Firstborn of the Frontier

“Hold Fire! Hold Fire!”

A lot can happen in a moment, even if it don’t look like much from the outside.

Take it from Laura’s perspective for example. I imagine she comes out from the kitchen with my plate of steak and taters to see Hobb, Jumbo, and Ron standing on one side, and me sitting pretty on the other, with my Blastguns laid out and a knife embedded into the bar. Then, for no reason far as she can tell, Jumbo starts in place, Hobb goes for his guns, I raise an index finger, and Ron yells out to stop his boys from making a big old mess of things. Don’t seem like much is happening, but there is.

Most surprising is how Ron’s boys actually listen. Hobb’s hands dart back up before touching his guns, almost straight up to show he ain’t gonna shoot, though his snarling grimace tells me he wishes it were otherwise. A beat later, Jumbo surges into action, going for his gun hidden under the bar only to stop and freeze once his brain catches up to what just went down. Something ain’t right with him, which means maybe I ought to revise and put him ahead of Hobb on the list, since unpredictability can sometimes be a strength in and of itself. As for me, I don’t take no orders from Ron, but I do take a moment to consider my options. Maybe it ain’t time start Blasting just yet, so I guess I won’t, which is lucky for Ron because another moment more and there wasn’t gonna be enough of him left to bury.

Said I would kill him first, and I meant to. Well, Hobb and Jumbo were likely to die at the same time, but I was fixing to make Ron ground zero. Now, I admit, the fact that I might’ve also gotten clipped in the process did weigh in on my decision to hold off on unleashing my big Spell, but I’m pretty sure I could’ve ducked behind the bar and avoided the worst of it, while my Stetson and duster would handle the rest.

Much as I’d love to be done with all this, I lower my index finger back down to the bar. Takes only a blink of the eye to make my decision, but then Ron does the strangest thing. He exhales. Not a normal exhalation. This here is a soft sigh, one of relief or reprieve. Ain’t a big sigh, not even something I would call a sigh were it coming from anyone else, but it’s something, and it gets me to thinking. Did Ron call for Hobb to stop right away, or did he wait a beat until he saw I wasn’t reaching for no gun? Might be that Ron’s not lucky then. Might be that he really is that good. Figured I had an ace up my sleeve that was about to really ruin his day, so he stopped the play with a time out. Meeting his eyes with a grin, I wink to let him know I know he knows, and that, he really does not like. A clench of his jaw and a twitch of his cheek, that’s all he gives, but it’s the first glimpse of Ron’s frustration I’ve had, which I suppose is a win in my book.

Truth be told, I’m only grinning like a fool to rankle his nerves, because in light of these latest findings, I don’t feel much like smiling. Maybe I ought to kill him now, get it all over and done with. Might save me trouble in the long run, even if it buys me no small amount of hassle right now. They’ve already given me more than enough probable cause to justify killing them in self defense, and I can prove it too. Would have to fudge a few facts, leave some things out, like this little pause I’m taking here to consider killing at least three men in cold blood, but legally, my backside is covered under the Accords.

Would burn a lot of goodwill with the Major though. He’s a good man who’s got higher standards than the Accords, and holds me in high esteem because I’ve adhered to those same standards as far as he can tell.

Don’t change the fact that I got a problem on my hands, and that problem is Ronald Jackson. He’s a real smart man, much smarter than I gave him credit for. That makes him real dangerous too, more dangerous than I already believed. Put it all together, and we have ourselves a smart and dangerous man who likes things neat and tidy, a President and C.E.O who’s used to getting everything his way. A man like that, well, he ain’t gonna forget the time ol’ Howie got one over on him, and he don’t strike me as the type to forgive neither. Won’t matter that I only did what I’ve done because his people pushed me to it. No, all that matters to him is that I dared consider killing him and could’ve done it too. Right here and now, he’s tolerating the insult because he’s stuck in a bind. I’m ready to throw down and fight to the death. Him? Not so much. Once he’s out of here though, I gotta ask: how’s he gonna react? Well, I reckon he’s gonna brood over this, let it eat away at him, because he lost control of the situation and couldn’t get it back. Then, he’ll realize it only happened because he walked into this meeting blind thinking I was just a kid. In short, he underestimated me, which won’t happen again. Next time, and there will be a next time, he’ll come out swinging for the fences, if only to prove to himself and his people that he can.

