Though off to a somewhat rocky start, coming home to New Hope never fails to put a smile on my face.
After seeing Quartermaster Lacey to collect my bounty, I mosey on out the town hall where Cowie stands waiting with the wagon. With his head low and hooves pawing no less, and he gives me a big old shake of his head when he sees me coming. “Don’t pout,” I say, ignoring the strange looks from people around me wondering why I’m talking to a bull. “You know I’d bring you in if I could, but they got a strict ‘no animals’ policy. You can say hi to Uncle Teddy at church come sunday.”
Cowie lets loose with a bellowing moo of protest, no doubt proclaiming he’s much better trained than any marties, wallies, or other sorta-domesticated animals folks keep as pets, and I can’t rightly disagree. He’s fully house trained he is, even knows to do his business on the grass or in his paddock instead of out in the streets, but won’t no one care to listen. Especially not bureaucrats, who I don’t care much for, or their red tape, but ain’t nothing get done right without them. A necessary evil, though I don’t get why they care so much about their stupid town hall anyways. It looks pretty enough, I’ll give them that, a palatial and ostentatious red-brick structure with soaring white columns, semi-circular windows, and plastered decorative pediments, all of which looks tacky and tasteless. It’s also got a big clock on the front, though you can’t hardly read it unless you standing right outside, meaning it’s a big clock that’s too small to be of any real use.
That’s what you get with bureaucrats though; big ideas and tight purse-strings, a sure-fire recipe for second-rate results.
The town hall is where the Marshal keeps his office, and the basement vault means the building doubles as our local bank, so there’s lots of traffic going in and out of the building at these hours. The late-afternoon sun has started its descent over to the south, the shifting molten flows of the crimson orb moving in almost hypnotic pattens as it bubbles and boils from over a million klicks away. Gives New Hope a washed out look, the bright colours sapped away while shadows gleam in burnished sable, but it’s still home underneath it all. The front double doors of the town hall open right up onto the main thoroughfare, a cobbled street wide enough for four wagons abreast that goes clear through the middle of town, or close enough. While I appreciate the symbolism, I can’t help but think we’d have been better off tucking the town hall off to the side so traffic going in and out the gates wouldn’t have to flow around it, but what do I know?
After placating Cowie with a fresh bapple, he brings us westward towards home and I settle back to take in the sights with a smile. Plenty of people in New Hope these days, both familiar and otherwise, and I make a point to smile and nod at most everyone who meets my eyes. Most smile and nod back, and some even got words for me as I pass, a quick greeting or welcome back. Don’t seem like much, but it’s nice to know you surrounded by folks who know you, and I’m not just talking about my face. We’ve been through hell and highwater together, me and the good people of New Hope, worked together for years to turn it into the shining jewel of the Frontier that it is.
Like I told Carl, me and my daddy were the nineteenth family to join Uncle Teddy in New Hope, and the town’s come a long way since. When we first got here, it was the back end of the first winter since the Advent, with everyone crammed in tight inside two communal log cabins. That’s all there was to mark the ‘town’, and I imagine it must have been mighty uncomfortable to live in. Come spring though, my daddy showed them all how to build houses out of clay bricks and cobblestone. Stuff my mama figured out for my daddy to use, simplified processes so he could build them a house in the badlands where resources were scarce. These days, most new construction favours using stone blocks cut from the base of Mount Rimepeak to the north, but there are still plenty of clay brick structures along the main thoroughfare, with steel-framed, Aberrtin-reinforced tinted glass windows and doors to boot. Don’t make for the prettiest sight, but even Cowie would have trouble breaking in if they all locked up tight.
The glass was another contribution from my mama, along with how to weave loomshrubs into soft linens, fire pig-iron ore into carbonized steel, and render the plentiful, pale-white grass into paper, among other things. A brilliant woman she was, a craftsman and researcher who accomplished so much in her short time here on the Frontier, and I see her presence in every brick, window, and street of New Hope. She can’t take all the credit of course, nor did my daddy build this town up single-handedly, but New Hope wouldn’t be New Hope without either of them, and that there is a fact. My daddy shared everything my mama taught him, and with that knowledge, we built the first ‘modern’ town of the Frontier in a sense, with brick houses and paved roads. I grew up seeing wonder and astonishment in the eyes of every traveller who walked these streets, and it warmed me something fierce knowing my parents helped make it happen.
Don’t make up for their absence, not by a long shot, but short of a reunion, seeing the marks they left behind is just about the next best thing.
