Firstborn of the Frontier

I’ve travelled a fair bit round these here parts, but I still get excited when I take a trip to the hometown gun range.

Got a lotta memories of visiting with my daddy, Uncle Teddy, Aunty Ray, and a couple other Rangers who looked out for me growing up. It was always a good time, but lately, I’ve had less cause to visit since I get plenty of practice on live targets. Also haven’t bought a new gun since my daddy passed, so that’s another reason. Had better things to spend the cash on, like cargo for selling or clothes for the family. So even though this trip to the range ain’t for me, I still get a little giddy as Cowie brings us down the thoroughfare away from Anita’s grocery store, around the swanky, red-brick town hall with it’s too-small big clock, and out through the towering double gates of the outer wall. Once outside, he takes a wide left onto the six-lane highway and heads north towards the outskirts of town before coming to a gentle, rolling stop outside the gun range office, a simple wooden cabin without many of the modern amenities like plumbing or even glass windows.

All in all, it takes about thirty or so minutes to get to the gun range, though it’d be a lot faster without traffic. Either way, it’s nowhere near enough time to finish telling the story of how Sir Issac Newton pioneered the concept of Cantrips with his simplified Light Spell, and certainly not enough to do justice to the father of modern magic, or touch upon his many achievements in the fields of math, physics, astronomy, alchemy, and theology. Course, I was supposed to talk about how great the Bolt Cantrip is and how it won the west, but I got a little distracted by the details as per usual. Even though Errol and Sarah Jay don’t care much for the lesson, I’ve always found it fascinating how one man could have done so much in the span of a single human lifetime, and why he didn’t stick around to do more. Towards the end of his life, Sir Issac Newton was an accomplished Archmagus standing at the pinnacle of the arcane realm, but he never sought to join the ranks of the Immortal Monarchs and went peacefully in his sleep at the grand old age of 84.

Would love to know why, as he seemed like a right decent sort and the perfect leader to guide humanity into the future, which might well be why he didn’t want the job.

After checking in with Rudy at the office and picking out an empty lane, I get back into the wagon and head out while taking in the sights of my favourite stomping grounds in New Hope. It’s a shooting range to surpass all shooting ranges. Other places, they put you in front of a hill or down in a ditch and give you a couple targets to plink at, at most only a couple hundred metres away. Not here, as this shooting range is about two klicks long and backs right onto the highway. We cleared out a whole lotta forest to make this gun range, flattened it all real good too, and so long as we shooting eastwards, there’s only a small chance of accidentally hitting some lost, wayward soul. Any fool headed this way ought to know better than to step past all the signs and earthwork barriers delineating the outer limits of the shooting range, but even if they did, a moving target on a white grassy plain is pretty easy to spot.

Now, I’ve said Americans love their guns, but what they really love is shooting said guns, which is why we went all out on the gun range. We got plenty of lanes with targets to shoot at no matter what sort of Aetherarm you packing. Forget your standard shooting galleries where you take a position and shoot at targets head on. That’s boring. What we got here are full on tactical shooting courses for training with pistols and shotguns, a mounted shooting course for the gunner on the go, a speed shooting gallery with moving targets, and sharpshooting lanes for targets over a klick away. We got lanes for shooting prone, shooting from cover, shooting from height, and more, with a wide array of different target types to choose from. Paper mostly, but there a few who swear by shooting at steel, while others claim ballistic gel is the way to go. There even folks who waste time making ‘reactive’ targets, like bladders full of dyed liquid to simulate blood or Abby fluids. They come in lots of shapes too, but I ain’t too fussed about that, so long as it’s a target that gives a clear indication of where and what I hit.

To facilitate the testing of both my prospects, I pick a long-range lane that ain’t too far away. Once I get Chrissy out of the wagon, I sit her on a travel chair with a tin cup of grumble berries and put on some music while she looks at pictures from my recent trip. Leaving a dancing baby Cowie to keep her company, I grab some gear and a vial of holy water before heading over to join Errol and Sarah Jay at the shooting line. Technically the water ain’t holy, as it’s more Aether water than anything else, but almost every church, temple, mosque, or what have you will sell it. I’m guessing it’s because the cheapest production method involves a ritual Spell that ain’t much different from praying for an hour in church. Suppose they figure if they gonna be spending so much time chanting and mumbling, they might as well make some money out of it, though I’m sure they got a proper theological reason for it too. Either way, holy water is a valuable material component in a good number of Spells, including the Spell I got in mind to place new targets downrange without chancing a stray shot from another lane.

