Firstborn of the Frontier

Growing up on the Frontier means making peace with change.

There’s good reason for it, as things move fast out here. The first wave of settlers showed up with little more than what they could carry inside their heads. A rough start to be sure, but they had plenty of knowledge squirreled away to help them survive in this hostile, Abby infested world, albeit one far more dangerous than they expected. Lots of settlers have died to get us this far, and we’ll lose plenty more during the Watershed before the second wave of settlers arrive, but we’ve made a fair shake of things as far as I can tell.

Technologically speaking, we’ve made huge strides in progress over a short a period of time, but the nature of that progression is inconsistent at best. That’s why I say life moves fast, because every now and then, we hit a breakpoint that sends us hurtling forward in terms of development, a big step up that changes everything. Ain’t always a matter of tech either, as discovering new things about the Frontier could change things too. Taming mundane cattle of the local variety enabled us to clear more forest and plough more dirt for farms, while horses enabled folks to travel farther and faster, especially after the Rangers switched focus from building walls to building roads. Finding a big copper vein in Mount Rimepeak set off a boom in arcana-tech development as we turned that copper into wires and all manner of other technological doodads needed to make better use of certain Spell Cores, many of which require a good deal of fine tuning.

Still remember a time when we had to cart water up from the lake, and now we get it piped directly into our houses. Yea, we’ve taken a good number of big steps forward along the way, like crystal diodes for Radios, Aether-suspension matrices for storing Spells, Aetheric dynamos for powering pumps, machines, and other arcana-technological marvels like the Spell Cores I got on my wagon. From what I hear, there’s still plenty more to come, and lotta folks are looking forward to seeing what the second wave of settlers bring with them in terms of progress. Me, I don’t see what all the fuss is about, as we been progressing through all of human history here on the Frontier and have caught up with the early 1900’s, if not the mid. In comparison, how much progress could the old world have possibly made in that same amount of time, from 1989 to 2006?

Hardly nothing would be my guess, and most certainly nothing that’ll change much, not like what I’ve already been through before.

Like when we stopped bartering and switched over to cash, which was a mind-blowing shift in perception to experience first hand. We went from trading things of value, like hides and meat for Aberrtin and Aether, to selling our goods and labour for stacks of paper. Fancy paper, with Arcane Marks and serial numbers and whatnot to keep folk from counterfeiting them, but still paper in the end. In my mind, it was madness, because why would anyone even want some pretty painted papers that weren’t nothing more than a promise?

And yet people went mad for them papers, myself included.

Thankfully, Marshal Ellis saw the writing on the wall, and being the good man that he is, he worked real hard to make sure everyone knew not to exchange all their precious commodities for cash, which was neither cold nor hard. Time was when a single dollar bill was enough to feed a family of four for a week, but nowadays, you’d be pressed to make it stretch a meal, much less a day. Economics is some tricksy magics it is, and I done heard horror stories of how poorly the cash-rollout was handled in other places, with people trading everything they couldn’t use for cash, only to find out a week later that the buying power of their currency had already halved. That’s without going into the unscrupulous sorts who took advantage of good-natured folk. None of that happened here in New Hope though, no siree. “Cash is for spending,” the Marshal said, those exact words, “So only trade for as much as you need, and spend it right away.”

Words I took to heart when I spent my first dollar at Miss Dawson’s shop, then proceeded to eat candy until I threw up. Had to eat it quick, I thought, because I was afraid she’d want it all back once she came to her senses and realized cash was a stupid concept.

Not so stupid after all, but I still can’t really wrap my head around it. Cash still spends good though, and there’s so much more to spend it on, which is why I’m always looking to earn big. With how fast life moves, you can almost always find something new and improved every time you visit a vendor, and it pays to keep ahead of the curve. Thing is, it costs big money to stay ahead, and while I got some idea of the changes coming in the pipeline, I can’t predict everything. This is a new world with new resources, so who knows what new toys and gadgets we might come up with? Means putting in the work to check shops every few weeks or so and sniff out what’s over the horizon. Living in New Hope makes it easy though, as we something of a travel hub and almost always hear about new technology first, since this is where folks bring it to sell. Assuming it wasn’t made right here in town to begin with, as we got plenty of Artisans, Artificers, Alchemists, and Arcana-technicians calling this place home. Gives them easy access to materials, customers, and all the factories across the lake in Riverrun for employment or custom orders, without having to suffer the stench and noise all that manufacturing makes.

The main thoroughfare is where most shops do their business, and since I plan on picking up a good number of things to outfit my prospects, I head out to get the wagon ready. Ignoring Tina’s pleading gaze for as long as I can, I eventually cave and help her finish her chores so she can come along with Chrissy. Social butterfly that she is, Tina stops to chat with everyone we come across along the main thoroughfare, which is fine by me as I don’t got to do more than smile and wave, but it makes my prospects visibly impatient. They eager to see what I got in mind for them, and no matter how often Sarah Jay asks, I refuse to say anything until we get there.

