Soon as we’re clear of camp and amongst the townies, I put everything out of mind and focus on the task at hand.

Step one is preparation, of which I have none. Got my Model 10, my two Doorknockers, and my trusty Rattlesnake, as well as plenty of ammo, three Flashbangs, and eight vials of Alchemical Acid. There’s also my components pouch and an assortment of stuff inside, none of which amounts to much outside of slinging Spells or casting Rituals. Not the worst loadout, but not as good as it could be, and things only go downhill from here. The Mage Armour from the Artifact I worked up only lasts three hours and change, so it ran out on our way back to town, while most manually casted support Spells have even shorter durations, usually measured in minutes if not seconds. Means the only defensive Spell I got on me is Hearing Protection, so I’ll have to rely on active defensives like my Shield Bracer or Misty Step, and Force Barrier, both of which are Second Order Spells. On my best days, I can sling five or six of those a day, but I’m hardly at my best. Got about a third left in the Spellslinging tank, with the only change from the Proggie fight being that I cast Detect Aberration one more time after the fact.

Best case scenario? I got 4-5 First Order Spells left in me. That’s 16 to 20 Aether, so at most, I got 23 Aether available, since having 1-3 Aether left hanging around is as good as empty. Could most certainly throw out a Second Order Spell or two, but depending on how things stand after the fact, I might have a First Order Spell left in me, or I might not. No way to tell until it happens, as gauging your status is more a matter of feel rather than hard numbers, so I shouldn’t expect more than one Spell and plan accordingly.

Hope for the best, and prepare for the worst, that’s the best way to go about it after all. Putting a lot more on hope this time around than I like, but that’s just how things go.

Besides, it’s not like I got all that many useful Spells to Sling. My current loadout is tailored for tracking Abby under dark, not fighting people in town, which limits my options greatly. Detect Aberration, Hunter’s Mark, Entangle, and Find Magical Traps are all pretty much useless in my current situation, while Detect Magic, Grease, and Expeditious Retreat ain’t much better. Leaves me four sorta useful options: Misty Step, Force Barrier, Spiritual Weapon, and my Big Spell. The first two won’t win me any fights outright, while the problem with Spiritual Weapon is how I don’t know much about it. Using an unfamiliar Spell for the first time in a real combat situation sounds like a recipe for disaster, especially considering its Second Order and represents a good half of my reserves if not more, so I might as well write it off. Doubt a single glowy weapon is enough to swing the odds in my favour either way, which only redoubles my regret for keeping the Spell Structure in mind instead of Lance, Shatter, or almost anything else.

On the bright side, if my lack of Lance is what got Marcus killed, then chances are I won’t have to live with the guilt for long.

So far, things are looking pretty grim should it come down to a firefight, but that don’t mean I’m a dead man walking. Most likely, it won’t get that far, because even though Wayne’s got my short hairs in a twist, the boots and Rangers on watch duty saw us leave camp together. Wasn’t no way around it, so it means he’s got a vested interest in keeping me alive, else they’d hang my death around his neck right quick. Course, that’s assuming Ron and his boys care one whit about Wayne’s fate, though I would say keeping a crooked Ranger on the payroll is worth its weight in gold. Besides, Ron don’t want me dead on his doorstep, nor any Rangers for that matter, else he wouldn’t have gone to all that effort to put together a plan to pin the blame on someone else.

Had no idea how he expected to get away with it, because even if he had the Khaganate attack us on our way out of the desert and leave a trail of clues pointing at someone else, Pleasant Dunes would still come under investigation. I figured Gunin would dress up like one of their enemies and let Ron point the finger at them, but life ain’t so cut and dry. Regardless of how it played out, Ron would be still suspect number one in our deaths, no matter which way you slice it, and the Feds would leave no stone unturned while investigating him. Don’t matter how loyal or disciplined his thugs are, all it takes is one of his boys turning Federal witness for a fat purse and he’d be done.

Now that I know Wayne is in his pocket though? That’s a whole nother story. If it wasn’t for Marcus and Tim coming along for the ride, Captain Jung would’ve been the only Ranger to outrank Wayne. Seeing how her first concern would’ve been the boots, that would’ve left the rat-fuck in charge of the whole operation. Not just the fight itself, but dividing the spoils after the fact, which would’ve afforded him complete freedom to fudge the numbers and make sure Ron got his hands on all the choice Spell Cores, not to mention giving him a bigger cut. Wayne’s been doing it for years now and all his people are in on it already, so the only difference here is a matter of scale.

As for the aftermath? Well, I was already worried about getting ambushed in the desert on our way out, and now I know it would’ve been a real bad fight. Chess ain’t a difficult game to win when you playing both sides. All Wayne would’ve had to do was leave an opening in his patrols and clue the Khaganate in as to where it’ll be. Might take some flak in the aftermath, but so long as he don’t make the opening too obvious or glaring, most will chalk it up to bad luck. There’s no such thing as perfect coverage after all, so getting ambushed isn’t exactly impossible, and doubly so if he had boots helping out on patrol. Then all he has to do is sell the rest of the story, talk big about how the attackers were dressed and adorned in a way that all but announces their names. Gunin could even capture and kill a couple patsies to leave corpses behind, corpses which would desiccate in the desert heat and still be identifiable a week later so long as no Abby or scavengers eat them up.