As I get to chanting and finger waggling, I pour out the vial of water in front of me. Before it even reaches the ground, the water swells in volume and thickens in consistency as it comes alive to do my bidding. Drawing dirt from the ground and Aether from the surroundings, the blob grows, congeals, and moulds itself into a muddy, semi-gelatinous humanoid form, one measuring about two feet tall and got no real distinguishing features at all, other than to say he’s blobby. Handing it three shooting stands and a stack of standard paper targets, I send him downrange and grab my polished quartz lens out of my components pouch so I can cast the Rangefinder Cantrip and tell the Simple Servant when to stop.

“So I need to know,” Errol begins, watching my Simple Servant trudge away at a slow and sedate pace. “Why exactly do you have a Spell to make a gooey little mud man? You get lonely out on the open road?”

“That I do,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder and giving him a wink, “But I won’t be needing him no more, since I’ll be riding with a pretty piece like you.” Our eyes meet in a stare down, then we break out into laughter as Sarah Jay shakes her head beside us. “Seriously though, you ain’t ever seen the Simple Servant Spell?” Errol shakes his head, and my grin grows wider, because now he has no choice but to listen. “It is hands down the most straightforward Summoning Spell in existence, one most anyone could and should learn. A First Order Spell created by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, a German fella from the 1700’s who set the standard for all Summoning Spells. See, technically, all Summoning Spells are Conjuration Spells, but they’re also all man-made. Abby ain’t got no Summoning Spells, so there ain’t no Summoning Spell Cores, which is why some say it ought to be its own separate school of magic.”

I can already tell I’m losing Errol, though Sarah Jay is still paying attention, as most sharpshooters favour Spells from the school of Conjuration, like Entangle and Fog Cloud, so summoning is just a natural addition to their playbook. “Hang on,” she says, her jaw set in a frown that is both fetching and mildly intimidating, like she fixing to tune me up for something or the other. “Just thought of something. You said Cantrips are man-made Spells, but now you saying Summoner Spells are too, and that they ain’t got no Spell Cores.” I can see where this is going, so my smile widens, which makes her hesitant, but she still finishes the thought, because she’s gotta know. “Thing is, you also said our sidearms got a Bolt Cantrip Core, which shouldn’t exist, right?”

“Correct, except they do thanks to human ingenuity,” I reply, wishing I’d had time to go through the whole history of Cantrips and the Bolt Spell in particular. “The Bolt Cantrip Core is actually a First Order Bolt Core or higher that’s been cut down. You remember how nice and pretty the Spell Core in that Squire there was, a neat little crystal cone and all? Well, they don’t come like that natural. Abby come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, and the same goes for the Spell Cores we dig outta their corpses. Means we oftentimes gotta pare ‘em down to fit the contraptions we build to use those Cores. With Bolt Cores, we was cutting them so often that someone figured out how to cut a single First Order Spell Core into two, three, or more working ‘Cantrip’ Cores, albeit less powerful ones, 40% less like I said before. Since you’d get more than one Cantrip Core out of each First Order Core, that was a still net increase in overall firepower. With the ability to arm every soldier with a Bolt Cantrip musket, the colonial troops were eventually able to overwhelm the Spellslinging Native Americans and settle the west by the early seventeen hundreds.” And at the same time, the Bolt Cantrip Core proved Sir Issac Newton’s Theory of Scalar Complexity of Spell Structures correct, while the man was still alive no less. What a thrill that must have been for old Issac, the validation of a lifetime’s effort or study and research.

“Anywho,” I say, getting myself back on track after having made the point I missed out on earlier, “This Simple Servant Spell is easy to learn because it don’t require any sacrifice of Spirit, Soul, Chakra, or whatever your religion of choice wants to call it. Other Summoning Spells require that to… I dunno, give the Summon a brain or something. Ain’t too clear on the details myself. What it means though is that this gooey little mud man ain’t all too smart and won’t really do anything on his own. I can direct him telepathically, which takes a bit of learning, and I can make him fetch, sweep, do the laundry, fold my clothes, and all sorts of other menial tasks. With enough focus, I can make him do almost anything so long as he don’t got to do it fast, be precise, or carry more than twenty pounds at once.”

Chuckling as I set the blobby little fellow to dancing down the way, waving his fingerless arms about and shaking his hips, I add, “He’s too clumsy to reload a gun though, not unless I stand over his shoulder and direct him. Can’t shoot neither, as he don’t know how to aim, even if I tell him to point the gun in front of him. Too complex an order, I’m guessing, or he got no concept of direction. Can pull a trigger, but it ain’t exactly safe, as he can’t aim or handle any recoil at all. Also moves much too slow to really stab a man, though he could probably manage it if the target ain’t moving. Would have to, as he’ll come apart at the seams if he takes a hit harder than a pat.” Got both their attentions now, though now I wish I didn’t, as they looking at me like I’m some sort of weirdo for trying to weaponize my Simple Servant.