I do love to tease, which is why my first stop ain’t the gun shop, or any actual shop, but rather the hospital off the main thoroughfare. With Chrissy’s hand in mine, I lead the way of our little chain, as she’s holding Tina’s hand too, who’s got Sarah Jay and in turn has Errol. A strange quintet we are indeed, but I ain’t ever been shy, so I smile brightly at all the inquiring looks. My goal ain’t the hospital proper, which is a dreary place what with all the sick and injured, but rather the house next door, where the chief medico of New Hope keeps open office hours. “Howdy, Uncle Art!” I call, just shortly after I let myself in through his front door. “How’s tricks?”

For a medico, Uncle Art don’t take all that great care of his own health, what with his soft, round belly and weathered, wrinkled skin. To be fair, he’s a fair shake older than Tim and Aunty Ray, being all of fifty-two. Makes him one of the oldest settlers on the Frontier, because they didn’t let no one over thirty-five step through the Gate. Art Harding was a bonafide doctor back in the old world, and even served on the frontlines as a battlefield surgeon, but he only ever uses all his knowledge to keep other folks alive, instead of practicing what he preaches. Poor fitness aside, he’s still a large and robust man, sitting upright at his desk poring over his notes with his reading glasses on and a cigar between his lips. Scowling is his default expression, one which deepens as he shoots me a frown from between his small, narrowed eyes. “Howie,” he says, not so much a greeting as it is a curse. “What you want now?”

He's got that southern drawl, but more city than rural according to Aunty Ray. Far as I can tell, that means he’s more direct, pronounces most his syllables, and don’t use none them folksy sayings that I do so love. “Tell me Uncle Art,” I say, sauntering over with a grin, “Am I mistaken, or was there a time when you used to greet me with a smile? I distinctly remember you having one, a smile that is, but I can’t picture what it looks like no more.”

“Yea, I used to smile.” Running a big hand over his bald, lumpy head, he scowls even harder as if upset by his findings. Man’s got a hairline so far back he’s gotta lean forward to show off his widow’s peak, and keeps what little grey hair he got left cut down to a stubble. Should keep it clean shaven like his chin, which he ought to shave less to hide his sagging jowls and weak chin. “And you used to be round and cute.”

“Fair enough, Uncle Art, fair enough.” Smiling as I introduce Errol and Sarah Jay, I let Uncle Art greet them each in his own way, with indifference for my new crew, a gruff nod for Tina, and big, warm smile for Chrissy and baby Cowie. Letting go of our hands, Chrissy steps around the table to give the old medico a hug, and he even puts his cigar aside for her. All his bile and bluster is just a front, his sourpuss bedside manner a ploy to keep him from getting too invested in the patients he treats. A necessity for any practicing medico out here on the Frontier, as there ain’t all that much he can do to save anyone. Even a minor infection can grow into a serious problem, because he don’t got the right tech for early diagnosis and only a few medicines to treat it. Much of his medical knowledge regarding treatments doesn’t apply because the Frontier don’t have the same plants and materials to derive pharmaceutical or alchemical concoctions from, meaning amputation plays a big part in medical treatment. That’s why Uncle Art’s spent the last seventeen years on medical research, and far as I can tell, he’s the foremost medical expert here on the Frontier and a top ten Alchemist to boot.

Medicine ain’t ever been an interest of mine, but I do find it fascinating on a superficial level. Medical Magic ain’t all that advanced for many reasons, chief among them being the body’s natural resistance and magic’s inability to affect lasting changes on the physical world. We got Spells to suture wounds for a period of time, splint broken bones, and improve the body’s natural healing by a tad bit, but nothing so fantastical as regrowing limbs or mending grievous bodily harm in the blink of an eye. That means most of Uncle Art’s healing efforts are mundane in nature, but to my untrained eyes, medical science just seems like another form of magic. How else would you explain how he can look you in the eyes, check your pulse, ask two or three questions, then know exactly how to fix what ails you, all without casting a single Spell?

When he’s done catching up with Chrissy and making sure her condition ain’t deteriorating, Uncle Art’s warm smile melts back into a scowl once the cigar hits his lips. “You never did answer me Howie,” he says, regarding me with suspicion that ain’t entirely unjust. “You here to bother me about Impact Oil again? I told you before and I’ll tell you again, I will not sell you explosives.”

“That’s not why I’m here Uncle Art, though I still don’t see the harm in selling me a vial or two.” I can do more damage slinging Spells than with any stupid grenade or claymore, but somehow they’re too dangerous for me to have. “I just came by to say hi and pick your brain about first-aid supplies.”

“For your new crew here? Or did you use up everything you had keeping your brains from leaking out your ears?” Sweetheart that he is, Uncle Art don’t say nothing about me getting shot, or curse me out for being a fool. Only because Chrissy is here though, which is why I made sure to bring her, and I can tell it irks him something fierce. He’s also one of the founders of New Hope, and I owe him my life alongside Aunty Ray. While she kept me fed and alive, he made sure I was healthy and stayed that way, what with complications being what they are in a pre-mature baby. Even though they was out in the badlands exploring the Divide, Uncle Art made sure to check on me every hour for two weeks, sleeping in short bursts in between. If that don’t tell you the character of the man, then nothing will. True to his nature, he puts on a show of being all reluctant and surly, but he moves right quick towards his supplies to pick out what I might need. “At this rate, you’re gonna make me a rich man, Howie,” he says, speaking over his shoulder. “Is that what you’re doing? Taking care of an old fart in his twilight years? If so, you could always save me the work and give me the cash instead of jumping through all these extra hoops.”