I can see it already, the attack they’ve planned out. A sudden barrage of Bolts to open up, taking out key members like Captain Jung, Tim, and anyone who doesn’t agree with Wayne’s new boss, leaving him in undisputed command. He’d put up a token effort, then spot a way out, an opening left behind on purpose so we don’t stand and fight. Course, he’d take it, order a full retreat as we abandon all our spoils and supplies, a decision made to save the lives of Rangers and boots alike. Might even come out a hero for it, earn himself a badge of honour, all the while pointing the finger at whoever it is Ron wants to take blame. The story would hold a lot more sway with the Feds if a Ranger says whodunnit, and they might not look too hard if they think they already got the answer. Doubly so if their blood is hot, because if you mess with one Ranger, the rest will go scorched earth on your ass. Even if they eventually figure out they got the wrong people, Ron could be long gone by then, running Pleasant Dunes by proxy while using his ill-gotten goods to churn out more drugs and explosives to sell to anyone stupid enough to want them.

Or something to that effect. Thing is, all this don’t mean squat now that we know he’s using explosives, because that alone ought to be enough to get Ron’s name on a government kill-list. Won’t just be Feds calling for his head, but every member of the United Nations, who all agreed to unilaterally condemn the production of chemical explosives, alongside a whole laundry list of other bad ideas. Either way, Ron don’t want to start nothing, not with so much already on his plate, so if it does come down to a firefight, there’s a good chance I’ll be the one kicking things off. I don’t much like my odds, but I ain’t about to go down without a fight either. Only question is who to shoot first, Ron or Wayne, which is a tough one to answer. Ron deserves it more, but Wayne made this personal, so it really comes down to a matter who I want to take down with me. Probably Ron, since that’d leave Wayne in a real pinch with Vanguard National, and even if he manages to make it out in one piece, he’d have a hell of a time explaining things to Tim and the Rangers in general.

Now technically, I could tell Wayne to pound sand and go to Tim or Captain Jung with what I know. It’d mean ratting out a Ranger without any actual proof, and I don’t know how many members of Wayne’s Company are in on the grift. Did they know Wayne was about to sell us out to Vanguard National? Some might, but I can’t imagine that sitting well with his whole Company. Especially Conner. He ain’t the malicious type, or ambitious for that matter. He’s happy where he is and don’t care much about moving up. Got no wife or kids to look after, and his only vices are poker and drink in moderation, so he ain’t hard up for cash neither. The other Rangers though? I don’t know them all that well, so I can’t say for certain. If I push Wayne too hard, he might just turn on the boots and Captain Jung then and there. Would put him in the hot seat for sure, but that’s little comfort considering we’d all be dead.

Or I could play along to hear what Ron has to say and maybe get a better handle on his plan while keeping things quiet for now. Not ideal, walking into the lion’s den like this, but I ain’t afraid of a fight. What I am afraid of is losing the trust of people who care about me, like Uncle Teddy, Aunty Ray, Uncle Art, and so many more. If it was just Wayne slinging mud at me, I could weather it out, but if Noora starts singing too, then I’m in some real trouble even if nothing is ever proven in a court of law. I never was the best liar to begin with, and can’t rightly come up with a good reason she’d lie about it either. Knew I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but I was too stupid and weak, and now I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Marcus would’ve understood. I should’ve gone to him last year after my run in with that trader, turned right around and taken the cart and bodies right over to Meadowbrook. Marcus would’ve taken one look at the recording and moved Heaven and earth to cover it up for me and Cowie, because he understood how it is. Sometimes you gotta get your hands dirty to make it out here, or protect the ones you care about. The rules of the old world aren’t suited to life on the Frontier, written by stuffy law-makers who were out of touch with their own world, much less what it would be like on a whole new one. Ain’t no black and white in the world, and I ain’t strong or confident enough to value principles more than my own safety or Cowie’s like Uncle Teddy would.

Tim gets it too, because he’s the same as me, except he don’t care to hide it. Makes folks leery of his presence and liable to whisper the moment he out of earshot, a pariah of sorts in the community. While I don’t like people much, we all live in a society, and I get enough whispers of my own despite my carefully cultivated reputation, so I can only imagine how much worse it’d be if word got out that I was murdering merchants out on the open road. Don’t matter how justified the act might’ve been. Your average townie in New Hope don’t look kindly upon Frontier Justice these days, on account of how Uncle Teddy and Marcus fell out.

A broken bond which will never be forged anew, and for some reason, that hurts almost as much as losing Marcus.

Can’t be getting all mopey and teary eyed now though, not with a violence in the air. If I show weakness, Ron and his ilk will pounce on it like tuskwulves on a lame muskari.

So I shove all those emotions down in the fire burning in my belly and finish piecing things together for a better look at the big picture. Don’t have much time to think as Wayne brings me down the street to the last building on the left, the same one I can sense my speakers in upstairs. That ain’t what stops me in my tracks though, nor is it fear of what lays inside. No, it’s the man standing outside that’s got me concerned as Conner steps out from the shadows and squares up across from Wayne with arms crossed and a determined grimace. The rat-faced traitor don’t seem none too pleased, and he heaves a long and heavy sigh while running a hand over his head. After starting and stopping twice, Wayne finally finds his voice and says, “Just don’t do anything stupid, all right?”

“Won’t have to so long as they don’t,” Conner says, meeting Wayne’s gaze with steel in his spine. “This is about a cash debt. No more, no less. So long as Howie agrees to pay, that’s the end of it. That’s what you said, and I’ll hold you to it, L.T.”

All of which was said for my benefit as Conner gives me a look that’s half-reassuring and half-regret, like he ain’t all that sure he wants to be here. He is though, which I’m grateful for, because if there ever were a time when I needed someone to watch my back, it’d be now. Granted, I can’t count on Conner entirely, as he’s torn between loyalties here. Seems he knows all about Wayne’s traitorous ways, or at least aware that he’s mixed up with Vanguard National, which don’t paint Conner in a good light. Nor is he armed for bear, coming in without armour or even a rifle and just a single 1911 on his hip, which means he ain’t fully committed to the fight. No, he’s here to hope for the best and maybe step in if things go bad, but I can’t count on his help if I start shooting without reason. Worst comes to worst, having another Ranger present might give Ron pause, though I doubt it.