Be weirder if I didn’t, right?

To lighten the mood, I glance left and right all suspicious like before leaning in close so I can whisper, “I mostly keep him around for shovelling cow patties, as my furry friend back there eats a fair bit, most of which comes out the other end.”

An indignant moo is proof positive that Cowie is both smarter than most give him credit for and got sharper hearing than I’d like, so I run over to placate him while Errol and Sarah Jay laugh. I got time after all, as like I said, the Simple Servant don’t do nothing fast, so it’ll be a hot minute before he makes it to the three-hundred-meter mark. While I’m giving sir Cowie his due respect and scritches, Chrissy looks at me and points at the picture displayed on the side of my wagon, her lilac eyes focused and animated for once as she gently bobs in time to her acoustic rendition of Bon Jovi’s ‘Living on a Prayer’. “Round bird,” she declares, still expressionless, but somehow also looking excited at the same time.

“Yea it is,” I say, soothed by the sight of her angelic appearance, so happy and content sitting there with lips smeared with berry juice and the tear-drop amethyst on her forehead glimmering in the shade of her hat. “That there is a wild kiccaw, named for the sound he makes. Roams the Coral Deserts and Emerald Plains, a rotund poofy fellow with tiny little wings and legs. They real cute and bigger than you’d think, about half as big as that wagon wheel there.” Good eating too, though I ain’t gonna tell Chrissy. Truth is, I’m not entirely sure if she knows that steaks, ribs, sausages, and what have you all come from various furry little friends. If she don’t, then I for one ain’t gonna be the one to tell her.

“Kick-Caw. Kee-Caw. Kiccaw.” After familiarizing herself with the new word, Chrissy swipes her hand through the air and somehow makes the next image appear on the side of the wagon, a big horned jaibex I spotted on the slopes of the Serpent Fangs mountains. The hand waving is a real nifty trick I’d love to pick up, except I’ve no earthly idea how she does it. I gotta walk up and touch the rainbow Tourmaline crystal embedded into the wagon to change pictures, because it ain’t my Spell projecting the Illusion. Ain’t Chrissy’s either, as the illusion is being projected by a Silent Image Spell Core, one that reads the images off the crystal it’s attached to. Images I took using the Photograph Cantrip mind you, before embedding them into that crystal, which the Spell Core somehow reads and projects against the side of the wagon.

That’s two separate Spells working in tandem, using arcana-tech to bridge the gap in a way I don’t entirely understand. How’s the Spell Core read the picture off the crystal, and know which one to show in what order? I got a good look at the whole thing when Danny installed it, and all I saw was a metal fixture to hold the crystal and a couple wires and junk to connect it to the Spell Core. No idea how it all works, and the Marshal’s Major Illusion video player is even more complex. Then again, complexity don’t count for all that much, as the speakers which play music are just magnets and wires, with no Spell Core to speak of at all, which to me seems more magical than actual magic.

I ain’t no arcanist, just a Spell Slinger and soldier of fortune. Chrissy though, she clearly sees magic and arcana-tech as one and the same, using the first to interact with the second as easily as… well, waving her hand. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Chrissy’s sharp as a tack. She just got issues communicating is all, and we working on that best we can.

Leaving her to flick through the pictures and enjoy her berries, I head back to the shooting line and cast Rangefinder to see how far my Simple Servant has gone. Raising my polished quartz lens to my eye, I mutter, “Provisio – Fecit – Patet”, and take a moment to marvel at the wonders of modern magic. The Rangefinger Cantrip is the result of a melding of arcana and mathematics in a beautifully brilliant manner. What it does is spit out an arcane pulse that travels towards the target, bounces off it, and returns to the caster. Now that ain’t all that useful on its own since the arcane pulse the Cantrip emits happens to travel at the speed of light, making it all but impossible for the human mind to perceive the travel time on any reasonably visible distance. That’s where the real beauty of the Cantrip comes into play though, because it takes that travel time and stretches it out into something the caster can actually perceive. The form that perception takes is ineffable, like trying to describe how you know which way is up or how you sit without falling. You just do, and when you use the Rangefinder Cantrip, that’s the sort of response you get. An inkling, an impression, a sense of knowing, but not a vague one. No, this inkling is precise and quantifiable, and if you cast the Cantrip on another target the exact same distance away, you will get the exact same impression each and every single time. More than that, it scales, so if you then cast the Cantrip on an object twice as far, that impression is doubled, meaning it actually feels twice as far to all your senses.