So like I said, I could save myself a lot of trouble by ensuring he don’t get no second chance. Close the chapter on Vanguard National as it were. All I’d have to do is point my finger and a think a thought to unleash the big Spell I been holding onto. Then wham bam thank you ma’am, no more Ron, Hobb, or Jumbo, and I set Pleasant Dunes in my six as I ride out atop my wagon with Cowie leading the way. Wouldn’t be that simple, as I’d likely have to shoot my way out the gates, but I like my odds. Mean’s leaving without delivering the mail, and forget finding my thieving, murdering rapist outlaws, so I ain’t gonna get paid for either job. Or for the mead either, though I doubt I’m getting paid for that either way. I do have a need to get paid, and I need it quick, because we all on a timer out here on the Frontier. Things are happening, times are changing, so it’s keep up or be left behind.

I for one mean to lead the way forward into the future, and to do that, I need to make bank. That means that sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do if you wanna get paid, even if it means going against your better judgement.

So I don’t pull the trigger, figuratively or literally, and break eye contact with Ron to give miss Laura my biggest, sweetest smile. She’s standing stock still at the other end of the bar with my plate of steak and taters in hand, looking more annoyed than anything else despite recognizing the danger unfolding before her. “Thank you kindly miss Laura,” I say, using my chin to gesture at her end of the bar while keeping all three men in my peripherals. “If you could just leave the plate there, that would be lovely. I’ll fetch it myself once Mr. Jackson’s done with me.” Wouldn’t you know it, she rolls her smoky eyes, sets my food down, and heads back into the kitchen with a ‘tch’, only to return a second later holding a tin cover to set over my plate. Sassy with a heart of gold, she a grand gal deserving of a big tip.

Having given Ron enough alone time to glower at his boys, we go back to where we left off, with both of us smiling and neither of us meaning it, but least we all on the same page. “So about that big gun I got on my wagon,” I begin, as if nothing had ever happened. “I call that my Big Stick. You know, walk softly and all?” No chuckle from Ron this time, not even a fake one, which I suppose is fair. Still, had to try and soften the blow a bit as I continue on to say, “Yea, it’s a fine piece of work, but I’m afraid it ain’t for sale. One of a kind, it is, another custom job from Mr. Kalthoff. Needed to hire a few arcanists to get it all working right, but at the end of it all, they reckoned there were too many defects and downsides to move ahead with massed production.” Not to mention the lack of Spell Cores and materials, but I got my hands on it mostly because I was willing to pay the most for it, as research and development don’t come cheap. That’s part of why I need money so bad, though I’d say it was well worth the expense.

Most folk ain’t liable to shoot at you, not when they can clearly see you got bigger guns to shoot back with. Keep’s ‘em honest or keeps ‘em scared, and either way works just fine for me.

Only now it occurs to me that I might’ve missed something important, a vital clue that I would’ve easily noticed had I given it any thought. Thing is, I didn’t, because I thought I’d already gone and found the right answer, but maybe, just maybe I was wrong. My daddy warned me about overconfidence getting me into a pickle, but it seems I ain’t quite learned that lesson just yet. Nothing for it except to mend the error of my ways then, but can’t do that unless I’m sure. “I been looking at this all wrong, haven’t I Mr. Jackson?” I ask. Unperturbed by my quick pivot, Ron tilts his head in silent confirmation coupled with another variation of that smirk he has. A real charmer, Ron, acting like I caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “What you need big guns for?”

“Who doesn’t want bigger guns?”

Ron’s question is a non-answer, because he don’t want me thinking about his big problem, except it don’t take much thinking once I’ve tugged on that thread. I thought Ron wanted armour penetrating guns to protect his townies from Abby while they working in the mines up the mountain. That’s goblin territory, with orcs and bugbears for heavies, which to a Blastgun mostly means more targets to hit with each shot. Except Ron don’t want no Blastguns, he’s looking for something bigger. Why? He ain’t gonna roll no Big Stick up the mountain to guard no mines. Most of the threat would be coming from inside the tunnels, whenever a mining shaft gets too close to an Abby tunnel. What good would big guns do there? Likely kill more miners and guards than Abby, firing a heavy weapon in an enclosed space like that, something Ron ought to know for himself.

