulas myself, pored over them night and day hoping to learn something about who my mama was from the way she wrote, and each one of them Fourth Order Spell Formulas fills several pages with just numbers, letters, and mathematical notation.

So I gotta ask; how’s a woman as smart as my mama not understand how risky it is to get pregnant without a social safety net to rely on?

Maybe it was overconfidence, thinking they’d find plenty of Qin to support them, only to find none. Could also be naivete, believing in the best of humanity and expecting everyone to help a pregnant woman, regardless of race, creed, or nationality. That turned out poorly, which was why my parents migrated down into the badlands, because dangerous as Abby might be, they was more afraid of other settlers in those first few years. Me, I think my mama just wanted a baby so bad she didn’t care about the risks, or who the father was even. Being a Qin Vanguard, my mama would’ve been subjected to the same indoctrination as my daddy, who up until the day he died still loved his people, if not his country. See, to prepare him for the Frontier, he and other prospective settlers were taken away from their parents at the tender age of six. Brought them all to a big school, one isolated from the modern world so they could learn the skills needed to survive here on the Frontier. Once there, they were told to forget their families, because they was sons and daughters of the Republic now, children who would conquer a new world for their nation and homeland. Their individual lives became less important than the success of their collective mission, to settle the Frontier and pave the way for the Second Wave of settlers due some time after the Watershed.

Which means it probably wasn’t love that brought my daddy and mama together. Was their desire to fulfill their roles as the Vanguard, to survive and propagate, because to the head honchos of the Qin Republic, this was all a game of numbers. More settlers having more children means more survivors making it all the way to the Watershed, with a bigger workforce all ready and waiting to help the Second Wave get past their initial growing pains and eventually dominate the Frontier through strength of numbers and industry. That was always their plan, and my parents were doing what was expected of them, no more, no less.

Would much rather believe in love at first sight, but I can’t believe in something I ain’t ever seen or felt. Even Cowie takes some time to warm up to his ladies, and he won’t accept just any old gal either. No idea what his standards are based on, but he’s got them, which is why we only got three lady cows for him back home.

Didn’t mean my daddy didn’t love my mama, but I don’t believe I was born out of love between them. A day, a week, even a month don’t seem like enough time to fall head over heels for one another, and it amazes me that Errol and Sarah Jay are so comfortable after only knowing one another for two or three months. I’ve known Tina all my life, and I still find it awkward to sit beside her with our shoulders touching, which is why I’ve taken to leaning heavily on my left elbow away from her and almost lying down in the sand as we talk the minutes away. Ain’t because it’s comfortable. My abs and lower back are burning with effort at keeping this up, and I almost heave a sigh of relief when she gives a little sniffle and claps her hands. “Alright then,” she declares, dusting herself off as she hops to her feet. “That’s enough maudlin chit chat for the both of us. Time to eat.” Seeing that I don’t follow suit, she shoots a glance at the crowd gathered around the grill, where the boots and Rangers are busy celebrating their hard-fought victory and realizes that ain’t my thing. “Want I should bring you a plate?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Waving her away, I let myself fall back into the sand and stare up at the twinkling stars suspended in the reddish-gold skies, the setting sun not quite gone and the rising moons yet to show themselves over the horizon. “The stink of cooking Abby always sours my stomach,” I say, not to mention the moral dilemma of what to do with my Mage Armour Spell Core. “Had a bunch of candy after the fight, so I should be good till breakfast.”

“You sure? Be a shame to skip out on Marcus’ cooking.”

“Yea, I’m sure. Thanks.” Bringing my hat low over to cover my eyes, I trace a sigil through the air with my left hand, the somatic component to an Abjuration Cantrip called Blade Ward that should provide insight into Mage Armour. “Go on and celebrate, Songbird. This a big day for you, so don’t mind me and go bond with your future squad mates.”

“…Alright.”

The sombre sadness in her tone punches through the thin veil of indifference I’ve thrown up, but she understands me better than I understand myself. I don’t mind conversating with folks in quiet, intimate settings, but crowds exhaust me. There’s too much to keep track of, too many social niceties to observe, and it ends up grating me down to my last nerve. It’s why I get into so many fights, because after enough time spent straining to be cordial and polite, my temper tends to get the better of me when I’m disrespected. If I walk into that crowd and subject myself to all that with how I’m feeling now, I might end up shooting Wayne if he opens his rat mouth and makes another pithy comment about my daddy.

Okay, so fine. Wayne might be right, and I could be the problem, but so what? World’s a dangerous place, and I’d rather err on the side of caution when it comes to keeping myself in one piece. Ain’t like I got the Rangers to back me up. Most days, I’m a man alone on out on the wild Frontier, and the fact that I abide by the Accords the vast majority of the time already makes me better than most. I don’t judge the farmer for raising muscari only to betray their trust and slaughter them, so they shouldn’t judge me for doing what I gotta do to survive.

