Back in Meadowbrook, I told my prospects there ain’t much to learn fighting from a static position, but I gotta admit… I might’ve missed the mark on that one.
It’s those high expectations of mine, even though I don’t think I’m asking for all that much. Some things seem obvious is all, like waiting for your target to get into effective range of your gun before pulling the trigger. No sense shooting when you hardly got any chance to hit right? A waste of ammo is what that is, except somehow, them townies manning the gatlings have yet to learn that particular lesson. The heavy, multi-barrelled weapons open fire while the horde is still about a kilometre away, and though the sharp, acrid smell of burnt sulphur and metallic tang of spent Aether is always a welcome scent, it hurts to watch the big guns take action and deliver such horrendous results.
Makes for a right frightful symphony of rapid-fire munitions as the air thickens from a whole mess of Bolts, all shooting out from the bunkers beneath us and across the desert flats to miss ninety nine percent of their shots. Hardly surprising given the range, as Sarah Jay would find it challenging to hit every shot from so far away, and that’s with a hand-crafted 3-Line produced by Armand Kalthoff. Them gatlings fall short in every metric besides rate of fire, or so I thought, until I cotton onto the irregular rhythm of their shots. A steady flow of rat-tat-tats which ought to be music to my ears, the symphony is spoiled by far too many missing note. Every so often, the cycling barrels skip a shot or two, meaning the gunners are cranking the weapon faster than the multiple Cores can dissipate and Prime. Ten barrels means ten Cores, so even without Metamagics, you could shoot twice a second without interruption, putting it on par with the 3-Line.
So if they’re cycling faster than the Cores can handle, that tells me them gatlings are Etched with Prime and Efficient Metamagics, but not Quicken. Interesting to note, but nothing too out of the ordinary, as Quicken Metamagic Etchings are a military secret, one you ain’t allowed to learn or teach without repercussion. Even without Quicken, those Bolt Cores are capable of firing once per second, giving the gatlings a base rate of ten Bolts a second which ain’t nothing to sneeze at, but even then, the barrels are turning too fast for the Core to keep up. That’s the important takeaway, the fact that them gunners ain’t paying no mind to how fast they turn them cranks. They should, because if a Core cycles too quickly and tries to fire a Bolt Core before it’s Primed, then it’ll hold onto its Aether charge without firing. Then the barrel turns, the spent casing ejects, and a new cartridge is put in place to prime the Core, which then gets overcharged with twice as much Aether as it needs. Puts stress on the Core and risks cracking it, but even if it don’t explode, that excess energy is vented as heat, which is doubly bad considering how them gatlings already got problems keeping cool. The fix is easy too, a steady hand at the gun, or better yet, a simple mechanical friction brake that engages when you turn too quick, like what you’d put on a railway cart which I gotta assume they have up in them mines.
Sad really. If you gonna go to all that effort to put together a working gatling, you’d think you’d want to spend a little more effort optimizing it as best you can. Then again, gatlings are pretty much obsolete tech these days, and they look a whole lot less impressive when you realize all the materials and resources used in their production were likely gathered and paid for by slave labour, or the next best thing to it.
The more I watch the gatlings at work, the more issues I find in their craftsmanship. Long range ain’t the only reason them weapons are missing their marks. Poor tolerances in the fittings has barrels rattling about as they shoot, while unoptimized harmonics result in oscillation of the Bolt as it comes out the barrel, so the Bolts got a spray pattern similar to a Blast Spell while only firing one projectile at a time. Stamped Etchings also contribute to the sub-optimal craftsmanship, though to be fair, there’s no way around it when you move up into mass production. Even the best craftsman around can only Etch so many barrels in a day, and considering how each gatling has ten barrels, you can hardly expect one man to Etch them all without turning simple.
That’s another reason why I could never Etch full time. Too scared of the consequences of pushing too hard. I’d rather be buried six feet under than rendered into a simpleton who needs help wiping my own ass, and you can take that to the bank.
Still can’t believe how poorly trained the gunners are, just cranking away without a care in the world for ammo, heat, or accuracy. It’s like the only thing they know about shooting is getting the gun pointed in the right general direction, and even there they fail the mark as they pivot them gatlings from side to side, like they were taught wrong as a joke and no one clued them in. Even with five gatlings sounding off, they’re doing jack all besides wasting a fortune in brass and Aether, while the shooters in the towers are only doing slightly better. Given the volume of fire being laid down, you’d think the Abby horde would be cut down in a matter of seconds, but they still coming on strong and proving a threat to the riders out on the sand. Fact is, I’m more surprised no one’s been hit by friendly fire just yet, because far as I can tell, the gatling gunners got about an equal chance of hitting human or Abby at this range.
They got good distance, I’ll give ‘em that, and when the Bolts do connect, they leave a mark. Not enough of one though, because as the horde draws closer, I note that it’s mostly gobbo corpses being left in their wake, while the orcs and bugbears press forward through the hail of Bolts without slowing. So no Maximize for sure, but that’s another military secret, except now I’m thinking them gatlings ain’t even Empowered. Don’t get me wrong, the Bolts they spit out are still breaking bones and pulping flesh, but it takes a whole lot more to put Abby down and out for the count, as Errol learned firsthand after our gobbo dust-up in the desert. Abby don’t feel pain the way we do, as it’s more of a suggestion than a debilitating effect, which is why they can still push on even after taking grievous bodily injury. Can recover right quick too; I seen one orc with all its limbs chopped off and body nailed to the side of a tree, and it was as lively as the ones out there sprinting across the sands. Heard it later ripped itself off the tree and crawled around on four stumps to kill a man who’d gotten drunk and fallen asleep nearby. Bit right through his throat it did, and ate a good third of the corpse before someone stumbled across that nightmare and put it down for good.