It’s a bit confusing to explain, but once you get used to the Cantrip, it almost becomes intuitive. Of course, if you want an accurate measurement, you need to practice by casting the Cantrip on a target you know the exact distance of, say a hundred meters away. Then, you cast it again on that same target, and again, until you’ve familiarized yourself with how it feels when you cast it on a target at a hundred metres. Then you do that for two-hundred metres, and three, so on and so forth, so that when you cast the Cantrip on an object at an unknown distance, you can compare the results to known distances and get a general sense of how far an object is.

Now, this sounds like a lot of work for a single Cantrip that don’t do nothing except tell you how far away something is, and it kinda is, but with effort and dedication, you can become accurate to within a millimetre. Most don’t bother though, because they don’t see the value, except a lot of Divination Spells work on this same general concept. Once you figure out one, the second will come easier, then the third, and so on and so forth. This need for familiarity is partially why Divination is considered the most difficult school of magic around. Anyone can learn any Spell if they work hard enough at it, but with Divination Spells, memorizing the Spell Structure is only the start. You also gotta learn how to interpret the results those Spells give you, which is where most fall short. That’s why good Scouts are few and far between, because it requires hard work, constant practice, and ain’t as flashy as throwing Fireballs or summoning beasties.

Another reason why Divination ain’t popular is because in the old world, most folks relied on arcana-tech for most their Divination needs. Take Mr. Kalthoff for example. He’s got a custom-made rangefinder device that can cast this Cantrip and spit out exact numbers using nothing but a couple techno doodads, but it’s a big, bulky set of binocular looking things that comes with a tripod and needs to be calibrated every time you move it. Not exactly useful on the battlefield, which is why most shooters bite the Bolt and learn the Cantrip themselves, or at worst, find their own, non-magical ways to gauge distances with varying accuracy.

“Alrighty then,” I say, as the Simple Servant reaches more or less 300 metres away and starts setting up the stands. “Once them paper targets are up, y’all can show me what you got.” Looking Errol up and down in a half-joking manner, I ask, “How far do I gotta move my Simple Servant to be 100% sure he won’t get shot?” I’m only half joking because while holy water ain’t exactly expensive, it ain’t exactly cheap neither, not to mention all them minutes it takes for the blobby guy to trudge on over.

Despite my reservations, I don’t move him too far away from the targets, though I do get him to hunker down just to be safe. Errol takes his time setting up and getting comfortable, but Sarah Jay pops off a shot at the man-sized steel target sitting at the half-klick marker. The thunderous bang catches Errol by surprise, and he damn near jumps from the sound. “You don’t got Hearing Protection?” I ask, listening for the distant ting of metal which tells me Sarah Jay hit her shot. That’s impressive to say the least, though having seen her use it against harpies in flight, it don’t come as no surprise.

“Nah,” Errol replies, and though he puts on a tough front, I can tell he’s feeling sheepish about not knowing such a basic Cantrip. “It’s self targeted, so I haven’t gotten a feel for it, you know?”

Because no one could cast it on him, or on something he could touch that didn’t have all the magical interference of a living, breathing person. Don’t know why he don’t try learning Spells the traditional way, but that won’t do. “It’s an easy enough fix for today at least,” I say. Taking off my left boot, which already expended its stored Featherfall Spell, I focus on the Aether-suspension matrix Etched onto the surface of the inner sole and Imbue it with the Hearing Protection Cantrip, which don’t take more than a waggle of my fingers, no chant required. Once that’s done, I hold out my boot and wave him over. “Well, c’mon. I ain’t gonna hop on over to you.”

Unsure of what’s going on, Errol stows his rifle at port arms before heading over. Good to see he knows not to leave his rifle unattended, meaning he knows the rules. Just needs a reminder to keep to them every now and then. “What you giving me your boot for?” he asks, glancing at his feet to double check he still got both on.

“Stick your foot in, so it’s touching the sole.” Credit where it’s due, Errol does just that, while Sarah Jay holds off on shooting to watch us. “Don’t jam your foot in and bend whole darn backstay,” I say, hoping that the crease in the leather won’t be permanent. “Them giant toesies of yours ain’t gonna fit in a size eight. Just get them down far enough to touch the sole, then reach out like you trying to cast a Spell on the boot, but in reverse.”

It sounds a little silly, but it works, and Errol’s eyes go round and wide as the Hearing Protection Cantrip activates and settles onto him. “Woah,” he says, gawking at my boot and fiddling with his earlobe as Sarah Jay pops off another shot, one that will sound almost as loud as the first to him, but blunted. It do feel a little strange when the Cantrip hits, like your ears are all stuffy for a bit, but then it pops and everything goes back to normal. “You can store Spells in your boot?”