Still, I meet Conner’s eyes and give him a nod of thanks while wondering if his presence here is just an act to get me to lower my guard. Man’s got a terrible poker face, so I assume I’d be able to tell if he was putting on a show, but you know what they say about assumptions.

With nothing left for it, I put on a smile and stride right into the building as easy breezy as can be, meeting every gaze without flinching while taking in the sights. There are eight thugs hanging about, not drinking and carousing like the townies outside but sitting pretty with their weapons while scattered throughout the room in an effort to look inconspicuous while eyeing me six ways from Sunday. As for the room itself, the first floor looks to be a bunkhouse of some sort, a big open barracks with a kitchen in one corner, a bathroom in another, and two doors. One closed and guarded by two thugs leaning against the wall, while the other sits open to reveal a set of stairs leading down. A quick count of the bunkbeds shows there ain’t enough for all hundred plus members of Vanguard Nation who rode into town, so there must be more downstairs. Guessing upstairs are Ron’s private digs, but seems I won’t be finding out just yet as Wayne leads me downstairs into the basement.

Which ain’t as dark and dingy as expected. The way down is illuminated by real Lights, ones powered by a dynamo tucked away somewhere that show off the craftsmanship in the stairs and walls as well as the quality of the materials used. The buildings in town have thus far all been built out of rough-hewn stone and laid with cheap, flimsy wood panel floors, but these stairs are polished hardwood while the walls are smoothed black-stone blocks, all cut in perfect rectangles like they were cast from a mould. Raising a hand to the wall as if to steady my steps, I play into the angle that I’m tired and spent while focusing on my senses. Not only the five I was born with, but the sixth I cultivated with hard work and boundless curiosity, one developed using the Appraisal Cantrip during long trips with my daddy and little to nothing else to do. Gives me a good feeling of the material composition of things I touch and clues me in to how sturdy, stable, and durable something is. I mostly use it to tell the difference between a well-made product and a shabby one, or to impress people like Marijke by telling them the general composition of any random parts.

And these black stone walls? Cut from rocks mined up in the Snake Fang mountain range, but any fool could’ve guessed as much given the colour and location even without having seen the massive mining complex less than a half hour away. No, what I wanted to know about was the mortar between the stone blocks, and my senses don’t let me down as they tell me its lime mortar with lead and Aberrtin. Tells me a good few things about this staircase, like the fact that a lot of money went into its construction. Lead is fairly common round these parts, but highly sought after too because of its Aetheric dampening properties, so the price ain’t exactly cheap. As for Aberrtin, while 30 cents a gram might not seem like much, it’d take a tidy sum to fill the mortar for all these stones, and a damn fortune for rest of the basement too which I soon see has got the same block and mortar construction as the staircase down.

At the bottom of the stairs sits a wide, spacious common area filled with couches, pool tables, a bar, and other miscellaneous niceties scattered all about as Vanguard National thugs smoke, drink, and celebrate with a bunch of half-dressed girlies on their arms. The immediate area is about one and a half times larger than the bunkhouse upstairs, which was about the same size as the saloon, with plenty of closed doors and visible hallways leading deeper into the brightly lit and well-furnished complex. Small wonder Ron can’t afford to house his townies. Must’ve spent all of his profits building up this bunker of his, which also explains why he wasn’t concerned about Abby overrunning Pleasant Dunes. The town upstairs is just a façade, while the real prize is down here, one heavily fortified an easily defended. A hundred guns could hold this staircase for hours or maybe even days as they got a double gated entry way, a sturdy cage of Darksteel built right around the bottom of the staircase with a good 270-degree view of the room and six scowling Vanguard National thugs standing guard.

“President Jackson’s expecting us,” Wayne says, glancing around at the thugs all calm and cool as can be, but I can sense the underlying tension. He don’t like being surrounded by armed toughs any more than I do, and he’s wondering if he’s about to get a Bolt to the head. Throws a spanner in the works it does, because here I was thinking Wayne and Ron were all buddy buddy, except now I ain’t so sure. Then again, twenty large ain’t no small potates, so I suppose I am to blame for their strained relationship. Should’ve thought about that sooner, and might’ve changed my mind about walking into the lion’s den with a rat at my side, but it’s too late to turn and rabbit now.

“Hand over your weapons,” the top thug demands, and I reply by way of drawing my Model Ten and jamming it into the small of Wayne’s back.

“What the fuck is this now?” I ask, grabbing Wayne by the shoulder and pulling him back towards the staircase as my human shield. “You said we was here to talk, and here I am. Didn’t say nothin’ about servin’ me up for the slaughter.”

Conner comes with as I back away, his 1911 out and ready to support me while Wayne holds his hands up and palms out. “Woah, woah, woah,” Wayne says, to me and the thugs who got their guns cocked, locked, and loaded. “Easy now. Easy. No need for this to get ugly. This is a misunderstanding is all. A misunderstanding.” That was said for my benefit, but while Wayne turns his full attention on the thugs and Conner watches the staircase behind, I move my free hand to grip Wayne’s shirt along the spine instead, without ever breaking contact with the man. Leaning left, then right as if to keep an eye on the thugs, I use the movement to hide my activation of the bull’s head medallion, because it’s better to have and not need than to need and not have.