Fast forward to today, and New Hope ain’t the biggest town on the Frontier. Ain’t even the biggest town on the shore of Last Call Lake, as we got Riverrun to the west, an industrial town with plenty of mills, plants, and factories as well as housing for all the folks working at them. That don’t mean New Hope is small either, as we’ve gone from less than twenty families to over three-thousand inhabitants, plus a burgeoning population of farmers, ranchers, trappers, and other folk living within an hour’s trek of the walls. Then there’s all the visitors, of which there are many, as Last Chance Lake feeds into the Wayfarer river, a wide, fast-flowing waterway that’s pretty much a straight shot all the way down to Thunder Bay on the west coast where Ranger HQ is located. Add in all the tributaries of the Wayfarer and the Highway sitting right outside our eastern gates, and it makes New Hope something of a travel hub round these parts of the Frontier, meaning there’s always boats docking at the pier and wagons rolling through our gates.
So yea. We ain’t the biggest, most populous town around, but we definitely one of the busiest. Wealthiest too, in terms of economy, which is why some call us the crown jewel of the Eastern Front. A heavily fortified jewel, as outlaws and Abby have set their sights on us many a time, only to be found wanting. Along the thoroughfare, every building is solid, reinforced, and flat roofed so we can move Rangers and shooters along them as we please. Some of the buildings double as secure fighting stations and fallback points, plus we got sharpshooter nests interspersed among the buildings every hundred and fifty metres or so. We got streetlamps and sirens mounted on anchored, reinforced concrete pillars, with steel crossarms hanging out over the streets which serve a variety of uses, chief among them being structural support for suspended rope bridges we can roll out in an emergency. The sides streets are all laid out in an orderly manner with defense in mind, narrowing into choke points at strategic locations and reinforced buildings to keep Abby contained should they ever get in. A last resort really, as New Hope is enclosed in two layers of walls, one twelve metres tall and the other nine. We got a third wall slated to go up soon, and have lines of watchtowers strung out from here to the badlands so we get plenty of advance warning of oncoming Abby incursions.
None of which is particularly welcoming, but ain’t no real towns around these parts, only shabby settlements and habitable fortresses. A necessity, because New Hope is situated on the Eastern Front and serves as the lynchpin on our first and last line of defense, one meant to hold back the Abby-infested badlands to the East and the Divide beyond it. Means we get the occasional harpy attack, as well as a terrestrial Abby incursion every month or two. Then there’s the sneaky Proggie hiding somewhere under or around Last Chance Lake, the only living Proggie within twenty-five klicks which my daddy couldn’t root out. It’s a crafty son of a gun, feeding well on fish, kelp and the occasional crazy cultist offerings until it thinks it’s got enough merbeasts to make a push onto land, but the Rangers keep local Abby numbers in check well enough so it rarely makes the attempt. Despite all that, New Hope here is probably the safest town along the badlands, though Uncle Teddy’s keen on reinforcing the other settlements to match us.
A red, white, and blue Bulwark of Federation fortresses connected by the Highway to hold back the tides of Abby which come from the east. That’s the idea at least, and we got seven such forts along the Bulwark and counting, with three more starting construction down south soon enough.
The mood is busy and bright as Cowie trundles down the lane with our wagon in tow, eager to be home but careful not to rush. He always got an eye out for drunks or kids or plain old fools who think they got the right of way. Even if that were true, it ain’t enough to protect them from two tonnes of bull and maybe half that again in metal wagon, so can’t say I can understand why some folk don’t stop to look both ways before they cross. Thems the breaks when the town gets big though, because there always gonna be more fools than folk with common sense. Makes the sensible ones that much more precious it does, and I make sure to greet those I see. Anita the strapping, square-chinned Prussian grocer, sweeping the front porch of her store. Flirty Miss Dawson greeting widowers from her window, whose Chicago-style confections and ice-creams do much to raise good cheer. Sad, sullen Trevor, the ruddy, widowed cobbler and leatherworker who makes the best boots this side of the Divide, but takes his time doing it and anything else as he trundles on down to the docks. Could take days going through all the good people and the shared history we got, but some of these folk have been in New Hope since near the start, and we look out for one another much as we can.
It's only a fifteen-minute trip along the busy thoroughfare before we reach our neighbourhood, one located in the central district of town. Time was this was the only part of town that existed, but since then, it’s blossomed into a shopping district surrounding a small cluster of old houses, including mine. It ain’t much to look at, a rectangular, single storey, two-bedroom house of clay brick and slate roof, with serviceable square awning windows. There’s no artistry in the architecture, no smooth edges or natural exteriors, just a simple, solid structure built atop a sturdy foundation of cobbled stone. My daddy didn’t care much for appearances, and it shows in the stark interior too, but I been living here all my life and have yet to find a single example of cut corners or shoddy workmanship, and that’s a point to take pride in.
Next-door is where the real beauty is though, and I ain’t just talking about the inhabitants. On the other side of our shared paddock where we keep our milk cows and woolly wallabies, Uncle Raleigh built his family a ranch-style home. It’s a lovely building with wide open spaces and broad eaves on the roof to provide shade for a porch which runs down the entire length of the front and right side of the house. The white-washed walls, big bay windows, and low, gabled roof really gives it a cozy and comforting appeal, despite being at least three times bigger than the house I call home. I ain’t ever seen any old world houses, but I heard plenty of folk say that this house Uncle Raleigh built looks like it’d been plucked right out of a town in the Southern U.F.A, and he always brightened right up when he heard it.