My daddy said that wouldn’t end well the second he clocked it, but didn’t no one listen. That’s why he always said ignorance can be fixed, but there ain’t no cure for stupid. Wouldn’t be a problem if stupid weeded themselves out, but I’ve found the stupid also tend to be lucky, and usually it’s the smart people around them paying the price for their idiocy. Like the poor sap who got ate up by that armless, legless orc. He wasn’t the one who nailed it to the tree, but he paid for it all the same. My daddy had another saying for that too; fear not God-like enemies, but pig-like teammates. We seeing that in action right here, because if them shooters in the towers hadn’t opened up so early, then the hobgoblin hiding amidst the horde might not have gotten desperate enough to waste a Third Order Slow so soon.
“I got range!” Shouting to be heard over the gatling fire, Sarah Jay stares down into her scope at the approaching Abby horde, zeroed in for five-hundred metres and ready to rock. Eager for the kill she is, but can’t have her picking up bad habits from the townies, so I keep mum until she looks over to see what’s what. Rather than shout or Spell to be heard over the din, I simply shake my head and gesture for her to wait. Aside from the shooters up in the towers, she’s likely the only one of the boots with range. Not saying the rest of us would miss, but with the Strelky, asking for good shots past three-hundred metres is sure to disappoint, and you really don’t want to try for anything past two. Even though Sarah Jay can hit her targets, we want to maximize our opening salvo to put as many Abby down as we can all at once. That’s the alpha strike, because if a couple of us open up and kill four or five targets a piece, then the rest of the horde might think to spread out, take cover, or even break and run before coming into range of the rest.
Could also do any number of other things, as gobbos can be mighty tricksy. All Abby got that animal cunning, but this particular strain of greenies are downright crafty.
“Ready Weapons!”
At the sound of Captain Jung’s booming order, I make a note to explain all of this after the fight. Taking a beat to get my brain into gear, I raise my carbine to my shoulder and pick my target out in the crowd. Aim small, miss small, so I get the iron sight pointed right between a bugbear’s eyes. My new Spell loadout leaves much to be desired, as it’s tailored for Scouting and delving, not massed fights, and the lack of Eagle Eye irks me something fierce, but ain’t nothing I can do about it in the here and now. Don’t slow me down none when Captain Jung gives the order to go weapons free neither, as my first shot blows my target’s head clean off and drops the bugbear dead. Head, heart, and spine, those are the sweet spots to shoot, but my trusty Ranger Repeater don’t got enough kick to guarantee a one-shot kill on those last two. Not against orcs at least, and certainly not bugbears, as I discover to my chagrin when my next target eats a Bolt to the chin and keeps right on running sans mouth. The thunderous clamour of the Strelkies makes a big dent in the Abby numbers though, as the gun hits slightly harder than mine and shoots faster too. Less accurate, but at closer ranges with no lack of targets to pick, the difference ain’t all that big, especially when the combination of Intensify, Maximize, and Penetrate Metamagics enables their Bolts to blow clean through a bugbear’s thick chest cavity and break hearts and spines alike.
Five rounds in the tube and one in the chamber go right quick, so I stop to reload my repeater and assess our situation. The gatlings are still rat-tat-tatting away at full force, and doing a much better job now that Abby is close, but the guns won’t last long under all this stress. A quick peek over the side shows a multi-barreled nose poking out from its firing port, one that’s glowing red hot from sustained, uninterrupted use. Even if they don’t gotta stop to cool soon, the front of their firing ports are covered in a haze of thick, black smoke, showing to the poor quality of their primer. Makes it right hard to see your targets it does, which don’t dampen their enthusiasm none, only lessens their effectiveness as they fire blind out into the sands. The townies on the wall lend their efforts to the fray too, plinking away with their rifles while hooting and hollering in a variety of languages, and only then do I notice that not all of ‘em are carrying Snapdragons like I clocked on Carl and his boys. Rather than the semi-decent bolt-action offering, most townies got themselves a genuine rolling block rifle from the looks of things. A single-shot, rear-loaded Aetherarm where you gotta manually remove your spent casing and reload after every shot, it’s a strong, simple, and reliable weapon that shoots with a nice, satisfying pop.
That there is a piece of Frontier history, tech that went obsolete within a year or two after the Advent. Only slightly ahead of the breech loaded rifle my mama made, the one I got hanging on my wall back home, but still impressive all the same. A properly made and maintained rolling block rifle can cycle thousands of shots and last a lifetime, which is why I’m tempted to buy one just to add to my collection. Might not be the best anti-Abby weapons around, but it’ll do for hunting, as they tend to be accurate as all heck. Not a lot of moving parts is why, so less chance of messing up, which helps paint a better picture of Pleasant Dune’s mysterious and prolific gunsmith.
After another six shots and a reload, I grab a blade of grass from my component’s pouch and toss out an Entangle to slow the horde’s approach, catching a good chunk of them in the spiralling white growth while the rest run on by. Lacking a Metamagic tool of her own, Sarah Jay’s Entangle comes a little later once Abby get in her range. No one else throws one out through, and only then do I notice the lack of Spells coming from the handful of Rangers we got with us, but I can only assume Captain Jung has got good reason for doing so. The townies got a few Spells of their own, but nothing game changing. A couple Elemental Orbs, Catapulted stones, homing Magic Missiles, and the like, though I suppose there could be Spells I can’t see, like Bane, Bless, Fear, and what not.
Then the Abby horde passes the clear and visible signs and the first explosive Spell Glyph goes off with a boom, making all that ditch-digging well worthwhile.