Thankfully, no one is sensitive enough to feel the Artifact spin up, mostly because they all got more pressing matters to deal with. “Easy now,” Wayne says, and I can almost picture his rat-faced smile as he says, “C’mon guys. We’re all friends here. Ron and me go way back, knew each other before the Advent even.” That’s news to me, and makes me wonder if Philly and Pittsburg are related somehow, but I don’t know much about old world geography, or care to learn. “No need to take our weapons,” Wayne continues, acting all friendly and casual, but the guards ain’t buying it. “We’re here for a meeting, a nice and quiet one in fact. Told you he’s expecting us, so nothing to worry about.”

The lead thug stares me down, so I give him a smile and a wink since I’m good and covered by Wayne. If they start shooting, then Wayne dies while I go running up the stairs and out the building, which would be real convenient so long as Conner don’t know all the details. Would make for mighty uncomfortable conversations later on down the road, but I can come up with something to cover my ass well enough so long as I take care of Noora too. The thug don’t bite though, which is a real shame, and once again, I’m impressed by the discipline of these goons and wonder how Ron is able to train them up so good. The top thug glances to the side and points with his chin, sending someone out of sight scurrying right quick, and I watch and listen for footsteps behind me even though Conner got that covered. Much as I want to believe he’s on my side, I can’t trust him completely, not after how he went to bat for Wayne so many times.

And doubly so considering I just got double-crossed by Noora. Girlie never left camp without Sarah Jay, so I figured I was safe, but she didn’t have to leave to talk to Wayne, which could’ve happened right under my nose without my notice. So fuck trust. Can’t count on no one. That’s what I’ve learned. After I sort the girlie out, I’ll have to talk to Captain Jung to make sure no one learns about my part in tracking the Proggie, then axe all my plans to start my own crew. I’m too green, too weak, too unprepared to put a target like that on my back, and I’ve no desire to be press-ganged into service for some second-rate mercs who think they got what it takes to delve under dark.

It’s a tense minute or two, but mostly for Wayne who’s standing open and defenseless with hands up in front of me. Soon enough though, someone comes running back to whisper in the guard’s ear, who scowls, spits at Wayne’s feet, then grunts to let us in. As the metal lock groans and squeaks to open up, I let go of Wayne’s shirt and tuck my Model 10 back in its holster, only to find myself staring down the barrel of his 1911. “You point a gun at me again Howie,” he begins, his squinty eyes narrowed in threat, “And I’ll kill you. We clear?”

“Fine by me,” I say, raising my hands in mock surrender and giving him a wink for good measure. Man’s finger ain’t even on the trigger, as his training is so ingrained he won’t put it there till he’s good and ready to shoot. “So long as you promise to wait ‘til I point the gun at you first.”

Gets me a chuckle from the peanut gallery and throws Wayne for a loop as his beady rat eyes go wide with rage. Finger doesn’t move though, which is a good sign, and even more promising is the fact that he’s noticed I got a Doorknocker pointed at his nether regions, and my Mage Hand most certainly has its finger on the trigger. A threat ain’t effective if it goes unnoticed, so we have ourselves a silent conversation carried out through our eyes. We’ll settle scores later if there’s a later to be had, but right now, we got business to attend to. Wayne’s desperate see, else he wouldn’t have risked bringing me down here, and I suspect more alone than I thought or he wouldn’t have risked coming down here without backup.

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So I let him know that I know he’s in it deep, but I’ll play nice for now. I also remind him of our earlier talk, when I said I’d back him if he wanted to make a play against whoever got his small hairs in a twist. Having seen this fortified bunker with its clean lines of sight down long corridor hallways and wide-open spaces, I ain’t all that confident about fighting my way out, but with Wayne and Conner on my side? Wouldn’t call it a cakewalk, but I’ll take those odds even if they stacked against us, because I’ll bet on myself every time.

Wayne understands, and I catch a hint of hesitation in his eyes, one laden with fear and regret that is quickly overcome by resolve. Can’t forget that he’s doing this for his wife, which means Ron is likely supplying the poison keeping her alive. Without that connect, Tamara might well slip into withdrawal and die. If I could talk to him, I’d tell him this here is his chance to turn things around. We kill Ron, make off with his stash of drugs, and then Wayne can slowly wean Tamara off the poison until he’s sure she can survive the withdrawal. Sounds easier than it’ll be, and we’ll have to think on our feet to keep from getting jammed up by the law, but it’s better than being a double-dealing rat.

Least that’s how I see things. Not sure if Wayne feels the same way, but it is what it is. Finished with our non-verbal exchange, we put our weapons away and face the goons with a united front as we march out the gates without a care in the world for all the attention thrown our way. Eight goons come out with guns at the ready to escort us to our meeting with Ron, but most of them ruffians are busy celebrating their victory over Abby with drink, drugs, girls, and more, and none too shy about it neither. Got bare-breasted ladies lying up on the bar while thugs take turns snorting lines off their bodies, while others chug moonshine like water or smoke cigarettes and fill the air with a familiar harsh, acrid stink of bad eggs and putrefaction. Still more play dice, cards, or pool, while others are getting busy with the girlies or watching others go at it in a animalistic display that is both stomach churning and fascinating at the same time.

One thing’s for sure, these Vanguard National types know how to live it up. Can’t say I see the appeal myself, as I don’t much like losing what little restraint I got, but they seem to be enjoying themselves for the most part. Druggies and children got that same wild energy about them, a sort of stupid ignorance that lets them enjoy the silliest things in life. It’s endearing in children, and pathetic in grown ass men, though I can’t say I don’t envy them for their ability to ignore the future in favour of today. My whole life has been in preparation for tomorrow, so much so that I’ve had little chance to enjoy myself in the moment. Didn’t go to school and make any friends, don’t got time to stop off at the saloon for a cider or three, can’t go out on camping trips with family because there’s too much work to be done.

It's the only life I know, one I believe is the right way moving forward, but that don’t make it any easier to go through with.