Takes four casts of the Cantrip before I realize I ain’t actually studying, too distracted by thoughts of my parents, the Rangers, my present and uncertain future. Part of it is mental and physical exhaustion, but I’d be lying if I said these thoughts didn’t feature front and centre most nights. Few years ago, it was all simple enough. I’d follow in my daddy’s footsteps and join the Rangers as a Scout, where he’d most certainly get us posted with Tina so he could keep an eye on the both of us. Then it’s just a matter of following orders, and while I got my issues with authority, I was keen to play my part in seeing Uncle Teddy’s dream through to completion and helping raise a Bulwark of fortresses with which to contain Abby in the badlands.

That plan went udders up though, so now I’m scrambling to figure out how to make it all on my lonesome. Today was a rude awakening, as it’s only gonna get harder from here on out. What happens to trade when automobiles start rolling in? Right now, it takes two days to travel the hundred klicks between each fortress, three for heavily loaded caravans, but even a basic truck could make that distance in an hour or two. Won’t be no easy money to be made come spring when every farmer, trapper, and hunter has an automobile of their own to make the trip to New Hope whenever the mood strikes them. Then there’s Flight, a Third Order, single target Spell which requires concentration and lasts ten minutes at base. While limited in scope, the Spell allows for relatively safe, single man travel over the mountain ranges to the north and south of the Divide. Can’t carry much in goods or cash, but it allows for coordination of Radio towers in order to open up even better communications with the rest of the Frontier.

Yea, a twelve-hundred kilometre stretch of Highway might seem long right now, but the Frontier is gonna get a whole lot smaller once the Watershed hits, and I don’t rightly know where I’ll fit it. I’m pretty sure there’s always gonna be work for someone with my skills, and hiring Errol and Sarah Jay on as part of my crew is the right move, but what if I’m wrong? What if we can’t keep up with government outfits equipped with machineguns like the Blackstaff Assault Rifle Marijke was fiddling with, weapons I ain’t allowed to purchase? What if my Scouting skills are made obsolete by a wave of new tech, all that Radar, Lidar, Sonar, and Aadar Danny’s always going on about, stuff that’s supposed to map square kilometres in seconds and show you all the twists and turns of an Abby burrow before you even set foot inside? Or worse, what if I get got by some stupid twist of fate, like if we’d arrived five minutes earlier to collect those Abby corpses and ran afoul of them scavs today?

And on top of all that, how am I supposed to find the man who ordered my daddy’s death? Those Qin Vanguard were only following orders, orders they wholeheartedly believed were for the good of the Republic and in my best interest. Maybe the person who ordered it thought the same, but that don’t matter, because good intentions don’t count for much. While my daddy would rather live and let lie, I ain’t about to let the man who killed my daddy live a long and happy life. Won’t go killing indiscriminately out of respect for his wishes, but soon as I know who to hit, then I’ll take my pound of flesh and go to war with anyone who stands in my way.

Don’t got many leads on whodunnit, but if my main suspect ain’t it, then he’s liable to know who is.

Met him a full two years before my daddy passed, and only the once, but I can’t think of anyone else to blame. The man’s face springs to mind unbidden, so plain and unremarkable its difficult to describe. Black hair and brown eyes, but that’s par for the course when it comes to the Qin. Neither tall nor short, not skinny or fat, just average all around, yet somehow also eye-catching in an androgenous sort of way. No beard, not even a wisp of a five-o-clock shadow after what must have been weeks travelling by foot. Spotless uniform too, a black, double-breasted, double buttoned, long jacket with a red-fur trim around the collar to ward off the chill, topped with a black peaked cap lined in the same fur. His head was more rounded than oval, his ears a little wider than most, his nose neither large nor small, lips a touch thin, and a gaze as hard as steel, even though he tried to soften it as he turned his eyes away from my daddy and over to me. “Ni Hao, Hao’er,” he said, in that melodic, singsong way the Qin speak. A greeting, which directly translates to ‘you are well, Howie’. “Wo shi Zhu Yuanzhang, ni di jiu jiu, ni ma ma di da ge.”

Now, I was only twelve at the time, and while I could read Qinese just fine, that ain’t the same as hearing it, so I had to look to my daddy for a translation. There he stood, calm as could be while surrounded by twenty or so heavily armed Qin Vanguard who’d appeared out of nowhere and didn’t seem none too friendly, but he didn’t pay them no mind. Didn’t even lay hand on his pistol, though I had my Blastgun out and at the ready. Instead, he watched me with a curious expression, one I’d never seen before and pegged as uncertainty after the fact. “He says his name is Zhu Yuanzhang,” Daddy translated. “Your maternal uncle and mother’s older brother.” After a brief pause, added, “I believe he speaks true.”