Most would say this here house is the mark Uncle Raleigh left on the Frontier, but I would disagree. Oh I see his hand in the neat wooden railing, chiselled wood pillars, and solid stone foundation, but his real mark is evident in his twin daughters, one of whom comes running out to greet me as I roll up. “Bout time you got back,” Tina says as she stops herself short, all dressed up in her Ranger’s uniform, a tan collared shirt with too many buttons undone over a white blouse with a neckline that’s almost respectable. Both are tucked into well-fitted dark jeans and accentuated by a loose baby-blue tie for an extra splash of colour. Add in the gun belt round her waist with her dual 1911 semi-automatic pistols, and Tina looks every bit the Ranger as Marshal Ellis, albeit a full-figured, feminine Ranger who’s off-duty and wants everyone to know it. Course she also much easier on the eyes. A southern belle to match her mama, with the same milky skin and corn-silk hair, though hers is cut short to hang just above her shoulders. Topped with a brown leather Stetson same as mine, it all makes for a real pretty picture if not for the fact that Tina’s working hard at looking stern as she stands there with hands on hips. “Heard over the radio that you got shot,” she drawls, and it warms my heart to hear the accent on her lips, though the lack of matching smile hurts a bit. Her big, round, sky-blue eyes give me a once over as she scowls something fierce, then another as she puffs her left cheek, then the right out of habit. Really accentuates all the baby fat she ain’t yet shed, and I’d tease her about it if she didn’t look so distraught. “The news really shook mama up.”
Darn it. Stepping off the other side so I can hide my shame, I set the wagon brake and trundle over to brush Cowie. “Well, if you heard I’d been shot, then you would’ve also heard that it wasn’t serious. News was almost a week old the moment I shared it, and only got older from there.”
“Ain’t no gunshot wound that ain’t serious, Howie.” Giving up on being strict from a distance, Tina marches down them steps to glare at me from the other side of Cowie. She trying for dead serious, but puffing both her cheeks doesn’t help none, nor does Cowie’s enthusiastic greeting as he shrinks down to a quarter his normal size and slips his harness to go prancing around her legs. He’s real cute when he gets all baby like that, looking like a genuine calf instead of a smaller bull, and no one can resist smiling when they see his happy dance, not even concerned Tina. As she kneels to hug him, I peer through her bangs and take a good look at the cloudy, tear-drop sapphire embedded in her forehead, as well as the pretty golden markings on either side that stretch out like an elegant circlet. Got that from her mama too, the biological Brand of an Innate Spellcaster, someone who knows magic like a fish knows water and a bird knows flight.
There lots of ways to become an Innate, but the typical method is through Attunement with a surgically embedded or orally ingested Spell Core. The other common method is to be born from someone who’s Attuned, which is how Tina and Chrissy came to be. Uncle Raleigh and Aunty Ray were both Innates, though Aunty Ray is second generation, which don’t mean much of anything. Being Innate ain’t much different from being any other type of Spellcaster neither, except for the fact that they’ll automatically learn some Spell Structures as they grow in age and power. Easiest way to learn Spellcasting really, though aside from the original Spell Core, you typically don’t get to pick and choose which Spells you learn.
It ain’t all sunshine and roses though, as there are drawbacks to be wary of, and Tina’s Brand is one of them. They come in sorts of different shapes and sizes, and while hers is awful pretty, I wouldn’t count on it staying pretty if it starts to spread. It don’t just look like gold and sapphire, but it feels like it too, so I suspect Tina’d be mighty uncomfortable if that teardrop gem grew bigger than the tip of her pinky finger. Always a concern, the Brand growing and expanding as the Spellcaster matures and comes into their power. There’s a Brit in the Protectorate who’s covered head to toe in black chitin instead of hair, which sounds mighty uncomfortable to say the least. Luckily, Tina’s gemstone and circlet looks about the same size as always, and with luck, it’ll stay that way forever. Aunty Ray’s got the exact same Brand down the size and colour, and she’s been slinging Spells most her life, but you never know when it comes to Innates. Constant, direct exposure to the Immaterium can do mighty strange things to a person’s body and mind, and the changes ain’t always obvious.
Like Cowie here. He technically an Innate Spellcaster too, as his Mama ate a Spell Core before getting pregnant with him. He specializes in Transmutation, except you wouldn’t know it unless you saw him doing magic. His Brand is his clear grey eyes, which turn all dark and stormy when he’s angry. Not much of an identifying mark really, just a bull with clear, human-like eyes, but the magic also makes him much smarter than your average animal. He understands some English, laughs at jokes, and even knows how to count, though he don’t use his smarts for much besides making friends.