Meaning getting shot and all that. “Ain’t got cash to spare for anything besides supplies, but I did bring you a gift.” Gesturing for the package I asked Errol to carry in, I unwrap the bottle of Métis whiskey and hand it over. Quick as a blink, Uncle Art makes his way over to my side and uncorks the bottle with his teeth. Giving the alcohol a good whiff, he has himself a little taste which he swishes around in his mouth. Seeing the judgement etched on my face, he reluctantly spits the whiskey out into his coffee cup, but I know he just gonna drink it once we leave. Never one to miss a chance to push his buttons, I shake my head and say, “Can’t understand all the fuss about whiskey, much less whiskey and coffee.”

Drawing himself up to full 6’2 height, Uncle Art wags his finger at me with a stern look. “See, now I know you trying to aggravate me. You know good and well there ain’t a drop of coffee in my cup. It’s chicory tea, which I admit got that coffee taste, but none of the caffeine. That’s the real reason why anyone drinks coffee, to stay awake while listening to one your boring tangents.” Waving me off in a huff, he holds up the bottle to admire the label. “Good whiskey though, I’ll give you that. You didn’t drink any, did you? Law says eighteen to drink, though most really ought to wait till twenty-one. Twenty-five would be best, as that’s when most brains are done developing. Granted, with you Howie, I’d say that’s ship’s long since sailed, but that only makes it all the more important to preserve what few brain cells you got left.”

Laughing off his payback for my comment about coffee, I shake my head. “Nah, didn’t drink none of that whiskey.” Did have a glass of moonshine, though I could have done without. Stupid Ron. “No idea why any of you drink. Tastes like medicine and makes you act the fool. Native American Frank clued me into this batch though, guaranteed it wouldn’t disappoint.”

“Now why you gotta go and keep calling him that?” Putting the cork back into the bottle, he sets it aside on his desk while launching into his tirade. “How many Franks you know? Exactly one, same as me, so why can’t you just call him Frank?”

“Because he insists I acknowledge his heritage.” On account of how uncomfortable it makes most Americans, who make a big fuss about proper language when it comes to issues of race. Frank’s a funny guy, a Métis who used to live here in New Hope, but moved north to join his people some years back. Credit where it’s due, at least most white Americans make a show of attempting to combat racism, though not effectively as far as I can tell. Inclusive language ain’t gonna make the likes of little Dick accept Errol as a fellow American, so best zap that cancer right quick. “Anyway,” I say, shaking off any thoughts of doling out Frontier Justice, “I got five more in the wagon, so if you could make sure three bottles get to the Marshal without him learning where it come from, I’d be much obliged.” Because selling alcohol to a minor is illegal and it’d upset him something fierce if he found out I was technically bootlegging, even if only in the loosest sense of the term.

“Sure Howie, I can do that.”

All of a sudden, Uncle Art’s tone turns all cordial and such, so I gotta add, “Native American Frank sent the Marshal a bottle before, said he heard back good things, which is why I bought the case.” As expected, Uncle Art’s expression deflates a bit, because now he can’t switch out the whiskey. Means he must really like it, so I promise to pick up another six bottles so long as he still got a full bottle in two weeks. Man drinks like a fish, never to excess where he’ll slur much less stumble, but still more than you’d expect from a medico. It ain’t about getting drunk, but reclaiming some of the finer things he left behind in the old world, and I can’t say I blame him one bit.

Another reason why I could never bring myself to settle a new world, because I’d miss having hot showers too much. Was ten years old before New Hope got indoor plumbing set up, and some still don’t got it out here. I ain’t about to suffer through a decade of cold showers, no sir, not for all the Aether in the world.

Buoyed by the promise of more whiskey, Uncle Art gets right down to brass tacks. “Alright,” he says, with a clap of his hands. “Two more personal first aid kits, and I’m thinking you can add a few more things to the one you keep in the wagon, since you’ll have someone else to help you out. Either of you two know any first aid?” The last is directed at Errol and Sarah Jay, who only have what little they learned in their short time at Basic, which is pretty much nothing. “Alright, come back this afternoon and I’ll give you a crash course before supper,” Uncle Art says, after getting the answers he needs from my prospects. “We’ll see how much you need to learn to keep yourselves ali – afloat.”

Art goes on for a bit, but it’s all old hat to me, so I smile and nod along. There’s nothing too out of the ordinary to pick up here, mostly tweezers, splints, needles, sutures, tourniquets, antiseptics, and analgesics. Clean bandages too, though Art also makes it a point to throw in sunscreen, lotion, and this vapor rub my daddy came up with that does wonders with sore muscles, like those you might get from riding all day every day. Don’t cost too much neither, even after I make sure Uncle Art’s charging me full price and ain’t giving me the friends and family discount. He works hard enough as it is, and I can afford the extra expense, so why not make sure it’s my friends getting paid?