Zhang frowned, unhappy that I couldn’t understand him all that well, but his English was even better than mine. “Your traitorous father has not only failed to keep my sister safe, he has failed in your education,” he said in clipped and precise tones, which got my hackles up even then, “Raising you as a foreigner instead of allowing you to take your rightful place amongst your people.” So much hate packed into that word, foreigner, like it was some kinda cuss or something. “Come with me, Hao’er,” Zhang said, holding a hand out like I was some dainty damsel who’d need help off a wagon. “Stand at my side, where you belong, as the Firstborn Son of the Republic, and I will spare your unworthy father’s dog life.”

In response, I worked the slide of my pump-action Blastgun, a cute little Bashere Black Eagle meant for hunting elk and such, but would make a real mess of my mother’s brother standing barely fifteen feet away. “Like where I’m at just fine thanks,” I said, and I remember telling myself that if the shooting started, I’d kill my uncle first. “Like it better if we were on our way. Got supplies that need deliverin’, and no time for jawin’ with the in-laws.”

The Qin are big on familial lines. My daddy, he didn’t have no family name to give me, which is why I use my mama’s family name of Zhu, but right then and there, I made my stance clear. I was my father’s son, and thus, of no concern to my mother’s family, especially not if they was gonna badmouth my daddy right in front of my face. Zhang, he didn’t like that much, no siree, and once the rest of his crew were done whispering the translation around, they liked it even less. I remember clear as day some of the more frightening faces, the warped Innates that seemed more monster than human and were just raring to tear me limb from limb.

There was a fellow with eight, human eyes all dotted around his narrow face. There were the two standard eyes where they ought to be, and under those, two on each side of the bridge of his nose. The last pair of eyes were squished together in the middle of his forehead, except they were oriented along the vertical axis, instead of horizontal like the others. What made it worse was that each eye had its own set of lashes and eyelids, and they all blinked independently of one another save for the standard two as they glared at me with undisguised hatred. Had his hand clenched tight rough the pommel of his sword, as if he’d like nothing more than to draw it and slice me to pieces for being a traitor to his people. A Sword Saint, or so my daddy told me once the dust settled, and one to be wary of no matter how strapped you were.

Then there was the purple man. Not a pale, lilac like Chrissy’s eyes, but a darker, ugly reddish-brown sort of purple. Like one giant bruise he was, with fleshy, twitchy tendrils dangling from everywhere he ought to have hair. Head, upper lip, chin, arms, chest, there were even tiny tendrils poking out of his nostrils as he breathed deep and slow, utterly unconcerned by the tension unfolding all around him. Didn’t carry no gun, nor even a knife, but my daddy told me that the man’s loose, golden yellow robes identified him as a Republic Battle Monk, a Spellslinger specialized in unarmed combat.

There were other Innates too, with maybe half the party being as such. One fellow had cat’s eyes, another a set of jutting tusks, and still more with Aberrtin scleroderma, which is the fancy term for the little crystal and metallic markings on Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray’s foreheads, though how they present varies wildly. Those fellows were probably single or double Core Innates, while eight-eyes and squid-face likely had three or four at the least, but there was one woman who scared me most of all, because I couldn’t even guess at how many Cores it would take to overwrite someone’s entire face. It was just smooth, veiny, mottled skin, with no indication of where her eyes, nose, mouth, or ears would have been, and only a few locks of greasy, strung-out hair on her head, but I could tell that all her focus was on me. The harsh, guttural growl emanating from her throat was the sound of nightmares, but even now, it’s her posture which haunts me most of all, so bent and twisted it barely seemed human, while conveying the sense of a voracious, starving beast ready to rend and tear and feast…

Wasn’t no Qin discipline to lay at her feet. No, she was just raw arcane power and feral instinct, easily mistaken for some humanoid Abby Mimic, and I still don’t know whether she’s more worthy of fear or pity.

Then my uncle barked a command and reined all that hostility back in, with every last single one of the Qin both Innate and otherwise falling into line without hesitation. Impressive discipline made only possible by a lifetime of indoctrination, but it wasn’t just old worlders in the crowd. Least a third of them were kids, all younger than me, but not by much as far as I could tell, and they was every bit as fanatical as the rest. There they stood at full attention and strapped heavy, paying me and my daddy no mind as Zhang cut a patch off of his jacket shoulder, tossed it over to me, and proclaimed, “If you ever so desire to take your rightful place at my side, bring that to one of our countrymen and they will see to it you are brought safely to my side.”