I don’t let my eyes linger on Tina’s Brand for too long. Even though she’s never complained about it out loud, I know she hates it with a passion. While it might look like a pretty accessory, it marks her as undeniably different and possibly dangerous, and she’s known it since the start. Others treat her different because of it, and she accepts it without a thought, but I never have and never will. To me, she’s just Tina, the girl I grew up with and love like a sister. So what if she’s got Innate magic? I got magic too. Only difference is I get my magic from studying formulas, while she gets hers from her bloodline. I gotta work a little harder than she does, but otherwise, it’s all the same. Same Structures and same Spells, even the same chants and finger waggles too if she chooses, but for some reason, most folk see her Brand and think that makes her more dangerous than me.
It’s silly really, because I’m far more dangerous than she is, and doubly so considering she don’t got any Spells that go boom. Not like she can will her bloodline to teach her Fireball or Lightning Beam, and even if she does eventually get those Spells, that don’t mean she’s liable to go on a rampage. Say she were the type, she could do just as much damage with an Aetherarm, but people understand Aetherarms. They don’t understand Innates, and like the Marshal said, people fear the unknown.
But I know Tina, and she wouldn’t hurt someone who didn’t deserve it, and even then she’d show more mercy than most deserve. Yet another reason why it’s silly to be more afraid of her than me, because when I set out to hurt someone, I get it done right.
Unsure how to really go about convincing her I’m alright, I shift from one foot to the other and try to look busy by fussing with the tack. Things never used to be so difficult when we was kids, as I’d just throw an arm around her shoulders and give her a quick peck on the cheek or forehead. Then we grew up, and not only did she grow up beautiful, she also happened to grow more than I did. She ain’t a big girl by any standards, but I ain’t a big man neither, slimmer and shorter than I care to be, which leaves me about two inches shorter than Tina’s five-foot ten. Then there’s the fact that I ain’t got enough meat on my bones, despite eating like a man starved during every meal I can. Don’t matter how much I tuck away, none of it seems to stick to my skelly, giving me a lean, sinewy figure to go with my daddy’s broad shoulders and my mama’s narrow hips. In contrast, Tina’s shoulders are about as broad as mine, and her hips are of a size to match them, with an itty-bitty waist, a flat stomach, and an ample bosom which gives her more curves than a race track while also making her look half-again my width. Really helps fill out her Ranger’s uniform, giving her a shapely, feminine figure evident even through her somewhat loose shirt, and makes me feel all sorts of awkward around her considering she like a sister to me.
A very attractive, full-figured sister who ain’t even out of her awkward gangly phase yet. Few more years and she’ll be as beautiful as her mama, which if you seen Aunty Ray, is no small compliment.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
…I got a lot of hang-ups about the women around me. Might explain why I yearn for the open road so much.
Course, Tina don’t seem to feel awkward at all around me, so I must be the problem. After giving baby Cowie his due hugs and kisses, she stands up, punches me in the shoulder, and throws her arms around me for a hug. All of which is more painful than pleasant, because I ain’t sure about where to put my hands and I recently been shot in the shoulder she punched, but I power through the pain and awkwardness as best I can. “Important thing is I came back in one piece,” I say, breaking off the hug as quick as I can, because she smell real nice and feels better. Too quick judging by Tina’s pouty glare, but she a big girl now and will have to learn to live with the disappointment. “Where’s Chrissy at?”
“Inside on the couch,” Tina replies, her glare melting away into concern. “Been moping since we got back from checking the hives. One of the queenies died.” Lighting up as if she’d just come up with the best idea ever, Tina grabs me by the wrist and pulls as if to drag me inside. “How bout you go keep her company? You always know how to cheer her up.”
Tina’s a clever girl, but you gotta get up pretty early in the day to get one over the Firstborn. Digging my heels into the dirt, I shake my head and say, “Hang on just a moment missy. Not that I mind keeping Chrissy company, but what exactly will you be doing in the meantime? Doubt you volunteering to unload my wagon.”
Since trickery didn’t work, Tina turns to a tried-and-true tactic: begging. “Please Howie?” Somehow affecting a teary-eyed pout without any actual tears, she bats her big blues and says, “All the other boots meet up at the saloon after Basic almost every day, but I ain’t ever been able to join ‘em.” On account of having to come home to look after Chrissy, but I know Tina ain’t blaming her twin. “It’s just for a bit of cider and conversation is all. I’ll be back within the hour, I promise.”
“Yea alright.” I already figured it’d be something like that, so I hold a hand up to forestall another hug from Tina so I can grab some cash from my inner jacket pocket. Quartermaster Lacey paid me out mostly in $100 Benjamins, but I batted my squinty browns and convinced him to throw a few $50 Grants in as well. Not quite as effective as when Tina or Aunty Ray use their baby blues, but I work with what I got. “Get on out there Songbird,” I say, slapping a crisp $50 into her hand and using her Callsign for good measure. “Don’t worry about rushing back. Just be home before dinner, else you’ll upset your mama something fierce. Buy a couple rounds and some snacks for your friends too, make up for missing out so many times before.”