Our armed escort brings us to the end eastern end of the room, where Hobb and Jumbo stand waiting outside a fancy wood door to receive us. Or rather Jacob Senior and… Jumbo, who has an actual name that I’ve forgotten. “Franky!” Wayne shouts by way of greeting, and big, dumb, and dark breaks out in a big ol’ smile.

“Cuz!” Wrapping his big, meaty arms around the Ranger, Jumbo lifts Wayne off his feet in the mother of all hugs. “Man, you was crazy out there,” Franky says, just beaming with pride at the smaller man, who looks almost bashful to be receiving so much attention. “Calling the shots and slinging Spells like nobody’s business. Fuck the Rangers man. Come work for Mr. Jackson. He’ll pay you what you’re worth and make sure Tamara’s cared for. Not like the fucking Feds.” Franky spits to the side after letting Wayne down, who bashfully waves off the big guy in a show of brotherly love. Can’t say I see the resemblance, but family takes all sorts.

“Might have to soon enough,” he says, giving me a sidelong look that ain’t none too friendly, and I can guess why. Regardless of how this plays out, he don’t got Marcus looking the other way no more, and he knows Captain Jung and Tim are both suspicious of him. Best case scenario, Ron gets out with our haul and sets Wayne up as a hero for a bit, but eventually, the other shoe will drop and he’ll have a lot of people in powerful positions asking him a whole bunch of uncomfortable questions. Will have plenty of time to get out of dodge though, maybe meet up with wherever Ron scurries off to lay low and wait for the heat to die down. Thing is, while government organizations tend to be slow and inefficient, they also got long memories, so Ron will have to get himself a new identity. Not so difficult a thing to do, but he’d still lose his breadbasket here in Pleasant Dunes, because the lead-lined, Aberrtin laced walls and floors don’t make them any stronger. All it does is dampen Aetheric waves, meaning if I were to use a Detection Spell down here, any signals I send out would be absorbed and muted by the expensive mortar, leaving me mostly blind and deaf, magically speaking.

So either Ron is worried about government spies listening in on his parties, or he’s got some other reason to want to dampen Aetheric waves, like say a storeroom filled with chemical explosives somewhere on the premises. Not a factory, because lead in the mortar wouldn’t be enough to ensure safety while working with those chemicals out in the open. Need full on lead panel walls for that, the thicker the better, as well as strict behaviour guidelines while working on premises, but what he’s got here will do just fine for storing lead-encased explosives.

Is what I assume, considering we spent a full week in town slinging Spells at Abby without blowing the whole place to kingdom come. Can’t rightly understand why anyone would want to work with something so volatile and unpredictable as chemical explosives, even ignoring all the risks of Abby getting their hands on it.

Jovial as Franky is to see his cousin Wayne, Jacob Senior ain’t none too pleased to see me. Got his vest on this time round, and looks more the part with it covering up his greasy, sweat-stained shirt. His boy’s got his looks, which ain’t a compliment to be sure, not with his angular face and large, pointed nose. Ain’t making any effort to look casual this time as he looms over me all full of malice and menace, hand on his TEC-LS and itching to use it. Me, I got my hand on my Model 10 and my Mage Hands ready with my Doorknockers, both prepped and ready to unleash a hail of kinetic shot in a 180-degree arc behind me. With luck, that’ll take out all our escorts at once while Conner picks off the stragglers and I put two Bolts in Jacob Senior here. As for Franky, I’ll watch and wait for Wayne’s sake, though from what I remember, Franky might’ve done one too many lines over a lifetime of debauchery, and it’s got him all messed up in the head. Figured Ron was keeping the man around out of sentiment or something, or maybe he’s a fiend once his blood gets hot, but either way, Franky ain’t the sharpest tool in the box, and I ain’t all that concerned about him.

“You gonna pay for what you did to my boy, Qink.” Got the air of a promise it does, one Jacob Senior means to keep, and for once, I decide its better to keep my mouth shut than keep adding fuel to the fire. Man’s about a hair’s breadth away from bubbling over with rage, and then I’d have to put him down alongside the eight guards and room full of Vanguard National thugs. The very large room, much bigger than twenty-four metres across no matter which way you slice it, meaning I can’t well clear it out with a single use of my Big Spell, even doubled in size with Widen Metamagic. “Make what Troy tried to do look like a game.”

That gets my head to tilting, because I don’t know any Troy, but the answer dawns on me a moment later. The merchant who drugged me. Furious as it makes me, I let none of it show on my face, only in my eyes as I grin and bare my teeth. “Won that game though, now didn’t I?” I say, and my smile grows as it sets Jacob Senior back on his heels, because he don’t see any fear in my eyes, only rage and the promise of death staring right back at him.

From the sound of Conner’s uncomfortable shuffling, it seems he knows the story too, which annoys me something fierce. Suppose Wayne had to tell him as much to get him on board with this meeting, but I don’t much like how many people know about my deep, dark secret. Or not a secret anymore I suppose. No more talking things out with girlies I just met, no matter how pretty or vulnerable they might seem.

Don’t know if it’s something in my eyes, or more of that Vanguard National discipline, but Jacob don’t make any more fuss. “Show me your hands,” he says. Mine is still clutched firmly to my Model 10, and after I glance at his hand on his TEC-LS, Jacob relents and removes his hand from the gun. Only then do I follow suit, but rather than up by my head, I keep them low with palms up to show I mean no harm, but I ain’t gonna trust them complete. Accepting as much, Jacob sneers and adds, “Mage Hands too.”

Tch. Hard to cheat when they seen most your tricks already, so I holster the Doorknockers behind my back and bring the Mage Hands out too, holding them up on either side of my head with palms forward and fingers spread. That ain’t enough though, as Jacob nods and says, “Cast Dancing Light. No funny business now.”