A cheer goes up amongst the townies, and a couple boots chime in, but it takes more than a few explosions to take the fight out of Abby. Sand and gore spray out as the mines go off, but the horde presses onwards without any care for their casualties. Doesn’t help that the Rangers haven’t put down all that many Spell Glyphs, making this less of a minefield and more of a hopscotch
Whatever the case, our guns and Spells ain’t enough to keep Abby from knocking at the gates, or they would be if there were a gate on this side of the town. Instead, they tear into the solid stone walls and leave gouges behind with their bare claws. Seeing this target rich environment, I switch over to the Model 10 for some live target practice, and love how the compact weapon comes alive in my hand. Got a lot of kick for a gun so small, and the big, metallic bangs put a genuine smile on my face as the recoil courses up my arm and deep into my chest. Eager to shoot at the Abby directly below us, Errol grabs his Whumper and stands up to lean over the battlements, but I was half expecting Tina to try the same, so I pull him back right quick and shake my head while gesturing for him to keep low and in cover. Leaning out might give him a good angle on Abby under us, but it’d also make him a prime target for the others still streaming in, and he catches on to his mistake mere moments after I stop him from making it.
Don’t earn me any gratitude though, just a scowl and a sigh. Directed inwards at himself, but still. A nod, a smile, even a fake grimace is enough to show a bit of appreciation, and I gotta say his attitude is starting to wear mighty thin. Like I told Tina, it ain’t like I want him grovelling or nothing, but a straightforward ‘thanks’ every now and then would go a long way seeing how I’m out here busting my hump to keep him breathing.
Must be an American thing, one I’ve only just noticed these last few years. The Métis, now there’s a polite bunch, though they say sorry a fair bit more than I’m used to…
Passing off the spent Model 10 to a Mage Hand for reloading, I accept the Rattlesnake from the other Mage Hand while wishing they were stronger and more durable. Then I could send them out with my Doorknockers to shoot straight down at Abby, just like Errol wanted to do, except I’d be doing it safely. Problem is, the recoil from those pint-sized Blastguns is powerful enough to make my Mage Hands come apart at the seams. The ectoplasm holding the hands together is too flimsy and insubstantial to sustain a shock like that, which results in my Doorknockers clattering to ground after every shot. That’s why I gotta use both barrels whenever I use the Mage Hands to fire, because I’d rather not risk a slam fire when the dubsie hits the ground. Here and now, dropping a weapon in the sand would only lead to every goblin, orc, and bugbear stomping all over it, and I ain’t ready to replace my pretty dubsies just yet.
It's a shame really. I’ve made great strides with the Mage Hand Cantrip since I first learned it at the tender age of eleven. Barely even have to think about them as I reload anymore, and don’t have to look, as I got real good at reloading by ‘feel’, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Let’s me shoot and swap to deliver a constant stream of Bolts at Abby down below, while their return fire is sparse, sporadic, and largely ineffective. Given our elevated position and abundance of cover, the chances of getting tagged by Abby Bolts are slim to none so long as you keep your head down and move around every now and then. Simple is as simple does, but I spot a couple townies getting shot down from the walls, most while standing straight up or leaning out of cover to shoot down at Abby like I stopped Errol from doing earlier.
Dumb way to die, but there are thousands of those, and the more I see of the Frontier, the more I wonder what’s the point of school if they don’t teach you how to survive? A little critical thinking goes a long way, like ‘If I do this, what are the chances I get got?’. If the answer is ‘pretty good’, then maybe don’t do it, yea? Amazing how most folks can’t even manage that much considering they an educated bunch, which has me thinking common sense ain’t all that common. No point laying blame at anyone’s feet though, so I avert my eyes from the most egregious cases of stupidity and put a hand to my chest. Invoking the bible stuffed in my armoured plate carrier, I offer a quiet prayer to those poor, dumb souls and hope that they find safety and solace in the Kingdom of Heaven.
Hard to truly believe in an all-knowing and all-powerful God when presented with his flawed creations, but a good gambler always hedges his bets.
Two minutes of fighting. That’s how long this little scuffle has lasted so far, and already the gatlings have fallen silent. Not just one or two, but every last one of them, and the silence is almost as deafening as the din. Could be they all ran out of ammo and need reloading, or could be their barrels all overheated. My guess is that Abby got in too close and now them gunners have switched to their sidearms, plinking away with the TEC-LS’s so many of them got. The sound reminds me all too well of my scuffle in the Sherrif’s office, but it’s a series of booming, rapid fire thwip-thwip-thwips that got me all heated and shook. The distinctive call of the Mao He Pao, one that got me ready to turn on the townies, but I squash the fires of rage down flat before they can take hold. Ain’t no Qin Vanguard around, else I’d have clocked them the last time I was in town, but my mind gets to racing about the possibilities. A semi-automatic pistol chambered for 9mm and the easiest semi-automatic Aetherarm to craft, the sidearm is a Qin favourite on the Frontier because it fits the Republic’s mindset to a tee. Quantity over quality, as the Mao He Pao, or the Mao Box Cannon, is a square framed, broom-handled, misshapen miscreation of an Aetherarm, one that don’t do nothing good, only fast and furious. Comes standard with a 10-round magazine which it can empty in three second flat, but even with Precise and Stable Metamagics to help with accuracy and recoil, you’d have trouble hitting the broad side of a barn from twenty metres away. Even if you do connect, you won’t do much damage, because the gun don’t hit any harder than base, making it a real peashooter of a pistol that’s most consider a waste of steel, brass, and Aether.
But it’s cheap and easy to make, and it’ll put a lot of Bolts downrange right quick. Accuracy ain’t as much of an issue when you point blank, and even a base Bolt Cantrip can kill an orc if you hit it enough times centre mass.