Rather than light up in delight, Tina’s expression turns sour and conflicted. After a moment’s hesitation, she tries to hand the money back with a shake of her head. “No, you keep it. You bled for this money, so it ain’t right for me to fritter it away.”
Pushing the bill away and wincing as it crinkles into an ugly wad, I give Tina my best stern but wise look. “Don’t be silly. I earned it for the purposes of spending it, and ain’t no waste spending it on you. You work hard, too hard even, so you deserve to cut loose and enjoy a bit.” Seeing she ain’t yet convinced, I add, “Look, best to spend it right quick before inflation eats up all the value. Sure, fifty’s probably five times more than you can spend on cider and snacks, but it ain’t always gonna stay that way. Anita’s bapples were fifty cents a bushel when I left two weeks ago. What they at now?”
“Fifty-five.”
“See what I mean? Ten percent increase, and you know it ain’t greed. Everything costing more these days and them prices gonna keep increasing, meaning dollars are worth less and less, so we gots to spend it while the spendin’ still good.” Can’t say I understand this economics hoodoo, bunch of mumbo jumbo that don’t make no sense. How’s a dollar worth less today than what it was worth yesterday when all else stays the same? A scam is what it is, one everyone agree to, because ain’t no one paying in Aether no more, nor Aberrtin, gemstones, precious metals, or anything else that holds value better than cash.
Seeing Tina’s still hesitant to take the money, I say, “Relax. I made six large from bounties, and got another five hundo from trading. All of which I intend to spend right quick, so if there’s anything you been wanting, then you best ask now before it’s too late.”
That does the trick, manufactured urgency as Aunty Ray calls it, and it shows Tina never paid attention to those particular lessons. Which is good because she would be a right real danger if she were half as convincing as her mama. “Um,” Tina begins, her big blue eyes darting left, then right, before fully committing to the grift. “If that’s the case, then you think I could get another fifty?”
Unable to resist, I draw back like she just asked for kidney and hit her with my best suspicious stare. “What you need so much money for?” Narrowing my eyes, I lean in and ask, “It ain’t for hard drugs, is it? What you on girl? The wacky tobacky? Nose candy? Laud? Slaught? Brave? What is it now? Don’t make me get the Padre to lecture you on the sins of depravity.”
“Shut up.” Laughing along in good humour, Tina playfully pushes me away. “Forget it then.”
“I’m just playing.” Already reaching for more money, I stop and look at her with real suspicion this time. “Though now you got me curious as to what this money’s for.”
Tina mumbles something, but I pretend not to hear her so she’ll repeat it again, which she does with an extra bit of spice. “It’s for a dress okay?!” Mellowing out once the words are said, she claps her hands and opens her eyes big and wide in excitement. “After we finish Basic, there’s gonna be a graduation ceremony, and Mama was talking about making a big deal outta it, what with us being the first class and all. New generation of Rangers and whatnot, so even though it’s not for a couple more months, I been looking at dresses when I can. There’s this new seamstress in town, miss Westwood. Moved in last year, and well, she makes the most elegant dresses, except they’re $80 a piece.”
“$80 for a dress?” That’s a third of what a Ranger makes in a month, and most folks ain’t paid half as much as Rangers. “What’s it made out of? Aetherweave?”
“Nah, she gets spidersilk from downriver.” Tina goes all moon-eyed at the thought of it and twirls about, already imagining herself wearing her new dress. “It’s the smoothest, softest, most luxurious fabric I ever laid hands on, and the colours are so beautiful and vibrant.” Coming back to her senses, she gives me a guilty little look and adds, “The other $20 is for Madame Martin’s salon. She do wonders with hair. Has a big mirror where she sits you down and shows you what you could look like with different styles and everything.”
Meaning this Madame is probably a skilled Illusionist, since I ain’t heard of any arcana-tech that can do that on the fly. Tricky folk, Illusionists, though I suppose others would say the same of Conjurors, Enchanters, and Transmuters, so I don’t got much of a leg to stand on. “Look at you, asking for both moons once you get a chance,” I say, my grin growing all the wider from her unwarranted guilt, and I can’t help but tease her some more. “Even going so far as to forget about buying your friends a round or three.” Handing over another three-hundred, most of which came from Ron, I tell her, “See if miss Westwood can make three dresses before graduation comes around, one for you, your mama, and Chrissy. Same with Madame Martin. I bet Chrissy’ll get a real kick outta that mirror trick.”
Taking the money with a smile, Tina wrinkles her nose in a cute little jeer. “No wonder Mama likes you best, you bapple-polishing butter-up.”