After everyone files out, I grab the case of whiskey from my wagon and two bacon buttered biscuits wrapped in paper too, now that I know the coast is clear. His wife Rita’s been making him cut down on grease lately, and not for any real health reason. She just think fatty foods are the devil’s work and loves her husband dearly, but I do too and cannot abide to see him suffer. Accepting the offering with a gratified smile, Uncle Art keeps me a moment longer to wrap me in a big old bear hug, which I suffer through gamely. It ain’t so bad, as he got a fresh, earthy smell under the cigar smoke, as he’s probably been puttering about his herb garden all morning. “I expect to see more of that whiskey next time you come around,” he says, though his gentle tone tells me this ain’t about whiskey at all. “A whole case you said, and I know your daddy raised a man who keeps his word.”

“Will do, Uncle Art.”

“Now, this is by no means an endorsement of whatever it is you planning,” he says, talking right over me as he grabs a little wooden box from the shelf and opens it up to show me the contents, “But I figured you could use these.”

Peering down at eight vials of clear, bright green liquid, I feel my hopes deflate before I even had a chance to make a wish. “This ain’t Impact Oil,” I say, which earns me a sharp knock on the head.

“Course it isn’t,” Uncle Art says, scowling up a storm. “You aren’t responsible enough for Impact Oil. Don’t matter if you can do worse slinging Spells. With Spells, you can take the time to consider your actions, a whole two and a half seconds at least. With Impact Oil, it’s gone the second it leaves your hand, and when you holding a vial, you best bet you’ll feel incentivized to be rid of it.”

True, but that don’t much change my thoughts on the matter, so I get back to the topic at hand. “So what’re these then?”

“Vials of Alchemical Acid.” Giving me a knowing look before I can even think of playing innocent, Art says, “Shut up. I know you already got your mind made up, and I also know you as stubborn as a mule and twice as stupid, so there’s no point arguing. I’m just giving you these vials in case you should need them, like if you come across an armoured bugbear during your travels sometime. Toss the vial and the acid inside will melt down its chitinous armour plates, leaving you free to fill it with Bolts and send it on its way.”

Seems Art expects me to sneak on back to Pleasant Dunes, but in my defense, I really wasn’t planning to until I talked to Tim. There’s no point saying as much, or even denying it, so instead, I give him another hug and ask, “How much?”

“It’s a gift.”

“I got money.”

“Just take it.”

“No, seriously, I can pay.”

“Fine. A Benjamin ought to cover it.”

“A hundred dollars?!” Eyes wide with disbelief, I look at the eight vials and back up at Uncle Art. “These are $12.50 a pop? At those rates, I’d could kill eight bugbears and end up seventy-five dollars in debt. Maybe more, as the acid eats away at Aberrtin and Spell Cores too.”

“You’re the one who insisted on paying, and that’s fair market price.” Uncle Art shrugs, but I know he smiling inside, happy to have gotten one over the Firstborn. “It’s okay Howie, your Uncle Art got this. You just run along and get back to your friends. And remember, say no to drugs, even combat drugs. They haven’t been tested and they’re probably addictive, so don’t go trying nothing besides alcohol and tobacco. Liver failure and lung cancer we can fix, but the other stuff’ll have you scratching your own skin off.”

“I know, I know,” I reply, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. Ask the man a few questions, bring him a couple samples, and all of a sudden he thinks I’m jonesing to sniff, snort, or shoot up anything I can get my hands on. A hundred dollars lighter, I leave Uncle Art’s house in a bit of a huff, though I can’t say I ain’t grateful. Alchemical Acid is expensive because it’s difficult and dangerous to make, what with the loss of Spirit and corrosive fumes and whatnot. Uncle Art’s got it on lockdown of course, but his time would be better spent doing almost anything else, like saving lives or researching combat drugs and seeing what he can do to make them safe, but it ain’t that simple. He’s got none of the labs or testing facilities or even a viable pool of test subjects to research, which means he’s looking for a needle in a haystack with a bag over his head and both hands tied behind his back.

Found all that out when I got my hands on some drugs and brung them to his attention last year, as I was looking for an edge since my daddy wasn’t around no more. I ain’t no fool though. I heard all the stories of what happened to the soldiers during the second World War. They got all hopped up on Slaught, Brave, Daemon Dust, and more while fighting in the trenches, and those who survived fared worse than the ones who died. That’s how it was with the lab-tested drugs from the old world, so I wasn’t about to try anything available here on the Frontier. They all brand spanking new with no real research or testing behind them, which is why I brung it to Art in the first place. I seen enough strung-out addicts to know I don’t ever want to go down that route, because even if it makes the difference between life or death, I might end up with a life that ain’t worth living.

Thankfully, Uncle Art had a wild side back when he was young and didn’t tell no one about my curiosity. Just scared me straight is all, which I appreciate, because it meant he wasn’t treating me with no kid’s gloves.

The next stop is the tailors, where we get Errol fitted for some new clothes. Even though Aunty Ray said he could keep Uncle Raleigh’s old things, I know she’s hurting emotionally from the loss, so I figure the sooner we get Errol his own threads, the sooner she can get them back. For boots and a jacket, the Ranger issue gear ought to be good enough for Errol and Sarah Jay both, while the latter got enough of her own clothes to get by for now. Course, the Ranger gear ain’t Augmented like mine, but I ain’t ready to shell out big like that just yet. Or ever, in fact, as they can save their dollars and get their own magic gear for themselves, unless we mesh well in the field and strike it big right quick.