More to the point is how the presence of the weapon adds to my working theory about Pleasant Dune’s gunsmith, which got me real curious to meet him. Never made sense before, why Ron was so eager to source something more ‘robust’ in terms of Aetherarms, because he clearly had a competent source. Now though, now I ain’t so sure, because even if every weapon in Pleasant Dunes short of the Mao He Pao has got Penetrate Metamagics to help punch through armour, the guns all hit like wet noodles compared to proper Aetherarm like my Model 10. It’s not just the lack of the Maximize Metamagic, but also the fact that Ron’s gunsmith clearly doesn’t know how to Etch Intensify and Empower onto the same weapon. Thems the bread and butter of Metamagics for hitting harder, except it ain’t a simple matter of knowing the Etches. Those two Metamagics won’t work together unless you Etch them special. Has to do with Aetheric dynamics and how those two Metamagics function. They improve the Spell by ‘elevating’ it, like taking a single step up a stair case, but when Etched in sequence, all they do is make the Spell take the same step up twice, which tends to result in things getting hot and explosive. Instead, you gotta Etch them so they work in tandem and take two steps up in one go, which is a tricky bit of work that ain’t so obvious at a glance.
None of which is all that important, except it all comes together to tell me one very important fact. Ron’s gunsmith don’t got a proper education. Might well have learned after coming to the Frontier, or maybe they was self-taught, but either way, that makes this gunsmith a diamond in the rough. Said it before, but with enough time and effort, anyone can follow a blueprint to build an Aetherarm, as all the materials, dimensions, and Etches are laid out for you. No thinking required, and you can even use a stencil to help with the Etch. Ain’t optimal, but it’s possible, and massed manufacturing relies on it. Thing is, Mr. Kalthoff is the number one Gunsmith this side of the Divide because he understands the Etches and materials enough to make his own working blueprints, and judging by the state of Aetherarms available to Pleasant Dunes, I suspect their mysterious Gunsmith is capable of the same. The rolling block rifles, the Snapdragons, the TEC-LS’s, the Mao He Pao, those are all staple blueprints that are quick and easy to make with fairly basic tools. Ain’t nothing too interesting about them guns individually, but put ‘em together and you got all the bits and bobs needed to put together a junky, third-rate gatling like what they got downstairs.
And if that junk was put together using a custom-made schematic developed by a Gunsmith who ain’t never been to school? Genius don’t even begin to cover the type of intellect needed to accomplish that. A hot commodity is what he or she is, one too good for the likes of Ronald Jackson, so I start putting together a plan to steal whoever it is away with help from the Rangers.
So distracted by my nefarious schemes, I’m slow to pick up on latest development in the battle we fighting. Thankfully, orcs and bugbears are cunning, but not all that bright as the first one to pop his head over the lip of the wall lets loose with a bellowing roar, one I cut short with a Bolt to the dome. Six metres of flat, solid, vertical wall and Abby still climbs it right quick, so I step to clean-up and the battlements Abby free. Take a few potshots at the Abby climbing up the sides of Michael’s fighting position, but he’s a calm and collected soldier who sorts his people out quick. Over on my side, I ain’t sure Tina, Errol, and Sarah Jay have even noticed, as they all tunnel visioned in on the fight in front, but Kacey makes up for it and then some. Makes for a right impressive sight, her loosing an arrow out into the sands before whipping one of her swords out to slash a climbing bugbear in the face. That ain’t enough to kill or stop it, only annoy it some, but I sense the energies enveloping the bugbear as it pulls itself the rest of the way up. A roaring boom echoes out as the energies erupt in a condensed implosion, one focused sole on the bugbear and nothing else. The thick, muscled Aberration compresses beneath the weight of the Booming Blade Cantrip, its skull pulping into a mash where the energies were strongest and sending its headless corpse hurtling back into the sands, while I watch in awe and reconsider my stance on melee combat.
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That was an impressive kill, no two ways about it, and you always get extra points for style.
Thoroughly enjoying myself now that there’s something new and interesting to study, I let out a whoop and a cheer as I get back to killing Abby. Don’t take much longer before they lose their stomach for the fight, and unlike with people, there’s nothing in the Accords or Geneva Conventions that says you can’t shoot fleeing Abby in the back. Once the sands are clear of moving Abby, I pat a few backs and shoot a few smiles to congratulate everyone on a wall well defended, even if it don’t get simpler than that. Then it’s time to clean up, so I follow Captain Jung and the other Rangers down to grab our gear and gather round for a chat before we head out.
The Captain hits the usual notes, commending boots who done well and pointing out a few errors we could all learn from. Even covers the bits about keeping your head low and the alpha strike that I was gonna go over with Errol and Sarah Jay, and it irks me to see the former give the Captain a nod of acknowledgement when I know he’d have gotten all pouty lipped with me. No sense hashing it out though, so I sit quiet and listen as Captain Jung looks us over and asks, “Now who knows our standard R.O.E when it comes to civilians, independent or otherwise?”
Military loves them their three letter abbreviations, or T.L.A’s as they’re jokingly known. R.O.E being Rules of Engagement, but I keep mum until the Captain looks at me in tacit permission to speak. “Do not engage unless engaged upon,” I say, which sums it all up nicely. There’s more to it, but that’s a whole lecture in and of itself, so Captain Jung nods and goes over a few finer points, like mirror actions and whatnot. Means among other things, anything they do first, we can follow suit. If them townies got guns readied, we should too. If they take aim, we follow suit. If they take a swing, we get to punch back, but no more, no less.