“Oh, that ain’t got nothing to do with me.” Giving her my best smirk, I wave her past and add, “Aunty Ray just likes me more cuz you a brat. And don’t forget about buying your friends those rounds. It’s important, bonding and all.” Which strikes a chord as I realize I been going about things all wrong. I got no intentions of joining the Rangers, but that don’t mean I gotta do everything on my own. “Hold up a sec Songbird,” I say, reaching out to stop Tina as she skips off into town. “About your fellow boots.”
“What about them?”
“Well, you said before they don’t wash out for lack of skill right?” Tina nods, and it makes sense. Whole point of bootcamp is to teach those skills, so you only get washed out if you break the rules or aren’t really trying, and I can work with rule breakers. “You know any washouts who are still around and might be worth salvaging?”
“Two recent ones come to mind,” Tina says, her expression one of pure confusion. “Though most wash out for good reason.”
“Think you can put me in touch?” Now Tina’s really confused, and I know she won’t leave without answers. “The whole ‘getting shot’ thing,” I begin, pointing at my shoulder and doing my best to ignore Tina’s pained wince, “Got me chewed out by the Marshal, and he said something that stuck. Said boot camp wasn’t just about learning, but about learning to work together and trusting the people beside you.” Giving a half-hearted shrug, I say, “Well, I figure maybe it’s time I got some people beside me to trust.”
“You putting together a crew?” This time, Tina’s teary-eyed pout ain’t faked. “Without me?”
“Don’t be silly, Songbird.” Patting the top of her hat like we’re eight again, I follow up with an awkward fist-bump to her shoulder. “You know there ain’t anyone else I’d rather have watching my back. Always thought we’d run point together through Proggie burrows, like our daddies used to, but it’s high time we admit that things might not work out the way we’d hoped. You dead set on joining the Rangers, and I’m dead set against it.”
“That don’t mean we can’t be a team.” An honest to goodness real tear trickles down Tina’s cheek, and I feel like monster for making it happen, but in my defense, she a real emotional girl and I’ve always had trouble keeping up. “You said you’d sign on to work freelance and all that.”
“I know,” I say, wishing I’d thought through this more before bringing it up, but that’s the curse of thinking on your feet, “And you know you can always count on me, but it’s time we got realistic. You being a Ranger means you won’t always get to choose your deployments, and me staying freelance means I’ll be working with whoever available. I’m sure Uncle Teddy will do what he can to make sure we together, but we can’t always count on it working out, so I might as well start looking for some people I can trust.” Giving her my best smile, I say, “This don’t mean we can’t still partner up like our daddies did, just that it won’t be all the time.”
With nothing else for it, I surrender myself to the inevitable hug and hold her real tight until she finally stops sniffling and lets go. “That there is a promise,” she declares, wiping the tears from her cheeks, “But you right. You need good people to watch your back, so I’ll set up a meeting quick as I can.”
As Tina strides away with purpose and resolve, I find myself struck by doubt. I’ll be alright striking out on my own, but will she be alright with the Rangers? I know she’s in good hands, what with the Marshal looking out for her, but that’s not the same as having someone on deployment beside her. I promised my daddy I’d look out for Tina, and Chrissy and Aunty Ray too. Granted, I was only ten at the time and didn’t really understand what my promise meant. All I knew was that Uncle Raleigh was gone and my daddy expected me to help pick up the slack in our little patchwork family. Not that my daddy and Aunty Ray ever had any romantic notions between them. He only ever had room for mama in his heart, and Aunty Ray still cries over Uncle Raleigh’s gravestone every year. They were like me and Tina, siblings by choice rather than blood, but family all the same, and now I’ve selfishly decided to leave my little sister to find her own way.
Problem is that some decisions, once made, can’t ever be taken back, and while lots of folks would be happy to hear me say I want to join the Rangers again, I don’t think I would ever be the same. It’d kill something in me to give up and give in, a part of myself I could never get back, so rather than get myself all twisted up inside, I stick to the path I’ve chosen and head inside with tiny Cowie to see Chrissy.
You wouldn’t think two people with the same face could look so different, but I doubt anyone could ever mistake Tina for Chrissy. It ain’t an issue of colouring, though I admit Chrissy’s long, cascading silver locks and pale, lilac pupils are remarkably distinct, as is the amethyst tear-drop gem in her forehead and the silver bandings on either side. Other than that, Tina and Chrissy are exactly alike in all other aspects except one, one I would say has nothing to do with appearance and everything to do with presence. That is to say Chrissy has none, her doll-like features completely blank and unreadable as she sits on the couch in her light grey sundress. She’s got a yellow ribbon holding her long silver locks in a low ponytail, with a big bow-tie at the back adding an extra touch of adorable to her pretty and peaceful self as she sits there with her little hands folded over her lap. Palms up, as it were, with the corpse of a queen bee nestled within, a fat, fuzzy, black-and-yellow winged puff that’s no bigger than a berry. Chrissy’s unfocused eyes are fixed on the poor thing, her shoulders slumped and head bowed as she mourns the queen bee’s death, but despite all the anguish and melancholy emanating from her frame, none of the emotion ever reaches her face.