“Yep.” I give him a big smile and say, “Cost me a pretty penny, and took Trever a good month to Etch in the Aether-suspension matrix, but it’s worth it. Can store one instance of a First Order Spell in each boot. I usually keep Featherfall on the left, because when you need a soft landing, you need it right quick, if you know what I mean.” It’s technically only in the sole, which I can reuse if I ever need a new pair of boots, which I’m hoping I will since I ain’t done growing. Also means it can be stolen, which is why I don’t volunteer that particular piece of information, though anyone who knows the work can probably guess. I would love a better version of the rune so I can store a Second Order Misty Step, or maybe even a Third Order Spell, but that would cost significantly more, and Trever ain’t even sure if he could do it. Plus, there’s the whole issue with getting Misty Step to target right when using it through an Imbued item. I suspect that it’d just cast the Spell in place, meaning I wouldn’t move a single inch, since there no way to communicate with the boots to tell them where or which direction I want the Spell to move me. Would need some arcana-tech attached to the rune so I can plug in directions or whatnot, which is too complicated for a pair of boots. With Featherfall, Hearing Protection, and other self-targeted Spells, the matrix will just cast the Spell on whoever activates it, which works just fine.

“You got a lot of magic gear,” Errol says, looking me up and down with a measured eye as we get our boots back on. “The wagon, your boots…” Errol shakes his head and adds, “Firstborn”, as if that explains my wealth, but it ain’t got much to do with anything. Don’t say as much though, and just watch as he heads back to the firing line to get set up.

He ain’t the best shot I seen, but he ain’t terrible neither, so I offer a bit of advice from the side and use my Mage Hands to pack his mags while also keeping track of Sarah Jay’s progress. Don’t take long for her to set the steel targets at 750 metres to singing, settling into a steady pattern of a thunderous bang followed by a distant ting a second or two later. She don’t need no advice from me, as she takes her time lining up her shots, adjusting her scope, and pinging the metal targets again and again, picking out her distant targets at random so she has to think on the fly about the angle of every single shot. She even has a neat little line of bullets stood up in front of her, all ready and waiting for her reloads. It isn’t until she gets to the eight-hundred metre markers that she starts muttering under her breath to activate the True Strike Cantrip, which is a nifty little piece of magic. Helps intuitively account for stuff like wind speed, Bolt drop, target movement, and all that, though you’re still usually better off doing the math and using a properly sighted scope at longer ranges.

And in close range, you’re better off shooting more often, especially if the target’s shooting back.

Shooting skills alone makes Sarah Jay the real prize here, with the chops to make Marksman easy, and probably Sharpshooter too. She’s also got good focus, stays organized, and cultivates good habits by keeping up with her lines of bullets and pocketing all her spent brass, not to mention how she seems like a real motivated sort of person who ain’t afraid of a little hard work. Only downside is her gender, as she’ll attract all sorts of the wrong attention while we out and about. Not her fault, but this the world we live in, and it is what it is.

As for Errol, he got courage and confidence in spades, but don’t quite got the skills to match up just yet. He ain’t half bad and got plenty of potential, but he’ll need a lot more effort to get his skills up to snuff, and I ain’t sure he’s ready to put in the work. Right now, he’s good enough to pass Basic, but I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting on him to make Marksman. After fifteen minutes, his best record is nine hits out of ten on a target, mostly centre mass but with three outliers around the arms and legs. It’s fairly mediocre, and he don’t seem to be doing much besides shooting downrange without a thought. Intuitive in more than magic then, which is fine since I’m guessing he prefers to be in the thick of things. A Blastgun would be more his speed, though I’d have to buy one fresh since I ain’t got a decent one to spare, only my old starter Blastgun, a Bashere Black Eagle which is ancient tech by now. A standard Forzare would work, but I’m sure there are other good options too. His value is more in his Spellslinging, which is nice and all, but more a long-term benefit which don’t help us much now.

These two prospects are more promising than I expected from a pair of washouts, which leaves me feeling conflicted. Part of me wants to keep quiet and take them on, but that wouldn’t be right. My daddy raised me to be a good man, and a good man would do the right thing, which means helping them find their way back into Ranger Basic. Shouldn’t take much, and that’s a brighter and safer future than riding out as part of my crew. A more glorious one too, as everyone looks up the Rangers, even foreigners who ain’t got no love for the U.F.A.

Though my decision is made, I let them shoot and hang back to keep Chrissy and Cowie company. No point telling Errol and Sarah Jay what I’m fixing to do until I got something worth saying. Still only got one side of the story after all, as I can’t rightly understand why they washed Errol out in the first place. Far as I tell, it was just a little scuffle, like the ones I get into every other week. Sure, the other boot got his jaw and arm broken, but Errol didn’t start the fight, didn’t pull no weapon, didn’t kill no one, and seems like a decent enough sort. Illicit drugs in his blood or kit would do it, or if he was drunk off his gourd when they fought, but I don’t get the sense that either of them are hiding much. Can’t rightly think of any other reasons given what I know, which means I’m missing an angle.