Being young and green as I was, I caught the damn thing, which could’ve gone bad, but it didn’t, and then I looked at it. Another mistake, as I should’ve kept an eye on the hostiles, but luckily, they wasn’t out of blood that day, mine or my daddy’s. The patch was a military insignia, but I wasn’t all that familiar with Qin ranking, so it wasn’t until after they left that I asked and my daddy told me what six stars over crossed staves meant. “A Great General and Grand Magus,” he replied, meaning that Zhang was highly ranked and arrogant beyond all belief, to claim himself capable of casting Sixth-Order Spells despite looking the same age as my daddy, or maybe a year or two older. Back in the old world, a twenty-eight or thirty-year-old Grand Magus was almost unheard of, or at least that’s what the Marshal told me later on. Talent like that belongs to the greatest of the greats, the once in a lifetime prodigies like Sir Issac Newton, Benjamin Franklin, and John Von Neumann.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Course, it’s possible some of the Immortal Monarchs could’ve done it too. Most of what we know about them can’t really be verified, since they were Immortal and might well have influenced what was written about them in historical record while ruling from the shadows. Either way, for Zhang to claim the rank of Grand Magus while metaphysically incapable of casting any Spells beyond Third Order is pretty much the definition of blowing hot air. Personal distaste aside, I can’t think of anyone besides that grandstanding peacock who’d care to order Qin Vanguard to kill my daddy and die for it, much less have the pull to get it done, so he’s my one and only suspect. Was a time during the days after my daddy’s death when I was of a mind to use that patch to get a meeting with the man so I could kill him on sight, but reason prevailed. That’s still the plan, but my daddy wouldn’t want me dying to see him avenged, so Zhang’s comeuppance will have to wait until I’m good enough to kill him and get away clean.

Don’t care if I gotta wait until I’m a Grand Magus myself; I’mma find who ordered my daddy’s death, and then I’mma make sure their dying is long and slow.

“Up and at ‘em, sleeping beauty.”

Marcus’ gruff tone shakes me out of my thoughts, and I bolt upright with a start. “Damnit Marcus,” I say, scowling as catch my hat and put it back on my head. “How’s a man as big as you move so quiet?”

“Practice,” he replies, flashing a grin that makes his mean mug look all soft and friendly. Holding out a giant wooden tray stacked to the edges with grilled meat and all the fixings, he says, “Eat up. Boy as scrawny as you can’t be skipping no meals, especially not after today’s big fight.”

“Wasn’t all that big. Just a touch of cardio is all.” Accepting the tray with both hands and faking a grimace, I ask, “What, no a-moose booshe? You losin’ your touch Marcus.”

“I’ll moose booshe you.” Pausing a tic to mutter something under his breath and use the Mould Earth Cantrip to fashion himself a block of sand to sit on, he shakes his head and laughs. “You keep leaning into those ‘dumb hick’ stereotypes, and there gonna come a day when you forget you’re pretending.”

“Who says I am? Never did go to school after all.” Ain’t got much appetite, but Aunty Ray would have my hide if she heard I turned down a plate, and doubly so if it came from a Ranger Captain who had better things to do than worry about my diet. Stuffing a bite into my mouth, I chew around it and say, “Delicious as always. Thanks for the plate.” Glancing up at Tim and Ava, who stand a little ways behind him to his left and right, I ask, “So what’s this all about?”

“We wanted to talk to you and go over a few things,” Marcus says, his grin slipping as he gestures at the other two Captains to get comfortable. “Nothing official or serious, just a chat is all.” Tim plonks himself right down in the sand, with one knee raised so he can rest his arm on it, but Ava remains standing with arms crossed and glowers at me while I stuff my face with boiled greens and pretend not to notice. After a good thirty seconds of being ignored, Marcus gives up on the matronly Evoker and pulls out a cigar, cutting the end off with his knife before holding it out towards me for a light.

Was a time when I’d go round asking everyone if they needed a light, especially when the Rangers came by for a drink and a smoke on Uncle Raleigh’s porch. My daddy would partake every now and then, and so would Uncle Raleigh with his big, fancy pipe, while the Marshal would join them but always decline a cigar for himself. The gesture brings a smile to my face, one made all the more bittersweet after my walk down memory lane, so I touch the flintstone in my components pouch, snap my fingers and say, “Ignis,” to bring forth a tiny, flickering flame stuck to my thumb. Leaning forward as I reach out, Marcus gives his cigar a few puffs until the end is glowing red and ember hot. “Thanks Howie,” he says, sitting up as he exhales a big mouthful of sweet, earthy smoke, which Tim waves off with his customary lack of expression. Tim drinks a bit, but he don’t smoke, because he says the smell would give him away. Me, I kinda like the smell of cigar smoke, though I can’t stand the taste. Everyone tells me it’s an acquired one, but they say the same about alcohol, and I can’t even imagine how folks can enjoy downing a glass of harsh, liquid fire.

Nah, gimme a fruit milkshake, bottle of fizzy sarsaparilla, or even a cup of chicory coffee over beer or whisky any day, and that’s a hill I don’t see myself coming down from anytime soon.

For the most part, I’m content to sit and eat in silence, but Ava’s unblinking stare has got me shook. Woman might well be the deadliest Ranger around, not just in the breadth and depth of her Spellslinging, but how familiar she is with them. As for Marcus, despite his opening statement, he’s in no rush to talk as he slowly but surely enjoys his cigar. Means if I want to get this over with right quick, I gotta put the screws to Tim. Don’t take much, just a few seconds of direct eye contact which ain’t enough to make him blink, but does get him talking. “Can’t be going around threatening people Howie,” Tim says, his disapproval clear from tone and expression both, but I brace myself for what I know is coming next. “If you mean to kill a man, then do it quiet. No sense jawing about it beforehand.”