Nor do I think it ever will. See, while Tina, Aunty Ray, and Uncle Raleigh were all largely unaffected by their Innate magical bloodline, poor Chrissy makes up for it in spades. It’s a subtle affection, one that went unnoticed until she was almost four. She didn’t talk much, but Tina would talk your ear off, which was the first clue that something was off. Then Chrissy stopped talking altogether and grew more withdrawn, locked up in her own mind to the point where she almost became unresponsive. A common enough occurrence in Innate Spellcasters, and prevailing theories figure it’s because they getting lost in the dizzying patterns of the Spell Structures embedded within their minds. In Chrissy’s case, it also goes a little further, muddying up her ability to process and express things, which accounts for her complete and utter lack of facial expressions. Talk too much and it tends to confuse her, and it takes her a long time to come up with words to speak. Doesn’t mean she can’t, or that she’s simple-minded. She’s sharp as a tack when it comes to certain things, but things get bogged down in communications failure. It’s like we all speaking in tongues, and she’s gotta process everything into something she understands, and it takes too much effort so she usually just shuts down.
She been getting better though, especially after my daddy figured out how to reach her. So rather than call out in greeting or dirty Aunty Ray’s couch, I take a seat on the floor in front of her and give her knee a light double pat to let her know I’m here. That gets her to blinking, and it takes her long seconds to focus on my face, and seconds more to recognize who I am. “Hi Howie,” she whispers in her even monotone, her expression blank as always and her eyes never quite meeting mine. “Welcome home.”
This is more rote repetition than an actual greeting, a routine she knows she’s supposed to go through when she doesn’t remember seeing me for some time. “Hi Princess. Good to be back,” I reply, and her head tilts a bit, which I’ve come to recognize as a very subtle indication of good cheer. Princess ain’t a pet name, but her Callsign, though I doubt she’ll ever use a radio. Tina came up with it after we decided Chrissy needed one too, mostly so she wouldn’t feel left out. Not that she would ever complain, but she’s a sensitive soul who we both love and adore, so we try to include her in everything we do.
Reaching up to stroke the dead bee, I ask, “Is this a queenie?” Chrissy nods, and even though her face don’t change a bit, there’s a sense of sadness about her. “Poor girl. Do you know from which hive?” She nods again, so I consider how to frame my next question. Yes or no questions only, else it’s more difficult for her to process and she might not find the words to answer. “Was she from a close hive, like the ones out back?” Chrissy nods again, and I ask, “Can you show me which one?”
Chrissy stands up right away, meaning to do just that, so I pop up onto my feet and gently take her by the arm. Mostly to make sure she don’t run outside barefoot, but she remembers to slip on her sandals without any prompting. Plopping a straw hat on top of her head, I bring her out and around to the back while baby Cowie follows at our heels, only a little upset about being ignored by his favourite person in the world. That’s Chrissy though, as she got a way with animals even Aunty Ray can’t match, as evidenced by how the indifferent woolly wallabies hop on over to say hi as we saunter past. They real cute and fluffy, with big eyes, upright ears, and narrow faces on poofy bodies that are just begging to be hugged, except they’ll bite most anyone who tries unless you Chrissy or Aunty Ray. They real handsy too, reaching out with their tiny paws to grab at our clothes, with a few baby joeys even peeking out from their mama’s pouches to see what all the fuss is about, and it’s hard not to stop and coo. They lucky they cute, because they dumber than mud and taste awful. Only good for their wool really, which I’m told is similar to alpaca, as if I’m supposed to know what that is.
It is awful soft though, and I like my wally wool blankets, though Cowie loves them even more.
None of the wallies adorable antics reach Chrissy though, as she’s on a mission to show me which hive has just lost its queen. Hive seven, it turns out, which is abuzz with activity, though that ain’t out of the ordinary. What is unusual is how they fly out to greet us, forming concentric circles around us to pay their respects without fully enclosing us in rings of fluttering bees. Real polite of them to leave some space, because fond as I am of the fuzzy little fellas and the honey and beeswax they provide, even the thought of being hemmed in from all sides makes me sweat a little bit. The buzzing is a mite overwhelming at times, but Chrissy don’t blink so neither do I, as I mean to support her best I can. After a minute or two of circling about, the bees swarm up around their hive like an audience watching the stage. Lifting her cupped hands, Chrissy raises the dead queen to the sun and blinks once. That’s all, no finger waggling or chanting to be done, but the Spell activates for her all the same, demonstrating a mastery of magic which I can only hope to one day match.
That’s one of the benefits of Innate Spellcasters. They’re closer to their Spell Structures, linked together in ways besides numbers and memory. For me, a Spell Structure is a four-dimensional construct derived from a mathematical equation, a pretty picture of moving lights and the trails those lights leave behind, all of which synched to a universal clock. Once created, my Spell Structures are fixed in memory, an immutable pattern that will repeat itself without a single deviation from now until I intentionally wipe it from memory, usually to make room for a different Spell.