Standard practice to make sure I’m not holding Concentration on a different Spell or have one prepped and ready to sling. So I play along and slowly reach into my component’s pouch for a pinch of phosphorous before waggling my fingers and intoning, “Choris – Luminum.” The soft, hazy light bursts into existence as my Mage Hands fade out, and Jacob glares at where they disappeared from as if worried I’ll bring them out again unseen. Which to be fair is entirely possible, since I can Metamagic it to eschew Verbal or Somatic components. Wouldn’t take long neither, just a second or two with my hands out of sight, or enough distance for me to mutter a short chant under my breath and I’ll have them back again, resting on the handles of my Doorknockers hidden beneath my duster.

So Jacob does the smart thing and says, “Cast Mage Hands again.” So I do, and they appear where they last were, shimmering blue glows that meld with the soft radiance of the Dancing Light. Don’t need to Concentrate on Mage Hands during its natural duration, only to extend it, and Jacob is finally satisfied I got no Spellslinging tricks up my sleeve. I don’t, but I play it cool and cocky as can be, because if he thinks he missed something Spells-wise, he’ll have to divide his attention to watch for any funny business. Better than leaving him focused only on my guns, which are really all I got left to me.

“Yea, you a tricksy, treacherous Qink, you are,” Jacob says, leaning in to snarl. “Got my eye on you this time, so don’t be tryin’ no funny business.” His piece said, Jacob finally sees fit to open the door behind him, and gestures for me to head in first. Inside is a well-furnished office, with a little counter that’s got a bucket of ice to chill several bottles of my mead, alongside some other local varieties of shine. Two big bookshelves sit behind a stately wooden desk, with a big wooden chair lined in leather upon which the man himself sits. Ronald Jackson. Looks as handsome as I remember him, with his long, dirty blond locks pulled back into a high ponytail and his piercing blue eyes fixed on mine, even though he got the lovely miss Laura perched in his lap.

“Howie,” he begins, dragging his chair back against the stone floor with a scrape so miss Laura has room to stand. “Wish I could say it was good to see you, but I’m glad you’re here.” Walking over to greet me with a crushing handshake, he holds firm and squeezes tight, but this time I don’t play along. Instead of gripping his hand with all five of my fingers, I keep my index and middle finger outstretched towards his wrist, sort of like I’m shaking with a finger gun in hand. Can squeeze all he wants, but he ain’t crushing my hand no more, because my knuckles are aligned and braced rather than bundled up like loose sticks. It’s the least confrontational response to the crushing grip, and as much as I would like to break Ron’s wrist or shoot him in the gut, I’m still not entirely committed to a fight just yet.

I don’t hate my odds, not here in this tiny office of his. Fifty-fifty I come out on top, which I think is good enough, but my daddy would’ve called me fool for risking my neck without good reason.

Especially with a whole room of thugs sitting pretty outside…

“Well here I am,” I say in response, because ain’t no sense lying. “Was told you wanted to talk, so talk.”

Shaking his head with a chuckle, Ron does that thing where he makes you like him just because he a handsome, well-put-together man. “The stones on you, boy. Told you I admired that and I meant it.” After greeting Wayne with a nod, Ron gestures at the bottles of mead and shine. “Drink?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say, making a beeline for the bucket and grabbing a bottle of my mead. Not because I got a thirst, but so I can pop the cork and have something close by to light up and throw. I should get me a second bracelet, similar to my Metamagic bead bracelet, only with beads made of common components like flintstone, quartz, jasper, jadeite, and whatever else I might need for slinging Spells on the quick. That goes onto the list, below a portable shower stall, padded seats on the wagon, oil for my new holster, non-clinking straps for my vial pouch, and a whole lot more I might’ve already forgotten.

By the time I’ve got my drink in hand, Ron’s made his way back to his desk and is sitting there waiting for me to join him. Wayne and Conner stand on either side of the only other chair in the room which I suppose is my seat, while miss Laura stands behind Ron’s chair, her arm draped around it in a slinky, almost intimate fashion. As for Jacob and Franky, they’re standing guard at the door, but inside rather than out so they can keep an eye on us. Makes me feel mighty trapped it does, as I ain’t a fan of tight spaces filled with dangerous men, but there’s no turning back now. Reminding myself that there’s no way Ron can get away with murdering me here in town, I fake a swig of mead on my way back and let most of it dribble onto the stone floor before plonking myself down in my seat. “So,” I say, by way of opening up the floor for conversation as I place my right hand and Mage Hands flat against his desk, while my left hand holds firm to the bottle of mead. “How’s tricks?”

Leaning back and looking relaxed as can be, Ron shakes his head with a smile. “Could be worse, but could be better.” Pointing at me like he caught me with my hand in the cookie jar, he continues, “And you’re mostly to blame.”

“How’s that then?” I ask, genuinely curious. “I went and alerted the Rangers like you wanted, brought you the very Company you hoped would answer the call. Took care of your Abby problem and left most of your town intact too.” Shrugging, I add, “Way I hear it, you did most of the damage yourself with your explosives, to the town and your rep too. Whatever troubles you’ve wrought, you brung ‘em on yourself, dabbling in contraband chemicals like you did. Ain’t my fault all the old world organizations are gonna be calling for your head.”

“Troubles?” Looking genuinely surprised, Ron pieces my meaning together quick enough and chuckles beneath his breath. “You call that trouble?” Shaking his head, he says, “You keep surprising me Howie. You walk the walk and talk the talk, so much so that I forget you’re still only seventeen.”

“Young an’ idealistic,” miss Laura drawls, giving me warning look while casually running her fingers over Ron’s head. “Seen the worst in people, but still hopes for the best, because he ain’t been disappointed enough just yet.”