It ain’t callousness or greediness which keeps me from gearing them out to the gills, but simple economics. I can afford Imbued and Augmented gear, or I can buy Aetherarms. One or the other, and the best defense is a good offense, so I suppose my two prospects will just have to get good and avoid getting hit.

After the issue of clothes is settled, I bring everyone over to Danny’s, which is also on the main thoroughfare, though not as popular as the other stores. Mostly because he’s is only sixteen and looks maybe fourteen, but he does good work and keeps his finger on the pulse of all recent technological developments. “Hey Danny,” I say, giving him a smile as he looks up from his workbench, which is tucked into the back corner of the store. “How’s tricks?”

Taking his goggles off and losing them in his rat’s nest of curly red locks, Danny brings his big ears over to the counter with a grin. A trio of four-legged contraptions follow him over, their metallic limbs tip-tapping on the glass counter, the clay brick walls, and the wooden roof respectively, not a single one in the same orientation as the others. Don’t look like much besides four spindly legs built around a chonky tube of a body, one no bigger than my hand, but Danny built a bunch of powered gizmos into them. “Same old,” he replies, stopping me from flicking his little skitterbots like usual, because I just love watching them try to dodge and stay upright. “C’mon Howie, cut it out. They’re delicate instruments, not toys to amuse you.”

“Then why you gotta make ‘em look so fun?” Leaning over the counter, I clock Danny’s goofy grin and bright red complexion, which is hard to miss on his pale, fair self. I also know it’s because of Tina, who’s busy inspecting some hunk of metal and not noticing a thing, so I do my best not to laugh. “Give it up, Loverboy,” I whisper, and Danny turns even redder. “Ain’t worth it, as there’s more to a girl than looks. She’s scatterbrained and helpless. Can’t cook to save her life or remember to separate her colours and whites, and would spend all her days out and about if you let her. I know that ain’t your speed, so you ought to fix your sights on someone of like mind, maybe even someone close to home who’s already expressed interest.”

“What? Who?” Danny asks, all bright and chipper like only a girl-crazy boy can manage, and somehow concludes that I’m talking about Sarah Jay.

“No, not her,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m talking about little Josie. You know, the half-Latina girl? Tiny little thing with short hair, big doe eyes, and likes to wear long, colourful ribbons in her hair?” All starched up to the point where they almost rabbit ears, which is adorable as all heck. No horns, which is a big part of what gives them bicorn bunnies their charms, though I suppose little Josie’s snaggletooth might count for a fang. Seeing Danny’s deadpan expression, I shake my head and say, “Oh come on! You ain’t noticed? Almost every time I drop by, I seen her mosey on in with the worst excuses to make conversation. She’s interested Danny, wants to talk to you but is too shy to approach alone, so you ought to ask her out for an ice cream sometime.”

“Howie,” Danny says, giving me that look I sometimes give idiot outlaws who’re too dumb to leave alive. “Josie isn’t shy. She comes in here to talk to you.”

“Wha – ” Stopping myself short, I tilt my head and go back over my memories, only to reach the same conclusion as Danny. “Ah. Fudge nuggets.” Josie’s cute as a button, but only fourteen going on fifteen, and is way too girly and giggly for my tastes. “You sure? My bad Danny. Still think you should ask her out. Or someone at least. Can’t spend all your time cooped up in the shop, tinkering all your youth away.”

He shrugs and doesn’t say anything, but I can see the bitter weariness in his eyes. See, Danny learned everything he knows about arcana-tech from his daddy, one Lee Berner, a brilliant man who was almost as old as Art. Lost him little over a year ago to Cholera, which he got from a bad batch of ale. Most shook it right off bounced right back, but not poor Mr. Berner. Now Danny here is the sole breadwinner of the family, working hard to keep the shop his daddy built, which also doubles as their home upstairs. Town’s got measures in place to make sure no one goes without, so they ain’t in danger of starving or being left on the streets, but buildings on the main throughfare are heavily taxed for the sake of maintenance, commerce, and defense. If Danny can’t keep up, he’ll have to move to another district along with his mama and sisters. Even if he comes up with the money to buy this building back later on down the line, the new owners ain’t liable to sell, so he’s doing everything he can to hold onto what he’s got, and I try to help out as much as I can.

Which is real easy, since Danny here is a top notch Artificer, someone who straddles the line between Artisan, Alchemist, and Arcana-technician. An Artisan is a craftsman who Imbues or Augments their creations with magic, like a magic sword, duster, or amulet, while an Alchemist does the same with alchemical concoctions. An Arcana-technician on the other hand is someone who works with arcane circuits, a broad, catch-all term that has plenty of room for specialization. They’re designers for the most part, folks who come up with schematics and blueprints for working tech, but less hands on as they mostly deal with the theoretical. As for Artificers like Danny, they take those blueprints, alchemical concoctions, and artisanal creations, then put it all together to make stuff like guns or my wagon. The frame itself is mundane, but all the bits and pieces like the Silent Image projector and the Floating Disc boosters were initially designed by arcana-technicians and make use of alchemy, Imbuements, and Augmentations. Makes Artificers something of a handyman, or a jack of all trades, though most typically contract out the necessary parts they can’t make themselves.