Marcus and Ava turn their incredulous stares towards Tim, snapping onto him like a sharpshooter on target, but he don’t pay them no mind and continues, “Now if something were to happen to Wayne, people are gonna suspect you had a hand in it, even if you didn’t.” Tim would know, what with how often he jokes about putting Bolts in people’s heads, but we all know that’s all it is. Talk. “Abby could gut Wayne in plain daylight, and the boots will still whisper that the Firstborn got him. Best to keep those thoughts close to the vest, then no one will ever think to lay the blame at your feet.”

God’s honest truth, keeping a smile off my face might well be the hardest thing I’ve ever done to date, including burying my daddy six feet under. Nodding along with Tim’s words, I take a beat before saying, “You right Tim. I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the advice.”

“Shut up and eat your food Howie.” Giving me a glare that says he don’t find this all that amusing, Marcus turns his gaze back to his fellow Captain. “You know what, Tim? My bad. I should’ve listened when you said I didn’t want you here.”

“Told you.” Hopping to his feet in one smooth motion, Tim hits me with a finger gun and a wink before turning to leave. “See ya Howie.”

“Bye Tim.” He leaves without looking back and fades into the crowd, and I mean literally fade as he goes invisible to avoid any and all responsibility. Even his footprints in the sand too, which is a real neat trick. An unparallelled sharpshooter and sniper unlike any I’ve ever met, but by far the worst Captain the Rangers have ever had. Course, wasn’t like the Marshal was spoilt for choice back in the day, and my daddy already turned him down three times. Always said his skills were better suited for Scouting, and it’s difficult to run a Battalion when you spend all your time out on the road. Tim was the next best choice, which is really saying something, so he got the pins and fobbed off all the extra work to his subordinates, most of whom were grossly unqualified too.

Shows that despite all his lofty qualifications and accomplishments, Marshal Theodore Ellis is still human underneath it all, capable of making mistakes just like the rest of us mere mortals.

Having tucked away a good quarter of the plate, I set it aside so we can talk, but Marcus hits me with a scowl like I done goosed his wife. “Keep eating,” he says, with all the gruff authoritarianism he can muster, which is more than a fair bit. “You need the fuel after all that running and slinging.”

“Had a bunch of candy earlier,” I reply, tapping the tin I keep in my jacket pocket and just barely managing not to wince when I hear it clang against the all too valuable Mage Armour Spell Core sitting next to it.

“Rot your teeth with how much candy you eat.” Shaking his head as he takes another puff of his cigar, Marcus leans in and says, “You know why sugar helps counter the mental fatigue of Spellcasting?”

Feeling a little put on the spot, I try to be as accurate as I can with my answer. “Slinging Spells requires increased brain activity, the reasons for which are still widely debated, but the leading theory is that the brain acts as the engine to bridge the gap between the Immaterial Spell Structures and our physical reality so that the resultin’ Spell can take effect. Something about quantum states and such, but I don’t think anyone all that clear on the specifics. Regardless of the why, that brain activity don’t come free, as even without slinging Spells, the brain accounts for 20% of your daily caloric requirements. Sugar, or rather glucose is a great way to top up after slinging a bunch of Spells, because it’s quick and easy calories.”

“On point,” Marcus says, before gesturing at my plate of food with his cigar. “Sugar’s great for a quick top up after slinging Spells, but for long term energy and growth, you need carbs, proteins, vitamins, and nutrients. Of which, sugar has none, so eat up before I ask Captain Jung to blend it up and pour it down your throat.”

“Well, I’d hate to inconvenience the good Captain,” I reply, hastily stuffing another mouthful of unidentified meat into my mouth.

It's not until I clear another quarter of the plate that Marcus sees fit to continue our conversation, as Tim’s blunt and straightforward approach threw all his plans out the window. “I’m not going to ask about what’s going on between you and Wayne,” Marcus begins, his cigar barely three-quarters burnt and still going. “Says he only brought all that up because he thought the terms of our arrangement didn’t seem right, not with you being only a little older than the boots, and he isn’t the only one muttering.” Holding up a hand to forestall my argument, he adds, “I don’t agree with any of it, not one bit. You’re worth far more than what we’re giving you, and you proved it today, though I will say we never asked to hire you on.”

“Fair enough,” I say, my raised hackles settling down once more, and I stuff another bite of veggies into my mouth. Again, no idea what it is, and would really rather not know, because sometimes that ruins the whole meal. “So what? You changing the terms of our arrangement, or do I still get to keep what I kill? I’mma say this now, you ain’t getting what I done already carted and cooked. That’s mine, fair and square.”