Can’t say I like how she frames it, but can’t argue against it either, so I ignore it and wait for Ron to explain. “No matter how powerful or ubiquitous Aetherarms might be,” Ron begins, his deep gravelly voice full of good cheer and amusement from his recent victory, “They’re bottlenecked by the need for a Spellcaster to Etch the Runes. Doesn’t matter if they’re using a stencil or a stamp, you still need someone capable of casting Spells to provide the necessary spiritual component required to make the Etchings work, and there’s a hard limit to how many Etches any one Spellslinger can safely do in a week. Even the best would be hard pressed to churn out more than two dozen 22-10 Aetherarms, and it gets worse when you move up to 44-40. Add in the fact that we need to kill Abby to procure the necessary Spell Cores and the high degree of difficulty in designing those Aetherarms in the first place, and you’ve got three major bottlenecks to massed Aetherarm production with no easy way to get around them here on the Frontier.”

Facts are facts, and there’s no arguing against them, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything at all. A notion I convey clearly without meaning to, earning me another chuckle. “Out of a thousand members and employees of Vanguard National, we’ve got only the one true-blue gunsmith,” Ron exclaims, which drawls a snarl out of Jacob Senior. Junior must be the apple of his eye then, on account of his ‘talents’, though the boy could use a couple more beatings to set him straight. “And that’s like winning the lottery,” Ron continues, though he sounds less than thrilled. “Americans, we take pride in our Aetherarms because we used them to conquer the west and win our independence from the Immortal Monarchs backing the original settlers, but the truth is, we don’t know that much about the Spell Cores that power them. And why would we? Back in the fifteen hundreds, the only people who knew magic was real were related to the Immortal Monarchs, or working for them. Sir Issac Newton popularized the study of magic in the late 1600s, but it wasn’t until the Aetheric Revolution in the 1800s that use of magic in everyday life became commonplace.”

Pulling out a drawer from behind his desk, Ron reaches in and pulls something out. A metal tube with a fat cap on one end, and even though I’ve never seen one before, I know enough to say that’s probably an explosive. “Three hundred years, give or take,” Ron says, as I shift away from the explosive in his hand, one he waves about willy nilly while he talks. “That’s how long the general population has known about magic, so we’ve barely scratched the surface of understanding it. We don’t really, understand it that is. We know how to utilize Spells and Spell Cores, but we don’t know how they work.” Narrowing his eyes as he points at me with the exploding tube in his hand, he says, “Chemistry though? We’ve have a whole lot longer to figure that out, and we’ve been using gunpowder to kill one another for nigh on eight centuries now. Why up until the early nineteen eighties, they were a key element of every soldier’s kit, as even basic grunts carried two frag grenades a piece.”

Again, I give him a look that says I’m waiting on him to make a point, and he does so by brandishing the tube in his hand. “This isn’t a frag grenade. It’s a potato masher grenade,” he says, flashing a smile that reminds me of myself when I’m talking about Aetherarms. “Named so because it looks like a potato masher, but it works much the same way. Fully enclosed lead casing, meaning you could sling Spells all day and all night with this strapped to your hip, and there’s no chance it’ll ever go off.” Pointing at the skinny end, he says, “All you gotta do is pull and throw. Four to five second fuse delay, and it’ll explode into metal fragments shredding anything within its blast radius, which is round about fifty feet.”

I hate the Imperial system, mostly because it don’t make much sense. A bit of mental math tells me that’s fifteen metres, which is nice and all, but not all that impressive compared to a Metamagicked Fireball. Then I think about it some more, and realize that if every soldier carried two of these, then twenty grunts could tear entire hordes of Abby apart. Even the best Spellslingers on the Frontier can barely eke out double-digit Fireballs before having to sleep, but if a grenade is just a lead tube and a couple chemicals, then we don’t have enough Magi on the Frontier to match that scale of destruction.

Because like someone once said, quantity has got a quality all of its own.

“Now you’re getting it,” Ron says, pointing at me like I’m some prized student. “A clever one, almost too clever like I said. That’s what I like about you, Howie. You’re quick on your feet.” Tapping the grenade in his hand, he says, “After the mess in Australia, the United Nations condemned the use of explosives, but that was in the old world, where they had tanks, planes, helicopters, and power armour to protect them. Weapon batteries powered by gaseous Aether capable of firing thousands of Bolts per minute and torpedo tubes to deliver Ninth-Order Spells from over a hundred klicks away, to say nothing of those Archmagi standing at the top of their craft and those few ultra powerful Spellcasters poised to challenge mortality itself. Taking a hundred steps back, every single soldier was armed with an m4a1 Bolt Burst rifle, a fully automatic Aetherarm with a liquid power pack capable of delivering a hundred and twenty Bolt-1 shots in less than a minute before having to reload. Here?” Pulling out the big iron on his hip, Ron rests it gently on the table for me to admire, a giant Ranger Naga 45, the granddaddy of all revolvers and the cream of the crop of all Federation Standard Issue sidearms. “This is what we call cutting edge. A six-shooter designed in the early 1900s.”

Which is really underselling the Naga, as it’s an anti-caster sidearm that punches way above its weight class. Not only does it have the holy trinity of Intensify, Empower, and Maximize, it’s also got Penetrate and Toppling to really ruin the day of whatever you hit. On top of that, it’s got a unique pair of Metamagics rarely used by rifles much less sidearms, namely Siege and Concussive. The former is like Penetrate on steroids, but focused against inorganics, meaning you can blow a hole clean through six-inches of solid steel and still explode an armoured bugbear hiding behind it, while the latter leaves anyone in the general vicinity of your Bolt with a headache like no other. Breaks Concentration and makes it difficult to sling Spells in the aftermath, even if they only in the general vicinity of wherever you shooting.