In short, Artificing is a broad field of practical study, and Danny’s daddy was my daddy’s first choice for all his Artificing needs, and I go to Danny for mine. They were the ones who put my wagon together, which is more complicated than it sounds given how many arcano-doodads I got hidden under the hood and the modular nature of their installations. Danny also installed the Big Stick up top too, all by his lonesome after his daddy passed, and he built my speakers to boot, which is largely why I stopped in. “How long you think it’ll take you to whip up another set of speakers?” I ask. “Looking to get another pair, maybe even two if you got time. Standalone and durable, as they might be left outside, and make sure that sand ain’t gonna be an issue either.”

“Sand?” Scratching his hair, Danny shrugs and says, “Er, yea sure. I can have them for you day after tomorrow. How’s… fifty bucks for two sets?”

“You sure that’s enough?” Fifty bucks ain’t a small amount, but it ain’t huge either, and Danny sticks to his guns and nods. Pulling out a crisp fifty from my dwindling stack of cash, I look around the store and ask, “Got anything new worth looking at?”

“Yea. Mr. Hayes came in yesterday and picked up two boxes of these.” Ducking down under the counter, Danny pulls out a case of twenty spherical, cloudy grey orbs, all polished and smooth and maybe half the size of a baseball. They each got a tiny round shard of yellow crystal on them, like nipples on a bunch of stony boobs, which is good for a laugh, but not one I care to share out loud in present company.

“Weirds me out when you call him Mr. Hayes,” I say, noting Tina and Chrissy’s fascination with the objects for reasons dissimilar to my own. Now Tina, she’s just naturally curious, but most objects don’t catch Chrissy’s attention like that, not unless they got some magic about them. “Just call him Tim like everyone else.” Reaching for one of the boob rocks, I carefully lift it without touching the crystal. Releasing my hand, Chrissy reaches out to take one too, but I gently stop her and let her look at the one I got instead. Sweet girl that she is, she rests her head on my shoulder and stares, her pale, lilac eyes fixated on the orb. “So uh,” I ask, resisting the urge to sit down and go through the whole hum-drum Ritual of casting Detect Magic, Analyze Object, and every other Divination Spell I got in my Spellbook. “What is it?”

“A flashbang.” Soon as the words are out of Danny’s mouth, I move the box so I’m standing between it and Chrissy, because in my experience, there ain’t nothing safe with anything that goes bang. Looking a little sheepish for not warning me sooner, Danny scratches his nose and takes the rock out of my extended hand. “It’s safe. Non-lethal and non reactive. You prime it by activating the crystal for a full second, same way you would with any other tech, then throw it. On impact, it’ll break to release a bright flash and a loud bang, blinding and deafening anything nearby.”

“Oh, sounds fun!” Plopping both elbows on the counter, Tina grabs a flashbang and looks it over with wide-eyed fascination, wholly unaware of the effect she’s having on poor Danny, who’s cheeks are redder than his hair now that Tina’s face is so close. “It ain’t a proper Spell stored inside,” she says. “Too loose and unorganized. Not alchemical either, but I like how it swells and jiggles, like watery jello.”

No idea what she’s going on about, and Danny’s working too hard not to stare at Tina’s face to find it in him to speak. As for me, I’m busy quashing my jealousy over how Tina can just sense the magic in the stone, while I gotta use my Spells for it. It ain’t familiarity with Divination Spells that lets her do it either, as all Innates got some measure of sensitivity to magic. That’s why Chrissy loves looking at Photographs, because she’s seeing the magic of the projection on top of the actual image, which makes it… more. Not brighter or louder or anything like that, just ‘more’, an extra helping of sensation that pairs with a sense I don’t have. That’s how Aunty Ray explained it at least, said it’d be like trying to describe sounds to a deaf person, and I envy them the ability something fierce.

Ain’t fair is what it is. Even a Detect Magic Spell don’t give me that much information, and that’s specifically designed to mimic an Innate’s intuitive senses.

When Danny finally finds his voice again, he explains, “It’s a bit of magic and alchemy both. There’s a suspended alchemical amalgam inside the orb, and I cast the Light and Daze Cantrips on it. It doesn’t preserve the Spells like an Aether-suspension matrix would, but rather absorbs and amplifies the effect. The Cantrips become a part of the amalgam, which is stable until you prime the crystal. This agitates the liquid inside which degrades the casing shell, making it brittle and soft. Then, when the amalgam is exposed to oxygen, it reacts to produce a blinding light and deafening noise, hence flashbang. Don’t ask how or why, because I don’t know. Dad’s notes only listed the recipe without any real explanation. Works great though. They’re tuned to be loud and disorienting without causing damage to hearing to get around the Hearing Protection Cantrip. Single use and works best in a dark enclosed room. Not entirely sure of their effective range, but outdoors and under the sun, it’ll have to go off really close, like five metres from your target. Maybe less.”