“We’re not changing anything Howie,” Marcus says, and I relax a mite, because I ain’t even sure if I want to sell the Mage Armour Spell Core, so having to give it away would put a bee in my bonnet. Not even sure if I would if push came to shove, though I’d have to hide it for a few weeks until I go on another big hunt and can account for its existence. We’d have to hand over the Ablative Armour Spell Core we already got, which makes me glad I said what I did instead of making something else up. “We’re just talking,” Marcus continues, though Ava’s posture and unyielding glower tells a different story. “Wanted you to know where we stand is all. Now, let’s have your report. Start with how you spotted the ambush.”

“Shadows were off,” I reply. “Sand too still, instead of blowing in the wind. No plants to be seen, no critters scurrying underfoot, no bugs buzzing about. Whole scene was just… off.” I shrug. “Wasn’t any one thing that stood out in the moment, just didn’t seem right is all. So I brought Kacey along a new heading to study it some more, until I cast Detect Aberration on a whim and got a big read. Thought we was out clean, then got hit with a Fear Spell and the girlie got thrown off her horse, hanging onto her bow instead of the reins like she ought to. I circled around, pulled her onto my horse, then told her to ride straight to you and tell y’all to sit tight before hopping off.”

“Why?”

The delivery is innocuous enough, but I can tell Marcus ain’t playing around. Still, I already established I wasn’t giving nothing back, and said that was fine, so I suppose telling the truth wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. “Well, partially because I wanted to buy some time and thin out the horde, but mostly because I spotted the infamous hobgoblin Illusionist and wanted to bag him.”

“Tch.”

“Hmph.”

Disappointment from Marcus, and confirmation from Ava, as if she’d known about it all along, and I suppose she did, but I ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of. “I did my job,” I say, sounding a touch more defensive than I care to. “Didn’t bag me no hob, but I spotted that ambush didn’t I? Was a close call too, because even after I thought something wasn’t right, I still almost walked straight on in. Said I wasn’t confident about seeing through it a second time, and I meant it, which is why I played bait to keep them on the hook. Decapitated their leadership and sent the hob running to boot, else that horde wouldn’t have come chasing whole hog like they did. Far as I’m concerned, I did no wrong, and anyone saying different is plain wrong.”

“No one is saying anything of the sort, Howie.” Taking a couple quick puffs of his cigar, Marcus taps the ash off and blows out a ring to buy time to think. “We’re concerned is all. You did good, but you took a big risk doing what you did, a risk you didn’t have to. I saw the haul you brought back, and you can’t tell me you did all that damage just to reel the horde in.”

“Bah.” Waving away his concerns, I play it cool and say, “Ain’t no reward without risk.”

“But not all risks are worth the reward.” Gesturing at me, Marcus asks, “I seen your jacket and all the new Bolt holes you picked up. How many times you get hit?”

“Me? None.” Shrugging, I add, “My duster got hit a whole lot though. Took it off and used it to bat Bolts aside. You know how it is with non-Penetrating Bolts. They’ll spend themselves against the first object they hit, like your shirt, and it’s the transference of force that really does you in, even through armoured plates. So while I was running, I waved my duster about like a flag trailing behind me to make made sure them Bolts hit it instead of me, letting all that kinetic energy go to waste.”

Really tore up the bottom half of my duster, which is good and bad. Good because I actually have the treated leather to Mend it, but bad because that costs a lot more than the wool lining which I don’t have.

“Why’d you have to get in so close though Howie?” Exasperated by my casual indifference, Marcus leans in and lowers his voice so only we can hear it. “You could’ve easily outranged those Abby Spells using your Metamagic bracelet and still kept them on the hook, so why didn’t you?”

Because I wanted to take down the hob and as many bugbears as I could with one, big Spell, which worked pretty well, disguised goblin stand-in aside. Before I can come up with a good way to phrase it, Ava growls, “Because he is reckless and greedy.”

Which ain’t exactly wrong, but is not how I would say it. “I wanted to maximize the efficacy and effectiveness of my opening attack,” I correct, only stumbling over the words a little. “It’s straight out of the Ranger playbook, an alpha strike to hit them hard and fast before they know what sort of heat you can bring.”

“And what if one of those Bolts missed your duster and hit you dead on?” Marcus asks, all angry and intense out of nowhere. “Or you slipped in the sand and went tumbling back down into the horde? Or one of those Abby had a Spell to slow or hold you in place? What then Howie?”

“…Well, hard to say Marcus.” I shrug. “I might’ve gotten out clean, not so clean, or not gotten out at all. Them’s the options.”