Soldiers got it rough. As a civilian, I’m allowed to start Blasting the moment someone points an Aetherarm in my general direction, which is so much better. Not entirely sure why Captain Jung is going over all this right now though, or why she giving me the stink eye to make sure I’m paying attention, but it soon becomes clear as we head over to the front gates where the beleaguered riders are still filtering into town.
“What the fuck is this?”
Stomping over like he on the warpath, a scruffy, sun-baked giant of a man brings his whole posse over to stand in our way, and I christen him Sasquatch on account of all his body hair. Got a cotton plaid shirt with the arms ripped off, same as Jumbo and Vicente, and a bonded-leather vest with more patches sewn into it than the decorative cushions on Aunty Ray’s couch. Most prominent is the stylized V.G for Vanguard National that most them riders got, with the V being made of two lightning bolts and the G all covered in flames. A bit much if you ask me, especially since they have a bunch of other patches that got ‘Vanguard National’ all spelled out, as if worried we won’t put two and two together to figure out whose leg they clinging to.
Sasquatch ain’t none too bright neither, as he gets right into Captain Jung’s face while cracking his big, hairy knuckles. The rest of us bristle to see it, and she holds a hand out to keep us from stepping up. Pleases me to see the boots go weapons ready, as it’s only fair seeing how the rest of the posse here got their weapons in hand. As for me, I got my Model 10 in hand quick as a blink as I quietly ready a Spell behind my back. Wish I still had my Big Spell, because it’d take care of this problem right quick, but I suppose I’ll settle for second best.
Looming over her stocky, five-foot-six frame, Sasquatch looks down at Captain Jung with her manly bob-cut hair under a Ranger-issue army cap and don’t seem much impressed. “Typical fucking Feds,” he growls, spitting a wad of phlegm into the sand much too close to the Captain’s feet. “Slow to fight and quick to profit off the blood and sweat of the working man.”
Typically, this is where I’d say something like how not a one of them looked like they ever worked an honest day in their lives, or how I’ll be sure to shoot faster the next time around. This ain’t my dog and pony show though. This stage is for Captain Ava Jung to shine, which she does in her icy, matter-of-fact way. “Move,” she says, her tone commanding without spilling over into overbearing. “Or be moved. Your choice, Sasquatch.”
Ha. Damn me if I don’t regret getting to know her sooner. No explanations, no bargaining, no reassurances or condolences. Just straight to the point, no fuss, no muss.
Getting all red in his leathery face, Sasquatch goes all bug-eyed as he points out the gate, even though the battle was fought behind where I stand. “It’s Vanguard National blood out on those sands,” he bellows, “So those Aberration corpses are Vanguard National’s to collect. Fuck off back to your camp with your snot-nosed brats and stay there before I put you in your place, bitch.”
Captain Jung don’t say nothing, don’t make no threats or brandish no weapons. Don’t even make a show of it neither as she explodes into action and drives her forehead into Sasquatches face and sends a jolt of Electric energy coursing through him. Ain’t never seen someone deliver a Shocking Grasp Cantrip with a headbutt, and for the third time in two days, I’m rethinking my stance on melee scuffles. The man’s blooded face flings back as his body convulse in place before dropping to the sand like a sack of potates, and you can hear a pin drop in the silent aftermath. The posse who done rode up are too shocked to even raise their weapons, which is good because I might well have opened up and called it nerves just to spit in Ron’s eye. All them ‘biker’ outlaws can do is watch while Captain Jung slowly and deliberately draws her sidearm, a big and shiny Sturm and Kitiara Longsword that glitters in the midday sun, the bigger, badder, double-action cousin to the piddly Squires issued to the boots. Tapping out a slow and steady rhythm against her leg, she gives the crowd a good long once over as a half-dozen fist-sized flaming mini-meteors materialize in orbit around her head, the Iron Maiden’s fiery crown just waiting on her word to deal death to her foes.
“Move, or be moved,” she says, with the same slow and steady delivery as before, and I almost hope they’re dumb enough to try her. Still, the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting, or so my daddy used to say, so I support the good Captain by having my Mage Hands bring the Doorknockers out from behind my back. Still pointed at the ground, but two double-barrelled Blastguns floating front and centre makes for a mighty impressive sight. It’s one thing to see a man with a gun, as most understand what they can and can’t do, or at least, they think they understand. Spectral blue Mage Hands though? They don’t know how fast they can fly or how quick they can shoot, and like Uncle Teddy said, most fear the unknown.
Give ‘em a big, toothy smile while I’m at it too, because for some reason, folks find that unsettling when tensions are high. Don’t even have to fake it either, as my spirits are bright and mood upbeat after a good, clean fight.
Bereft of their Sasquatch leader, the rest of Vanguard National mulls about long enough for Vicente to arrive and shoo them away, saying how Señor Jackson worked out a deal to split the proceeds and don’t want no one making trouble. Interesting to note that even though Vicente seem to run things round town when Ron ain’t around, them Vanguard National ‘bikers’ don’t seem none too pleased about taking orders from him. Makes me think Ron likes to keep his town and his motor club separate. Suppose it wouldn’t do to have his cronies getting fat and lazy around town while the miners work twelve hour shifts down in the shaft, only to come home and sleep on the sand beneath the open skies. Maybe them ‘bikers’ got a hideout nearby, one comfier than the spartan furnishings they got here in Pleasant Dunes, or maybe there’s another town under Ron’s thumb, one that needs his heavies there to keep the peace. Who knows. Either way, the posse parts ways and leave us free and clear to head out and collect our spoils, which has got the townies feeling sour as can be. That’s the price of Ranger protection though, so even though them townies and ‘bikers’ ain’t none to pleased to have us here, they’ll be singing a whole different tune once the Proggie’s army arrives to lay siege to Pleasant Dunes.