My curiosity eventually gets the better of me, so I decide to grill Errol a bit, who is still struggling with poor breath control as he takes aim on one knee. “Quit holding your breath before you shoot,” I say, breaking his focus just as he’s about to pull the trigger. “Aim, breathe out, hold, and fire. Also, just because the gun is semi-auto, don’t mean you gotta shoot quick as you can.” Nodding at the Squire on his hip, I add, “That’s why the Squire so good for starting off. Forces you to take your time and pick your shots, a skill that translates to any gun you might use.”

“This is a rifle.” Flashing his pearly whites, he reaches down and grabs his crotch. “This is my gun.”

“One is for fighting, the other’s for fun.” Taking a knee next to him so we can talk on the level, I grin and gesture for him to keep shooting. I like having someone my age to joke around with, especially these sorts of jokes. Tina don’t like crude humour, but then again, most lady-folk don’t seem to enjoy it much, and I don’t got many friends otherwise. Being the Firstborn ain’t all rainbows and sunshine, as the older folk expect me to lead by example, which I do, and that don’t make me all that popular with people my own age.

After a few minutes of joking about with Errol and giving him dedicated instruction, I casually ask, “So what made you want to be a Ranger?”

Giving a little shrug while waiting for my Simple Servant to finish swapping out the paper targets, Errol asks, “How much you know about what’s going on around Deadlock Bay?”

“The general gist.” It’s my turn to shrug now, because I ain’t all that caught up on current affairs. “West side of the bay is called the Fields of Strife, on account of all them Proggies hiding in the bordering marshes. Not quite as infested as the badlands, but bad enough, especially with the Deadlands further northwest along the coast. The Pathfinders and Chevaliers been holding the Fields of Strife back for years now, but mostly gave up on settling it. They just box Abby out of the Northmoor and keep them from crossing the Deadline.” Which is what they call the river separating the Fields of Strife from the Emerald Plains. Some would call those plains the safest region round these here parts. Lots of flat, grassy farmland for crops and livestock, all controlled by the Métis Nation.

Which makes them America’s hat in the old world and on the Frontier too, at least round these here parts.

Nodding along with my statement, Errol goes back to shooting. The El-minister is much heftier than my Ranger Repeater, with a longer barrel and bulkier receiver on account of the semi-auto action, so it got a lower, louder bark on it when it fires, a sort of flat ‘blap – blap – blap’ that’s almost soothing. “Well,” he continues, after another fairly decent go at a target, landing six out of ten in a loose pattern around centre mass, “The village I come from? It doesn’t have a name because it started as a Pathfinder field hospital. A place along the Deadline where the wounded could recover.” He gets a distant look in his eyes as he stares down the iron sights of his rifle without seeing anything in front of him at all. “They weren’t always content to leave the Fields be, so growing up, my parents had a boat which ferried soldiers and supplies up to the Deadline and bought wounded back. Then one time, the boat comes back without them. Abby.” He shrugs, trying to be casual about it to seem tough and manly, but he ain’t fooling no one, not even himself. “Was six at the time, so I don’t remember them much. The priests, nuns, and ranch hands pretty much raised me after that, but nothing official, you know? Figured I’d eventually grow up and join the fight, but then they gave it all up.” Sounds like he took that real personal, and I can’t say I blame him. “For awhile, the village sort of fell apart, because there was no reason to be there anymore. Then we heard about New Hope and what the Rangers were doing there. Village had a purpose again, a place for trading ships to dock for the night on their way to New Hope or up to the Bay. Grew up hearing all about the Rangers and their efforts to hold back the badlands, so when I heard they were offering training to any young Americans our age, I hopped on a boat to come fight Abby, and that’s that.”

“You ever consider a career change?” I ask. “Ranch hands make decent wages after all, and the Rangers pay top dollar for good horse trainers.”

“No future in it,” Errol replies, going back to his shooting but taking more time between each shot. “Ranchers back home were always talking about how they’d be out of a job or have to turn bandit once someone got a working car.” This time, we both share a shrug, as neither of us really understand how mechanized vehicles really work. I seen some Illusions and diagrams and such, but I also seen the numbers, and they’ll cost a fortune in Aether to run, assuming they even work with the Frontier’s lower levels of ambient Aether concentration. I’ve been hearing about how cars are coming for my whole life now, how some fellow has got a working model or a factory coming together, but it’s always someone two or three towns over or on the other side of the Divide or whatnot. Sure, it’ll happen eventually, but I don’t see what that got to do with the value of horses right now.