“Boy I know what the options are!” Leaning forward to put his finger in front of my face, Marcus growls, “What I’m saying is you took multiple unnecessary risks. What did I tell you? Your job is to scout, and we’ll handle the rest. That’s what I said, but you didn’t listen. Instead, you ran off to thin the horde and didn’t just risk your own neck doing it, you left a terrified, half-trained girl stricken by a Fear Spell to travel alone through the desert without any support. Maybe Captain Jung is right and you did it because you’re hard up for cash, though I don’t see why you would be. I’ve seen how you live Howie, and it’s not in high fashion, so that big bounty you cashed should tide you over for a good while.” Easing back, he sighs and continue, “I don’t think money is why you did what you did, but if it is, then tell me Howie. I could help you find safer ways to earn a living. You said it yourself, Meadowbrook would welcome the help of two promising young folks like Errol and Sarah Jay, but you’d be just as welcome, if not more.” Without waiting for an answer, Marcus points his meaty finger at my face again and gives me his fiercest look, one which would have even the bravest boots quivering in theirs and got me sweating a little bit. “Hunting is one thing, but you pull this yee-haw, cowboy bullshit on me again, and I’ll tie you to my belt and keep you there until you’re someone else’s responsibility again.” Shaking his head with a grimace, he says, “I won’t have your death on my head, Howie. I can’t handle the heat.”

Suitably cowed, I take another bite of my food to keep myself from talking wise. Yee-haw bullshit happens to be some of the best bullshit, but Marcus ain’t wrong. Still, what else am I supposed to do? Can’t afford to take it slow and steady, not if I want to keep the head start I got on my peers, many of whom are already nipping at my heels. With Ranger training and experience, they’ll overtake me soon enough, and then I’ll be the one struggling to keep up, so I gotta take risks while I still have the Rangers to fall back on. Seeing that I ain’t buying what he’s selling, Marcus takes a deep breath, then another, and one more for good measure before sighing and shaking his head. “Tell me about the scavs,” he says, changing the topic, and I share everything I know. When I’m done, I go back to eating, and it takes him a good minute before he asks, “You let them run off with the lion’s share of your haul. Why? There were only six, so even if your Spells are spent, you could’ve shot them dead before they even knew what hit them. The Accords are shaky, but armed larceny outside of government territory gives you proper justification for the use of lethal force.”

“Wasn’t sure how many of them were still around, and my head was heavy as a rock.” Still is if I’m being honest, as I did a lot of running, Spellslinging, and gunfighting to boot. Also can’t count on my prospects, not when it comes to killing men in cold blood, though I shouldn’t admit that out loud. “Besides, it wouldn’t feel right, gunning them down without warning,” I say instead, and to my surprise, it’s actually true. “They might’ve done the same to me, but I ain’t them.”

“Wouldn’t feel right.” There’s a sadness in the way Marcus says it, and too late, I realize I’ve misspoken and failed his little test. “Not wouldn’t be right.” Heaving a sigh, he looks me in the eyes and shakes his head. “You did good, but you understand why we’re worried, Howie? You’ve been so full of anger since your daddy died, and it’s changing you for the worse. I see you rushing into fights and struggling to stick to the beaten path, and I worry that you’ll stray and never find your way back again. Take it from someone who knows. It’s harder than you think.” He stops for a beat, and I can see his hesitance, which is a rare sight indeed. “He wouldn’t want you to live your life for vengeance, you know?” Marcus says, his voice low and eyes soft. “All he ever wanted was to see you smile.”

“Well, he can’t do that no more, now can he?” The words spill out before I can think better of it, and it pains me to see him wince. It’s God’s honest truth, and ain’t no one can deny it, not even Marcus, who’s speaking from personal experience. Instead, he nods, leans over to pat my head, and leaves me alone with my thoughts.

Or not so alone, as Ava stays behind, standing there with arms crossed and lips pursed. “I spoke with the Marshal before we left,” she begins, once she knows she has my full attention. “Told me how you were angling for special permission to join Basic late, and how he shut you down.”

“Yea, yea, would’ve been a terrible idea, set everyone back by weeks because I’m disruptive and whatnot,” I grumble, shovelling another forkful of food into my mouth so I don’t have to talk.

“I’ll allow it,” she says, catching me off guard. “You can keep your haul from today, but for the rest of the trip, you’ll be a boot like any other.”

“What’s the catch?” I ask, because there’s always a catch.

Leaning forward to look me in the eyes, she bares her teeth in a feral smile. “Right here, right now, you agree to sign on with the Rangers for a five-year term once Basic is done.” Straightening up, she adds, “I’ll take Errol and Sarah Jay back too. There’ll be a bit of a fuss about it, but nothing I can’t handle. Never agreed with the decision to wash him out in the first place, and never would’ve done it if I’d known she’d leave with him. Add in the fact that Richard ran home crying after you broke his other hand, and the two of them will be worth far more than whatever those rednecks pay in taxes and bribes, especially now that I know Errol’s an Intuitive Caster.”