Over the course of the afternoon, we collect and cook the Abby horde without interruption, and I avoid identifying at any Spell Cores fished out of their pressure pots. No sense tormenting myself by wondering what if, so I keep my head down and haul for all I’m worth. During the downtime, I find a moment to share my thoughts on the gunmaker with Captain Jung, who gets a gleam in her eye after I’ve laid out all the facts. Competent gunsmiths are a rare breed out here on the Frontier, and Mr. Kalthoff is always complaining about lack of talented assistance, so with a little luck, the Rangers might well profit more than expected from this trip out to the desert. Unfortunately, the folks sent in to look at the gatlings are clearly techs rather than full blown Artificers, as in they can do the work needed to replace barrels and maintain the weapons, but don’t seem competent enough to have built and Etched the guns from scratch, much less design them.
Guess Ron knows how valuable his gunsmith really is and keeps them hidden, though that shouldn’t come as a surprise. Said he was scary smart and he’s proven it time and time again, which is why I’m feeling mighty concerned about how I still haven’t figured out his game. He wanted me to bring word of the Proggie back to the Rangers, then cut a deal for protection, but Marcus never did say what the terms of the deal was, and I ain’t so sure Ron intends to pay up. Given a choice, I’d sooner put Pleasant Dunes in my six and head home with Tina, alongside anyone else who care to join us, but it don’t feel right leaving the Rangers and boots in the lurch after coming all this way. The townies could use the help too, but I can’t bring myself to care too much about them, since they all willing to turn a blind eye to Noora’s circumstances alongside the exploitation of other children in town.
Shows in how quick my candies disappear, as the jar is empty by the time dinner rolls around and I check in on Cowie once again. While he slurps down his water, I turn off the Silent Image Spell Core and decide there ain’t no point showing it off for a third day. Instead, I take a good long look at the townies hanging about and note the plethora of younger faces I missed seeing the last time I was in town. While the Accords say 16 is old enough to work, fight, and fuck, ain’t a single one of these kids looking even remotely close to sixteen, but they was down in them mines all the same. In the faces and bodies at least, as they a scrawny bunch, all gangly and awkward cause they ain’t used to their size just yet, but lacking the energy, vitality, and curiosity so common in youths. Instead, they all sitting or standing around like they got nothing better to do, without a single smile to share amongst the lot of them. They got that dour, cheerless look, their cheeks slack and eyes distant as they idle their time away, unsure of what else to do because they’ve forgotten how to play.
Yea, any sympathy I had for the townies of Pleasant Dunes went the way of the dodo the second I spotted Noora coming down those stairs, and the faces of these cheerless kids just seals the deal. Don’t matter if them older folks were pressured into it, or if they were too scared to speak out against Ron. Ain’t no excuse for it, not anymore. Anyone content with the way things are is complicit in his crimes, and that there is a fact. While that ain’t enough to earn everyone a trip to the gallows, I sure as shooting ain’t gonna risk my neck to save a bunch of lily-livered company patsies who think there ain’t nothing wrong with sending kids working in mines and brothels both. That right there is a betrayal of the most basic social contract there is. The old look after the young. That’s how it should be, so it burns me up to see these kids betrayed and exploited by the very people who were supposed to protect them.
Which is why I bite the bullet and risk incurring Tina’s ire to ask Captain Jung if I can snag a meal in the saloon. “They make a mean plate of steak and potates,” I say, ignoring my sorta-sister’s suspicious glower. “And I could settle in and make nice with the locals too. You know, park myself somewhere visible and familiarize myself with the crowd.”
Giving me a look that says she knows exactly what I’m up to, Captain Jung takes a beat to mull things over. “Okay,” she says, checking her sidearm out of habit before waving one of her Rangers over. “Wait two and we’ll head out together.”
The answer throws me for a loop, and leaves me scrambling for an excuse. While I might harbour a newfangled admiration for the woman, the thought of having a meal alone with Captain Ava Jung scares me something fierce. To that end, I quickly invite Tina, Kacey, Errol, and Sarah Jay along for the ride, and might well have called for more if I thought it would help. “You drink?” I ask, after climbing into the back of my wagon to access the hidden compartment again. When Captain Jung replies in the affirmative, I grab four bottles of mead and hand one over to her before leading the way back to the saloon. The first floor is sparse and grimy as usual, but there’re enough sad sacks working away at their drinks to make finding three square tables and six chairs a challenge. Luckily, I came prepared, so I swagger on over to the left side of the saloon and tap a bottle of mead on a table while addressing the solitary fella sitting there. “Trade you for the table?” I ask, and his eyes don’t exactly light up, but he’s quick to stand and accept. Get two more volunteers without even having to ask, so I dole out the bottles and set Errol and Sarah Jay to pushing our tables and chairs up against the side of the wall.
With our seating secured, I take a seat in the centre with the table to my left and the wall to my back, so I can look out at the crowd. Captain Jung takes the seat across from me in much the same fashion with her bottle of mead in hand, while Errol and Sarah Jay take the table to her left. Tina sits beside me in a mirror of my posture, but mostly so we can chat, while Kacey reads the room and moves her chair so she won’t have her back to the middle of the floor. “So what’s this about?” Tina asks, whispering real quiet since most of the townies are looking our way. “You here to see that girl again?”
“Yes, but not for the reasons you thinkin’,” I say, keeping my voice low to match. “More like see who follow her up.” So I can hang him from the windowsill later on down the line. Or maybe right quick if Captain Jung allows it. The night is young, so who knows? “If things start gettin’ ugly, be ready to hunker down.” Eying the table, I dismiss the flimsy, wobbly wood as any sort of protection and slip my Shield Bracer over to her instead. “Make sure Kacey gets the same message. Y’all got Aegis, right?” Also commonly known as the “Oh Shit Spell”, as most folks use the phrase as their trigger since it flows so naturally when most needed. The First Order Spell will throw up a personal barrier of force all around you, one even Cowie might have trouble punching through, but it’ll only last for about five seconds flat and won’t move along with you. Great for taking cover in a pinch, but not much else.