“What about going back home?” I ask, just to be sure. “The Pathfinders would pay top dollar for a soldier with skills like yours.” Errol looks at me like I’m spewing hogwash, so I smile and explain, “Your ability with the Heroism Spell? How you cast it on another person without triggering their instinct to resist foreign magic? If that translates to other support Spells, then that makes you invaluable to any major military faction. Support casters usually have teams built around them to ensure their Spells don’t fail so often, but with you, they could put you in any squad and they’d benefit from your support without having to build up a rapport first. That’s huge, because support Spells are a massive force multiplier in small engagements, and adding one support to a squad is easier than building a squad around a support.”

I ain’t done yet, as I’m here to hard sell a better life to Errol, because I suspect he’s only here for Sarah Jay. If he can convince her to leave, then all the better for them both. “If religion is more your speed,” I say, nodding at the crucifix he got hanging around his neck, “The Roman Catholic Church is always recruiting Templars of any nationality down in Redeemer’s Keep, while the Latin American Catholic Church pays top dollar for recruits with any skills in New Sonora, though they’ll both work you hard and often.”

“You trying to tell me something?” Misreading my intentions, Errol gets wrapped up in his wranglers and shoots me a scowl. “If you got a problem with us, then just say it out loud.”

“My problem is you both too good to be wasted riding shotgun beside me.” Giving him my best and most earnest smile, I gesture over at Sarah Jay. “For starters, you both stepped out to help me against the harpies without asking. You might not think it’s much, but it’s more than what most would do. You saw how empty them streets were. Folks who live here ain’t willing to risk their lives to protect it, not unless they forced to, but you was out there with me. As for potential, I already hyped you up, but Sarah Jay’s got you beat. I ain’t just talking about her dead-eye shot, which is impressive enough. She also got a classic type A personality. Ambitious, competitive, and aggressive, not to mention organized and eager. Bet it was her idea to show up first thing in the morning, wasn’t it?” Errol nods, and I give myself a figurative pat on the back. “Well, she’ll make rank wherever she goes, I can guarantee that. You, they’ll keep low on the totem pole, because they’ll want you in the messiest fights, but her? Sharpshooters are usually first in line for command promotion, because whoever’s shaping the battlefield should either be calling the shots or close to whoever is.”

“Then it sounds like you’re getting a good deal.” Errol’s trying to be cavalier about it, but he wants this job bad. Probably because he don’t know how it really is out there.

“It does,” I say, carefully so as not to excite him too much, “But what I’m trying to say is that you got options. Better options if I’m being honest.” Maybe a little hope is warranted, since he don’t seem to care too much about signing on with a different military outfit. “Look, if I’m being totally honest, I might as well go full hog. I threw out the idea of putting together a crew just yesterday morning. Haven’t even given it much thought, just figured it was something I could do. You know why? Because I just done got home with a Bolt hole in my shoulder.”

That gets him blinking, but I push on before he can ask any questions. “Not from no Abby neither, and I ain’t got no one to blame but myself. Got chewed out too, called irrational, foolhardy, and reckless, and the worst part was I couldn’t disagree. I’m barely keeping my own head above water out there, so I ain’t confident about keeping you both afloat too.”

Errol takes a moment to process what I’ve said, and I leave him to it while packing mags. Instead of saying anything, he hands me the El-minister and nods downrange at the one paper target that has yet to be shot. “Show me what you got, Firstborn,” he says, and I figure we done talking. Taking aim, I squeeze off the first Bolt, adjust, then unload another nine in quick succession. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, Errol squints for a while before asking, “How many times you miss? I can only see a couple hits.”

“Ha. As if.” Can’t cast Eagle Eye on him without making use of my boot, as that’s another self-targeted Spell, and it takes some getting used to anyways. Instead, I reach into my duster pocket and grab the 2.5x scope attachment that came with the El-minister rifle. Wasn’t holding it back out of malice, as you ain’t allowed a scope for Basic or Marksman shooting tests, and Errol takes it in stride. Then he lets out a whistle of appreciation, as he spots my handiwork, a spray pattern of ten hits no bigger than a fist, which has more or less punched a single, large hole in the target, one no bigger than a fist.

“How you get so good?”

“Practice.” To elaborate, I remember what Tim taught me about sharpshooting. “When you look at the target down your sights, envision where your Bolt is gonna go. Then take the shot. Compare it with the picture you had in mind, and adjust accordingly to how off you are. Keep the same perspective from shot to shot, your hands steady, and don’t fight the recoil. Absorb it.” All sounds simple enough, but it’s surprising how few people can manage it. They just take shots without thinking, trying to get a ‘feel’ for the gun, which sometimes works, but sometimes don’t.