While Ava grimaces over missing that one little fact, I stare at her in open-mouthed shock. Seems I’ve misjudged this woman gravely. Thought she was a strait laced, by the book, fuddy duddy, but turns out she’s a firebrand, a trail blazer, and a god-damned Ranger to the core. Damn me, but I think I actually like her now. It’s a shame I can’t accept this more than generous offer though. “I won’t join the Rangers,” I say. “Anything else is negotiable, but ain’t no point putting a star on my chest if the government won’t recognize it.”

“Then ask Rachel to adopt you.” Rolling her eyes, she adds, “Or the Marshal. Hell, I’ll adopt you myself if that’s what it takes. You’re only seventeen, still a minor by law, so no one can argue the facts. You’d be as American as I am, which I know isn’t saying much when it comes to those who share Richard’s views, but it’ll be ironclad in the eyes of the law.” Seeing that I’m still not jumping for joy, Ava does something I’ve never seen or expected. She softens her gaze to something that’s almost sympathetic. “What they did to your father is unforgivable, but he’d be the first to tell you to stop making waves and conform.”

She ain’t wrong, but I didn’t think she knew him like that. “I thought you didn’t like him.” Hated him in fact, but I ain’t about to say it.

“Hated that smug prick,” Ava says, without missing a beat. Ain’t no heat in it either, just honest truth, which I can respect. “Thought he knew better than everyone else, and made no secret of it. Arrogant is what he was, same as you.” Bringing back her familiar scowl, she adds, “But I respected the hell out of him and everything he did. Half my lesson plans are based off his lessons with you, though the Marshal won’t let me starve or dehydrate the boots even with medical supervision.” Ah, I remember those lessons. They were kinda fun, not gonna lie. Sucks in the moment when you hungry and thirsty while sitting in front of a veritable feast of food and juice, but it sure does teach you discipline. “How’d you shake the Fear Spell so easily?”

“Daddy and Aunty Ray would cast it on me every so often,” I reply, all too happy to laud praises upon him. “You should talk to her, maybe hire her on for a few hours a week. Fear, Blindness, Deafness, Hold Person, Bane, Taunt, would do wonders to let the boots experience some offensive Illusion and Enchantment Spells.” Lot harder for those Spells to take hold when you know what you up against. They real hit or miss though, which is why I don’t put much stock in them, but when they do work, they work wonders.

“I will.” Meeting my eyes with a look that says Ava knows I’m stalling and is allowing it, she waits all of five seconds before asking, “So? Let’s hear it. Yes or no?”

“My daddy never wanted us to stand out,” I begin, so tempted to just accept and take the easy way out. “We went to church every week, helped out everywhere we could, did everything to fit in and become a part of the town and community. They welcomed him wherever he went, sang his praises when they saw him in the streets, even carved his name into a stone that became a part of city hall’s foundation.” Meeting her eyes, I ask, “You know what happened after he died?”

Being a suspicious soul, Ava studies my expression for a long second before asking, “What?”

“Nothing.” Taking another small bite, the food turns to ashes in my mouth, but I chew and swallow all the same. “Everyone just sorta shrugged and went about their day. Couple folks came by to share their condolences, like Tim, Art, and the Marshal, while plenty of mugs were hoisted in bars and whatnot, but didn’t no one care enough to do anything for a murdered Ranger and so-called pillar of the community. Never noticed it at the time, but after I got that letter from the government saying my daddy wasn’t no Ranger, I realized it was only saying what everyone was already thinkin’. Despite everything my daddy did for them, most folks never saw him as one of ‘em. He was always the Qin, the foreigner, the outsider, even to those who came after, and there was nothin’ he could’ve ever done to change that.” Meeting her eyes with a hard stare of my own, I take a deep breath and tell her the honest truth. “Figure ain’t much I can do neither, nor much I care to, because if that’s what it’s like bein’ American, then I’d rather live and die Frontier born.”

Even if it means dying young.

Much as Ava wants to argue the facts, she knows I’m spitting truth, so she leaves me to my meal while I reflect on how she’s right too. My daddy would be the first to tell me I’m being dumb and making a mistake by riding solo instead of signing on with the Rangers. My little temper tantrum won’t change nothing in the long run, won’t make anyone act or think different, but it’s my mistake to make. It’s not about hating the Rangers, or even hating America. Being Firstborn don’t mean much, but being Frontier born means the world to me. It ain’t a country, religion, or ideology, but it’s who I am, an identity as good as any, because we look out for our own. That’s why I got no desire to be American, because America don’t care to look after me and mine. Simple as that, and I ain’t just talking about me and my daddy neither. The Qin Republic didn’t do their Vanguard no favours tossing children onto the Frontier, but the United Federation of American States didn’t do much better.

That’s why I say this world is ours. We lived here. Bled here. Fought here, and plenty of us died here, so I ain’t bout to give it up without a fight. If they think they can come collect on the fruits of our labours, well then they best think twice, because I’ll take up arms against them all to protect what’s ours, even the Rangers if it comes down to it.

Course, here’s hoping it won’t. I’ll always bet on myself, but even I gotta give me some long odds if I go to war with the entire old world.