“Yea. Rangers make us keep it standard,” Tina replies. Waste of a Spell slot in my opinion, and judging by her tone, Tina agrees, but for once, I’m happy someone else got it instead of me. She don’t take the bracer though, not until I give her my patented Big Brother glare, one that says in no uncertain terms that she ain’t gonna win this fight. Taking it with a scowl, she straps it onto her wrist and leans over to Kacey to pass on the advice. Girlie don’t look nervous, though her arms do look empty without Inari, who stayed outside with Cowie out of respect for the establishment. Without a fox to stroke and cuddle, Kacey’s hands fondle her many knives instead, and having seen firsthand what she can do with her sword, I’d hate to be on the receiving end despite being strangely drawn to her dour and violent ways…
Says something about me which I don’t much like, though she awful adorable for a blood-crazed, dagger-throwing, sword-swinging girlie. Crazy, by my kind of crazy, so I really hope she gets along with Tina.
They couldn’t be more different, Tina and Kacey, but it seems like they’re getting along well, even after the whole kerfuffle with the Fear Spell and ingrained Anti-Innate sentiment making it out to the surface. Not sure if their friendship is a genuine one, or if Kacey’s just playing nice according to my advice, but I hope it’s the former. Sure, Innates can be scary sometimes, but they still people underneath it all, which means there are some who are good and some who are bad, and you can’t know which is which until you know. Leaving them to gab and gossip, I turn to Captain Jung as she surveys the crowd, and feel compelled to make conversation. “So… Mini Meteor.”
“My-noot,” she retorts, without pausing her scan. “The proper name is Minute Meteor.”
“Same difference. Interestin’ Spell though.” She don’t engage, as she ain’t one for small talk, but me, I always love talking all things tech and arcana. “A Third Order Evocation Spell which creates six fist-sized meteors orbiting the caster’s position. Can send two out at a time with little more than a thought, and even control their flight path with a bit of practice and effort. Explodes on impact with more pressure than a First Order Elemental Orb. Heard it was tested rigorously in the old world and they concluded that at base, one cast of Minute Meteor is equivalent to between ten and twelve Elemental Orbs.”
“You are correct.”
“Don’t got the coverage of Fireball though,” I continue, carrying the conversation by my lonesome. “Plus, you can only send two of them projectiles out a time, meaning it ain’t as impactful neither.”
“So why use it over Fireball.” Delivered as a statement, a dry and boring one at that, as it would appear Captain Jung has fielded the same question many times before. “Different tools for different situations,” she says, giving a drunk townie a good hard look as he approaches and convincing him to turn away. Wish I could do that, but folks don’t take me serious most of the time. “I could have readied a Fireball to take out the whole crowd at once,” she says, her tone bored and matter-of-fact as can be. “But they wouldn’t have known I was holding it. Minute Meteor on the other hand is much flashier, and sometimes flashy is what you need. Shock and Awe without the casualties, a win-win situation for both sides.”
Same reason as to why I pulled out my dubsies pretty much, so I nod in thanks for the advice and consider what Spells I know and can use to the same effect. Lance maybe, as it looks real intimidating when you stand there charging it up, all glowy and surging with Aetheric power. Could also do the same with Elemental Orb and maybe trick some fools into thinking it’s Fireball. Would be better with Elemental Bomb, the Second Order variant of the same Spell, but I don’t have it on account of it being restricted to military use only. Otherwise, all I got left is either an illusion to trick people, or False Brawn/Bull’s Strength to look a little bigger. Problem is, a little bigger still puts me on the low end of average, so won’t change much at all. I suppose I could copy Cowie and cast a Dragon’s Breath to snort out smoke, but the Spell always leaves me with a sore throat and dry cough.
Hang on. Minute Meteor is an Evocation Spell that has a lasting effect, which is an oddity in the school of quick and dirty magic. Could be where she got the idea for her sustained Bolt Burst, or the inspiration at least, since firing off 192 Bolts over the course of a minute is similar to launching two mini meteors every five seconds. If I’m right, then it means she took her familiarity with Minute Meteor and applied it to Burst Bolt, or something of the sort, which is interesting since the two Spells don’t seem linked in any which way. Then again, Minute Meteor itself is a man-made Spell, one derived from the Ninth Order Spell Meteor Swarm. Was done by the Byzantine Immortal Monarch himself, who did it so his descendants could go forth and retake the fallen Roman Empire, but the Ottomans put an end to that. Sent the Byzantine Immortal Monarch into hiding they did, as they had two Immortal Monarchs of their own, though all three of them died in the Second World War. The Byzantine Immortal Monarch’s Spellbooks survived though, which is how we got Minute Meteor, but that’s neither here nor there. The important thing to take from all this is the fact that Spells can have more in common than it would appear at first glance. I would’ve never thought Minute Meteor could be used to improve Burst Bolt, but Captain Jung did, and more importantly, it worked.
So maybe I could use this same principle to improve my Mage Hands. Up until now, I’ve only been improving my familiarity with the Cantrip by using it as much as I can. It’s what my mama did and she improved right quick, to the point where she could sew two socks at the same time, one with her regular hands and another with the Mage Hands. That’s why I use my Mage Hands for so many minor tasks, and play cat’s cradle with them when I got nothing better to do. Not just to familiarize myself with the Spell like any other, but because of a phenomenon called Neuroplasticity.