“I mean, if you don’t want it, I’ll gladly take it off your hands,” I say. He’s got two of them if I remember right, and while they won’t look as nice hanging from my hip, they’ll look good enough.

Earns me a genuine chuckle outta Ron, because he’s happy to see I still got some spunk. “Maybe,” he says, and to my surprise, he sounds like he means it. “We’ll see. The point I’m trying to make though, is that we here on the Frontier? We’re all in over our heads. None of us knew coming in that the Aberration infestation would be so far advanced, because they told us Proggies had only just recently arrived.” Gesturing south towards the Divide, Ron says, “You’ve seen it. That look like a recent arrival to you?” Shaking his head without waiting for an answer, he stares off into the distance with a grimace. "I’ve spent the better part of a decade getting my hands on all the Aetherarms I can get, built twenty gatlings and stockpiled barrels enough to go through tens of thousands of rounds, but even then, we would’ve lost the town without these.” Shaking the grenade for effect, Ron puts it down on his desk with a smile. “This here was a demonstration, a proof of concept if you will, one I recorded and will share with anyone who cares to watch it. You think anyone will care about the United Nations when they see how effective these grenades are and learn how I can produce hundreds of them every week? The only trouble I’ll have moving forward from today is filling all the orders that’ll come pouring in.”

“That why you had your Scout sandbag the Rangers?” I ask, genuinely curious for once. “So you could show off your big booms against an enraged Abby horde?”

“Partially,” he replies, giving me a smile that’s meant to say there’s more to it, but I already know the rest. Man wanted a pet Proggie, and I should’ve left him to it. Marcus wouldn’t have died and we’d be on our way out here and now.

Which sounds real appealing, so I give the man a nod of respect before pushing on. “Sounds great,” I say, omitting the not so minor fact of how we all in for a real shitstorm if some Proggie gets their tentacles on enough grenades to replicate the chemical process and births a whole army of exploding Abby. “Not that I don’t appreciate you laying it all out for me or nothing,” I continue, meeting the man’s eyes while tapping my finger against his desk. Oddly enough, he don’t flinch this time, which gets my brain to itching, because that tells me something important, except I don’t know what just yet. “Thing is, I can’t imagine you… insisting on this meeting just to teach me a history lesson.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Ron says, leaning back in his chair again, where miss Laura gets to stroking his head once more. Seems nice, the dynamic they got, and from the way he slips his arm around her waist to pull her in close, I think he might even genuinely love her. “It recently came to my attention that you’re responsible for a significant loss I suffered last year when a shipment of cargo went missing.” Glancing over at Wayne, who can’t help but shuffle his feet, Ron lets the man squirm for a long second before turning his attention back to me. “Normally, I wouldn’t bother handling this myself. Wayne is the one who dropped the ball, so it falls to him to clean up his own mess, but when I heard all the details, I couldn’t help myself.”

“So it falls on me to pay his debt then.” Heaving a sigh, I ask, “Was told the damage was twenty grand? Got at least seven grand coming my way soon. Wayne can vouch for that.” I know better than to mention we got a Mage Armour Spell Core on hand, because even if it’s small potates to a man like Ronald Jackson, the rich don’t get that way by letting minor gains slip by. “I’m good for the rest, but not if you set your dogs on me or the Rangers.” Rather than make any threats, I meet his eyes and show him I mean business, because don’t nobody fuck with me or mine and get away clean.

“Forget the debt,” Ron says with a smile. “Come work for me.”

The words hang in the air for a moment and I blink a few times, trying to piece together his meaning in a way that makes sense. “Come again?”

“Come work for me, Howie.” Leaning forward to steeple his fingers, Ron hits me with his devilish smile. “Told you before. You’re selling yourself short. You’ve got potential, but you’re wasting it hauling goods, hunting Abby, and tracking down outlaws, for what? In hopes the Rangers will train you up to be a Scout? What for? So you can charge them a percentage of the profits when you’re good enough to hire? Why would they when they can train up a Ranger recruit instead? Doesn’t matter who your daddy was, or who your friends are. The Federal Army won’t waste a dollar on training you up unless you enlist.”

Which makes more sense than I care to admit. “And you will?”

“God, no.” Ron scoffs, as if he finds the idea ridiculous. “Why would I need a Scout? No, there are better uses for you Howie, using the skills you already have, and you’ll learn the rest as you go, of that I’m sure. You agree, and we wipe the slate clean. Wayne walks away debt free, and you become a prospect in Vanguard National. One of our own, a brother in arms who I bet will be patched in within the month, and maybe even earn your cut if you care to. I’ll make you rich Howie, set you up for success, and if you still want to be an Aether baron a few years down the road, I’ll even help fund your first delve. Might not even need the help if you do as well as expected, and when the Watershed comes around, we’ll be lauded as the heroes who supplied the soldiers of the Frontier the weapons they needed to win them the war.”

Takes a moment to register that all this is real, and another to verify that his offer is a genuine one. A decent one too, because I can see that he’s got what it takes to deliver on his promises. No wonder he’s the bossman. He knows how to turn disaster into profit and when to reach out and shake hands. I came in here ready to go down guns blazing, and now I’m considering an offer to join his crew. Sorta seriously considering in fact, because even though I don’t like how the man operates, it’s not like I got many other prospects. For once, I don’t answer right away, and judging by Ron’s relaxed posture, he seems content to let me think, so I do the smartest thing I’ve done in weeks.

I stop, shut my mouth, and think about what I’m going to say before I say it. There’s a first time for everything I suppose, and depending on how things go, this here may be the first of many firsts to come.