Even with all those downsides, Danny had this sale locked down at ‘flashbang’, so I stop him before he gets too into the nitty gritty to ask, “How much?”

“Two dollars a piece.” Same as what I got for a bottle of mead, but this seems a lot harder to put together than honey, fruit, water, and yeast. Seeing the doubt on my face and mistaking it for reluctance, Danny says, “They’re cheap and simple enough to make once you get the materials, but still takes a careful touch.”

“I believe it Danny, but you sure you ain’t selling yourself short?” Stupid Ron got in my head by paying double for my mead, and now I’m all worried about taking advantage of my friends. Plus, ain’t no arguing how it was a boss move, one I gotta give him respect for.

Blinking like an owl and frowning up a thunderstorm, Danny thinks long and hard before shaking his head. “Nah,” he says, sticking firmly to his guns. “It’s still good profit, so long as I can sell enough of them.”

Meaning he ain’t there yet. “Here’s sixty for the batch,” I say, putting the cash on the counter when Danny hesitates to take it. “If you confident, then make as many as you can and charge the Rangers top dollar for your stock, then sell the process for even more. A percentage even, if you can swing it, because it’ll be well worth it. These flashbangs work like you say they do, then they’ll become a standard part of a Ranger’s kit right quick, and you won’t be able to keep up with demand.” Would be best if Danny went into business for himself, but he ain’t got the capital to open up a workshop and hire people to work under him, not even with a loan. At least if he sells the formula or whatever, he’ll get paid something instead of the nothing he’ll get once the copycats figure out how to duplicate his efforts.

Hopefully, there will be better days ahead for Danny now that he got a real gem in his hands, and I eagerly await to hear what else he got for sale. Unfortunately, he’s gotta let me down gentle with a soft sigh. “It’s not so easy replicating old world tech,” he says, when he sees my disappointment. “Like… you know how we use the clay bricks your mother came up with?” I nod and stand tall with pride, and Danny asks, “Do you know why they were so important? I mean, bricks are simple right? Take clay from a riverbank, shape them in a mould, and bake them. Hardly seems all that difficult.”

I know Danny’s just saying all that to make his point, but I take a lot of pride in my mama’s accomplishments. She was an educated gal, sharp as a tack and a talented Spellcaster to boot. My daddy told me that’s where I get my talents from, but having read everything she wrote down in her journals for me to learn from, I’m guessing I got my smarts from him. Not to say he was dumb or anything, just that I ain’t nowhere near as smart as my mama, and I doubt I ever will be.

Which is why I gotta defend her against Danny’s arguments. “You right about it being simple,” I say, trying not to sound too defensive or worked up, “But simple don’t mean easy, and all bricks ain’t equal. I seen towns where they made bricks which were too soft, so their buildings compressed over time and crumbled within a year or two. Others were too hard and came out brittle, so they didn’t even bother using them. Even saw one unfortunate fellow who made bricks which were too porous, so when the snow came down, the constant melting and freezing made his bricks shatter.” Whole building came down on top of the poor soul, who me and my daddy found a few months later before working out what happened. Never did learn his name though.

“Exactly.” Nodding along and looking confident now that we in his realm, Danny gets all wide-eyed and excited as he gets to talking. “But your mother knew about all those pitfalls and how to navigate around them. She added limestone, iron oxide, and coarse sand to the clay in varying amounts and figured out the right mixture for the clay she had available up in the Emerald Plains. The clay we have here is slightly different, but she documented all her methods and your father copied them to come up with a mass-production method for a brick made from local materials that’s strong, durable, and reliable enough to match anything the old world had. Within a year of the Advent mind you, which is incredible, but for more than one reason.”

Pacing about behind his counter and shadowed by his four-legged skitterbots, Danny grows animated as he says, “See, we had to go through all that trial and effort to get one simple technology down pat, namely bricks. Once we had that though, we were able to build blast furnaces and fill them with coal. This produced coked coal, which when used to fire those same furnaces, turned iron ore into carbonized steel. That steel went into making better tools, which we used to mine ore and coal more effectively, which then went into even better forges to ramp up our steel production. Then and only then could we safely mass manufacturing guns, because we needed a big supply of good, reliable steel to mass-manufacture Aetherarms instead of needing gunsmiths to check, test, and outline each and every part.”

There’s no stopping Danny on a tangent, one I find fascinating even if Errol, Sarah Jay, and Tina are all wearing vacant expressions to match Chrissy’s. “With those Aetherarms,” Danny continues, paying no mind to his audience at all, “The Rangers went out to hunt Aberrations and collect Spell Cores, Aberrtin, Aether, and all the other materials needed to build an Aetheric dynamo. This allowed us convert crystallized Aether into Aetheric energy to power motorized tools, which we again used mine more resources and hunt more Abby, and so on and so forth.” Stopping in his tracks, Danny turns to meet my eyes with an enthused grin and feverish gaze. “All of which we got because your mother figured out how to make proper bricks, among other things. See what I mean? Sure, we have all this advanced knowledge, but we still have to work up to it one step at a time and perfect things along the way, like building a ladder up rung by rung. These flashbangs here? The concept isn’t new, but someone had to work out the best and most cost-effective ways of getting all the required materials before I could put one together. No one wants a flashbang that costs a C-note in material and labour, right?”