In laymen’s terms, Neuroplasticity is the brain’s ability to form new neural pathways in response to life experiences. Habit forming, pretty much, and by using Mage Hand so often, I’m essentially rewiring my brain to treat the Spell like a new part of my body, or at least that’s what my mama’s notes say. When I first learned the Cantrip, I had trouble lifting a cup without spilling liquid inside, because I wasn’t used to controlling it. Nowadays, I’ve gotten to the point where the Mage Hands are almost indistinguishable from my real hands in terms of dexterity and fine control, with the only real limit being their lack of strength and durability. What’s more, while I don’t get any physical sensation from them, the feedback is close enough that the lines get blurred when I’m working with all four at the same time. It’s a little like using the Appraisal Cantrip, as I don’t so much feel the texture, temperature, weight, or whatnot of whatever my Mage Hands are touching. Don’t even feel if the object is moving, but I get a sense of it, and can glean things about its material composition, like whether it’s metal or wood, hard or firm, heavy or light. Not in so many words, but a vague sort of inkling, one that you learn to read through repetition and familiarity. The more you use a Divination Cantrip, the better you get at reading what information it feeds you, and the tactile feedback from Mage Hand works the same way.
Problem is, I’ve pretty much reached the limits of the base Cantrip, and figured I had no other recourse for improvement. The reason being is that Mage Hand was derived from a Spell called Eldritch Palm. Conjures up a big, spectral hand same as the cantrip, only one strong, durable, and hefty enough to flatten ogres, pummel giants, block projectiles, and more. A spell I’m really looking forward to learning, except it’s a Fifth Order Spell. Means my mama didn’t have the Spell Formula and I ain’t found anyone who remembers it, since everyone on the Frontier is limited to Third Order Spells, and not many higher Order Casters went through the Gate. Even if I did have the Formula, I wouldn’t be able to memorize the Spell Structure, because the ambient Aether levels on the Frontier can’t support a Fifth-Order Spell Structure. Long story short, I thought the only way to improve Mage Hands was to improve upon the base structure itself and create a First Order Spell, one with a working Formula anyone could use to conjure up a better, stronger Mage Hand than the Cantrip allows.
Which ain’t as simple as it sounds. Taking a Cantrip and turning it into a First Order Spell isn’t as easy as adding more Aether. This is the sort of stuff Immortal Monarchs are known for, as Captain Jung ain’t even accomplished as much. She’s the only one who can utilize her sustained Burst-Bolt, as it ain’t a new Spell. It’s the same old Spell Structure with a few custom, on the fly tweaks. Anyone can learn a song on the guitar, and a really good player can even add their own little twist to it, but it takes a true master to use the baseline of that song and compose a brand-new masterpiece from it. Captain Jung fits in that second category with her sustained Burst Bolt Spell, whereas if I want to improve the Spell Structure of the Mage Hand Cantrip, I’d have to be in the third, but the difference between the two ain’t no small potates. Besides, I ain’t ever claimed to be any genius Spellslinger, just someone who’s good at math, so I can’t count on a stroke of brilliance to see me through to the answer.
All this and more meant I thought I was stuck in terms of progress with Mage Hand, but now I’m thinking there’s another way. If Captain Jung can apply what she learned from Minute Meteor to Burst Bolt, two seemingly unrelated Evocation Spells, then maybe there are other Conjuration Spells I could study to improve my Mage Hands. Lower Order Spells I got access to already even. Which ones though? Ain’t no other Hand Spells that I really know of, not in the Conjuration School at least, but I gotta think outside the box. I want a Mage Hand that is stronger, more durable, and capable of shooting an Aetherarm without coming apart at the seams, and even better if it can act quasi-independently from myself. Is there a Spell that fits the bill?
…
Something tells me there most certainly is, but I can’t put my finger on which one just yet. Times like this makes me wish I could go to Uncle Teddy for advice, but those days are behind us now. Maybe Kacey’s Summon Familiar? Only I summon a Hand familiar instead of a three-tailed fox? No, I can already hear the jokes and won’t stand for it.
Spotting a familiar face in the crowd, I suck my teeth and clench my jaw before giving Tina a soft elbow. “Be ready,” I say, before turning to Captain Jung to get the okay. She hesitates for a moment, but no longer, and she gives me a solid nod that says she’ll back my play, followed by a look telling me in no uncertain terms that I’m to adhere to rules of engagement and keep bloodshed to a minimum. I nod, touch my bull’s head medallion to start recording, then shrug, because when it comes right down to it, the decision of how much blood to shed ain’t up to me.
“You know,” I say, speaking loudly while striving to sound conversational, which ain’t easy as it sounds. “I once tossed a man much like yourself out a sah-loon window.” Across the room, Noora freezes on the staircase and turns to see me sitting there with a smile, but I ain’t talking to her. No, I got my stare fixed on the john beside her, a husky, greasy, shit-stain of a fat fuck covered in Vanguard National logos and can’t keep his hands to himself. “Threw a noose round his neck and strung him up right then and there.”
Meeting his confused gaze that soon turns to anger, I feel my smile grow in anticipation. Yea, he looks like he got a mean streak a mile long and hair-trigger of a temper, so I’m thinking I got the perfect messenger to let the good people of Pleasant Dunes know that the Firstborn stands for all the Frontier born, and he will not suffer a pedophile to live. If my luck holds, then maybe his friends even try to avenge him, giving me cause to cut Ron’s legs out from under him before he gets back. Can imagine it now, the look on his face when he come home to find his little ‘motor club’ all strung up out the windows and over the walls of his fair town.
Yea, that would be a sight for sore eyes, now wouldn’t it?