“Well, there you go.” Now its my turn to blink as Errol explains, “You said you’re in over your head.” Wasn’t what I said, but I’ll let it pass. “If that’s true, then no one could make it out there. I’ve been hearing stories about the Firstborn before I even got off the boat, but I thought they were all bullshit.” Giving me a look to convey his sincerity, he says, “Not anymore. Way I see it, if you’re having trouble keeping afloat, only reason I can think of is because you’ve been going at it alone. As for me, seeing how you’ve treated us already, and how concerned you are with our well being, I’d rather sign on with you than try my luck with the Pathfinders or the Church, and I know Sarah Jay feels the same. As for the last bit, if you don’t have a plan in place, then we’ll work it out as we go. Simple as that.”

That… don’t sound like a terrible idea. I can pick their brains for their thoughts and lay out exactly how bad things are, but I still think they’d be better off with the Rangers. Left with no other choice, I risk it and say, “What if I could get you back into Basic? I didn’t want to say nothing, because I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I was already fixing to do what I can. If that don’t work, I got a bit of pull with the Pathfinders, and you being local to the Plains would help too.”

Errol don’t even think about it, as he’s already shaking his head. “No need. Thanks, but no thanks. Sarah Jay wants to stay local, so the Pathfinders are a bust, and as for the Rangers… well, way we left things, I wouldn’t go back even if they asked me to.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

He goes quiet for a moment, before finding the words to answer. “Told you I wasn’t gonna repeat what Richard said, because it was ugly. You don’t seem to get it, so I’ll say a little bit. He called Sarah Jay a ‘race traitor’ for ‘consorting with lesser folk’, and that’s the polite version. Said in a ‘righteous’ world, they’d string us both up by the nearest tree and call it justice.” Ah. So it was one of those arguments, which Errol did a terrible job of conveying beforehand, but I don’t interrupt and let him vent a bit more. “After I beat him, I told him that if he ever talked to Sarah Jay like that again, then he’d be the one hanging from a tree, and I damn well meant it.” Meeting my eyes with a bitter and angry gaze, he says, “Wasn’t surprised when they washed me out, but the fact that they kept Richard on?” Errol shakes his head and deflates in place, the anger melting away to reveal just how disappointed he is.

A feeling I know all too well. Marshal Ellis is a good man, but he ain’t calling all the shots no more. Been that way a while now, but I reckon I been in denial for a long time. I still believe in him and his vision for the Frontier, but I also know he’s a soldier first. He’ll obey his orders, even if he don’t like them, because that’s what a good soldier does. Still, I ain’t ever known him to tolerate that level of racism. Some measure of it, you can’t avoid, but in the Rangers, you’re a soldier first and only. Skin colour don’t matter, because you are all brothers and sisters in arms. It ain’t like Errol’s the first black person to sign on either, as the Rangers got folks of all colours, so I don’t see why the Marshal would give an outspoken peckerwood a pass.

No sense guessing though, not when I can go straight to the source. “Okay,” I say, handing Errol the rifle back. “I ain’t against taking you both on, but we’ll talk about it first, make sure you know what you’re signing on for. I don’t want y’all to be going in blind. It’ll be dangerous work, with no safety net, not like you’d have with a military outfit. What’s more, it’ll just be us three out there to start.” Because I can’t afford to outfit more than two prospects, not without draining my funds dry. Even if we hunt Abby to raise more, it’ll take at least a season or two to recoup my investment, unless we get real lucky or I can bag that Proggy up in Pleasant Dunes, but that don’t seem like a smart move anymore.

“Then I guess we better come up with a good plan,” Errol says, shrugging all too casually for my tastes. Then again, how many times have I done the same when others have been concerned with my safety? “Besides, it’s not like joining the Rangers has any guarantee of safety. They gave us a similar spiel as the one you just sold us before signing on.”

“Fair enough.” Patting Errol’s shoulder, I leave him to his shooting practice and head back to Chrissy and Cowie. Not gonna lie, I’m a little lost right now, because Errol’s right. I do need the help, and they real promising prospects to take on, but while I’m confident I can keep myself alive well enough, I got no assurances of doing the same for them. So I guess the question is, if it comes right down to it, can I live with their deaths on my conscience?

Taking a seat on the grass next to Chrissy, I share in her elation as she points out another new animal and continues to bob in time with the music, and I realize yea, I can. Because if Errol and Sarah Jay die getting me home to the people I love, then that’s a price I’m willing to pay any day of the week. Cold is what it is, downright frosty, but so long as I do right by them, then my conscience stays clean.

That’s life on the Frontier though. We’ve all lost something dear, and we’re all fighting to keep what we have. Win or lose, there ain’t nothing we can do except grit our teeth and press on.

No matter the cost.