I nod, but Danny ain’t even paying attention as he continues, “There a lot of things we can make, but not quickly and easily on a large scale. Like ball bearings, which require a high degree of precision we can’t achieve using mass manufacturing methods just yet, or rubber because we don’t have enough people to grow and harvest the amount we’d need without starving. Aluminum production, railway systems, widescale agricultural development, we have all the knowledge needed to make this and so much more happen, but we’re bottlenecked by two things: ambient Aether levels and available manpower.” Grabbing one of his clacking skitterbots by its tiny torso, Danny turns it upside down to show me it’s belly, which got purple glowing runes Etched all across it. “See that? It’s a tiny Aetheric dynamo, same as the one I installed in your wagon to power your Spell Cores. This one is hundreds of times smaller than the first dynamos we made here on the Frontier yet outputs more energy for the same amount of Aether. Took us fifteen years to get to the point where we could build them this small, but it represents an advance in technology which took two centuries to develop, and still isn’t even close to what was considered cutting edge tech in 1989. This dynamo powers my skitterbots and the stuff on your wagon well enough, but the cost in Aether to produce that power is still too high for widespread, everyday use, almost a one-to-one ratio. Doesn’t scale well, but it’s not that we don’t know how to produce Aetheric energy more efficiently. A single hydro-Aetheric dam or even a coal-fired Aether plant could easily produce energy at ten-thousand times the efficiency or more, and supply enough power for every settlement west of the Divide. It’s the same tech we use in the watermills over in Riverrun to power the factories, just scaled up a hundred times bigger and more efficient. In order to build something like that though, we need more manpower and mechanized machinery, because projects like that took years to complete in the old world with all their infrastructure in place. We’ll take even longer to complete it, but that’s the next big development we’re waiting on, something no one can currently afford. Once a large-scale dynamo comes online however, we’ll catch up to the old world just like that.”

Danny snaps his fingers for effect, except he ain’t all that great at snapping. The excitement drains out of him right quick as he realizes how much he been talking, but I give him a big grin and a slap on the shoulder for support. “Good to know,” I say, before nodding at the upturned skitterbot in his hands to keep the conversation going. “In more practical terms though, I gotta ask. How come you don’t work with a gunsmith and stick some Aetherarms on your leggy contraptions? They can aim and shoot on their own right? I’d pay good money for a little mecha-golem gunslinger.”

“They can shoot, but they’re not golems, so I can’t sell them.” Hiding his embarrassment by writing out a receipt for my speakers and flashbangs, Danny explains, “They’re more like Summoned Creatures than golems. They’re not autonomous, they’re linked to me. I had to divest a portion of my Spirit to Implant each of them with Essence, which is what makes them capable of… not independent thought, but carrying out a limited, pre-programmed set of routines.” Danny’s already lost me, somewhere around autonomous, but he goes on for a bit about algorithms, commands, logic gates, and some Cantrip that’s only function is to denote 1 or 0. Long story short, he can’t sell the skitterbots because they can only take commands from him, as he interfaces with them through his Spirit or Soul or whatever you want to call it. That’s also why he only has three that can only do simple tasks, because any more risks over drafting his Spirit and causing irreparable harm, which no one really wants.

Only ever met one person who over drafted their Spirit, and that’s a fate worse than death. Can’t imagine sitting there for the rest of your years without a single thought inside your head and needing someone to spoon feed you so you don’t starve to death.

Soon as I get a chance to slip a word in edgewise, I ask, “Why can’t you make blanks?” Now it’s Danny’s turn to be confused, and I explain, “You know, like just the framework of the skitterbot, then have someone else inject their own Spirit or whatever? That’s how they get them machines to make Aetherarms, right?”

“Wouldn’t work.” Giving me a shrug, Danny tries to find the words to explain it, but ends up just saying, “Building the pieces, Etching the matrices, and putting it all together is part of the Implanting process. I don’t just build something and inject it with Spirit, it’s more like it’s naturally siphoned off while I put a contraption together.”

That there puts the arcane into arcana-tech, which means it makes about much sense as my rustling jimmies, meaning just enough to leave a man confused. Either way, I accept that there are some things I might well never understand, which is why I stick to just the arcane. Magic and Spell slinging just makes sense to me, in a way I can’t rightly explain, probably the same way tech makes sense to Danny here, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. There’ve been times when I considered trying my hand at crafting, as my mama was something of a craftswoman herself, a brilliant one as far as I can tell, considering how much she accomplished in less than nine months. Thing is, I can’t sit still long enough to Etch, stitch, carve, or craft anything worth making, which is another reason why Aunty Ray thinks I got the ADHD, but I don’t buy it. I can focus just fine on Spell Structures and while reading books on things I’m interested in, but the moment I set out to do something boring, I just can’t stay focused at all. Whatever. I’d be bored to death if I had to sit in town all day every day anyways, so I’m glad things worked out the way they did. Rather sling Spells than Etch runes any day of the week, even if the latter is safer and more lucrative by far.

…Okay, yea, so I definitely ain’t as smart as my mama, in more ways than just one.