For Chrissy, her Spell Structures are more than just the pattern itself, but almost like an organism she can coax and cajole to render Spells that are slightly different from what the Structure should provide. While I can tweak the parameters of the Spell Structure to do stuff like make them last longer, move farther, split one Mage Hand into two, that sort of business, it’s still the same Spell underneath the hood. Innates don’t always have those same limits, though it tends to vary from individual to individual. In this instance, Chrissy’s Spell is one I recognize, a simple Conjuration Cantrip called Infestation. Ordinarily, the Spell will create phantasmal insects to attack a target designated by the caster, but Chrissy has tweaked the Spell Structure to make it something not exactly different, but… more. Anyone watching closely would see the dead queen’s corpse crumble away like dust in the wind, only to be replaced by an animated queen bee comprised of Ectoplasm. Temporary matter made of Aether, similar to the fake water I make with the Water Sphere Cantrip, only Chrissy’s creation is life-like and acts like it’s got a mind of its own. The Conjured Queen turns about and tests her wings before launching herself off Chrissy’s palm, as majestic as she ever was in life. She circles her hive once, twice, and a third time before soaring up into the sky, and I’d be hard pressed to say if she flew out of sight or simply dissipated before my eyes. The bees rise up and follow her trail for a bit, then promptly return to the hive, perhaps bidding the old queen one last farewell before heading home to pay their respects to the new queen.
Or maybe they just confused. I don’t know. I can’t talk to bees, though I’m sure Chrissy understands. Hands empty, she turns to me with the same blank and distant expression as always, but somehow, I can tell she wants to cry. “Hug.”
Compelled by her Spell, my arms go around her and pull her close before I can even think about bracing myself for it, and the sudden intimacy is both warm and unwelcome. I don’t pull away through, not even after the compulsion fades, because Chrissy needs a hug, and maybe I do too. We stay like that for a bit, until she finds it in herself to whisper, “Sorry Howie.”
“It’s alright Chrissy.” To show I mean, I hold her tight and squeeze her shoulder three times. “I know you didn’t mean to do it.” And she didn’t. Sometimes, the Command Spell just slips out of her, imbuing her words with her Will and compelling her target to obey. It’s no surefire way to get someone to do your bidding, as the command has to be short and succinct, usually one word or sometimes two, and you can’t ever Command someone to directly harm themselves. Self-preservation instincts are too strong to override with a simple First Order Spell, but people don’t like it all the same when they Commanded to do anything, even if its something simple like sit or move aside.
That’s part of why people are so scared of Innates though. How easily they use magic. It just slips out sometimes, because while it’s possible for them to create a key to activate their Spells just like I do, their Spells tend to be more mercurial and will sometimes respond to the caster’s emotional state. Not an issue most orthodox Spellcasters like myself and most folk will ever face, one which has in the past led to some tragic incidents involving troubled Innates, but I don’t think that’s any reason to be wary of all Innates in general. Might as well treat every living person like a possible mass murderer then, because the only difference is that non-Innates would need to pick up a gun, bomb, or Spell. No sense treating Innates like they inherently dangerous otherwise.
Sure, Chrissy sometimes loses control of her Spells, and some of them are pretty alarming like Command and Charm, but she ain’t got a single mean bone in her body. She’s close to tears over the death of a bee, yet most folk move like they walking on eggshells around her, fearing she’ll use her mind magic to make them complicit in some horrific crime or another. It ain’t fair is what it is, and I’ll argue against anyone who says different, fight anyone who dare act on it too.
Because when Chrissy squeezes back three times right quick, that’s her own little way of saying, ‘I love you’, how she communicates without letting words get her all mixed up. She ain’t emotionless. She just don’t show hers on her face, which is why most don’t know she sweet as honey and pure as fresh snow. Her love for me is no different from her love for her mama or sister, or her love for Cowie, the bees, and the wallies, which is why there ain’t ever been any awkwardness between us like I have with Tina. Even though they twins and look almost exactly alike, I could never see Chrissy in any other light. She’s my sister, plain and simple, a sweet angel of a girl who I’ll protect to the last.
Same goes for Tina too of course, but things have gotten a touch more complicated these days. That’s the Frontier though, where everything growing more complicated and dangerous with each passing day. Nothing for it but to adapt and move forward, because the alternative is to fall behind. Being the Firstborn gave me a head start, an advantage my mama knowingly risked her life for, so I’d be a fool and an ingrate to squander so precious a gift. Her last words were to tell me she loved me, and to never blame myself for her death, but I can’t say that it’s been easy.
Especially knowing I was responsible for my daddy’s death too. Firstborn I may be, but the Frontier don’t love me any more for it.