So if Ron wants bigger guns, it’s because Ron’s got bigger problems than orcs and goblins in his mining shafts. He wants bigger guns to put on his town walls, those tall, curvy ones I admired so much on my way in. Why? Not to intimidate townies, as the gatlings do that well enough. Prepping for the coming Watershed and inevitable hordes of Abby that’ll come with? Maybe, but that’s still a few years off at the soonest, so why make a cold approach to a young courier he ain’t never met before? Even if I got my Big Stick on my wagon, that don’t mean I can get more. If Ron was looking for ten or twenty rifles to outfit his crew, give then an edge against Abby and townies, then I could understand him asking. Any U.F.P.S courier could get that many guns, being well trusted and regarded as they are, which is also why I doubt most would care to do it, though there are always those who surprise you. Still, Ron didn’t even fake interest in the Forzare to establish a working rapport, and instead breezed right on past to ask me to deliver both moons into his hands. Nah, this whole thing stinks of desperation, not a mistake a man like Ron would normally make, but I can only think of two possible reasons he would be desperate, and neither of them are good.

“You planning on hosting a baby shower sometime soon?” My question goes unanswered as Ron’s smile slips away, and his gaze turns hard to warn me about my place, because we both know I ain’t asking after no human babies. That’s a shame, because I was hoping I’d guessed wrong. Things would be so much simpler if Ron wanted big guns to take over some established territory. Bad day when having an aspiring war monger is the better option, but that do be how it is sometimes.

Leaning in real close so we can talk without being overheard, I whisper, “Seen lots of gobbo scouts lately? Sizing up your walls and towers, doing headcounts while getting the lay of the land?” Man don’t even give me a slight nod, but his eyes tell me that I’m right and he don’t like that I know. I don’t care what he likes, because this is bigger than just him, though I doubt he would agree. “You need to get word to the Rangers then,” I whisper, injecting as much sincerity and urgency as possible. No more smiles now, because we ain’t playing no more. “Or the Métis Pathfinders, French Chevaliers, British Protectorate, Catholic Knight’s Templars even. Anyone you care to ask for help, because big guns won’t be enough for the guests who gonna come a-knocking, not without soldiers to help cater the event.”

I’m keeping my words real quiet and circumspect here, as I ain’t sure if Hobb and Jumbo are clued in and I don’t want to start a panic. Wouldn’t help, though I’m of a mind to panic myself. A man smart as Ron don’t startle for nothing, so if he thinks Big Abby’s looking to pay him a visit, then I for one believe him.

Goblins. Orcs. Harpies. Bugs. Different names taken from folklore which people give to those monstrous miscreations, but at end of the day, they’re all Aberrations, the same basic creature in various different shapes. The vast majority are dumb, barely thinking drones who got one thought and one thought only: secure biomass for big momma. That’d be their Progenitor, a vile, meaty, porous sac of mouths and tendrils that spends its days, eating, digging, and birthing. Ain’t picky about what it eat neither, as a Progenitor can turn most anything into all manner of different Abby, which then go out and scour the lands for more resources to bring back, all so the Progenitor can make more Abby. Bigger and stronger Abby, many of which will have biomineral Spell Cores embedded within their bodies which allow them to harness powerful magics.

And now Ron suspects a newborn monster-making machine is fixing to turn Pleasant Dunes into its new home. Makes sense. Best bits of the mountain range are probably already claimed, and this fine town here is prime real estate, chock full of tasty townies to break down into biomass. To make matters worse, Progenitors’ ain’t dumb, not even newborns looking for new digs. They got intelligence, albeit an inhuman one, and this one will have learned through the eyes of its gobbo scouts that this prize ain’t gonna be easy to take. That means it’ll go looking for allies, and won’t have to look far. That’s the real scary bit, because Progenitors communicate. Not in English mind you, or any other human language, but their own. They talk, they plot, they plan, and yes, oftentimes they fight amongst themselves, but a baby Progenitor can always count on mommy Progenitor to lend it an army so it can move out on its own.

And make no mistake, Mommy will have an army, because Progenitor’s don’t give birth unless they got plenty of resources to spare, resources they can’t get without an army in the first place.

So long story short, Ron’s stuck in an arms race with a nepo-baby Proggy, and to the victor goes Pleasant Dunes. On one side, we got a greedy corporate hegemon who treats people only slightly better than slaves. On the other, we got a monstrous, magical, intelligent entity that will kill and eat the lucky survivors before turning the rest into living incubation pods for birthing even more powerful, more intelligent Abby.

Much as I hate to do it, I gotta root for Ron as the lesser of two evils in this case.

Drinking in my growing concern without blinking an eye, Ron considers all of his options before finally speaking. “You seem well-regarded by Armand Kalthoff, the Ranger’s premier gunsmith and head of their Aetherarms manufacturing division.” Looking me over in a new light, he asks, “Hypothetically, what do you suppose he would do if he were to receive a box with your finger in it?”

The threat brings my genuine smile back in full force, and Ron’s concern deepens, because for the second time, he’s lost control of the conversation, and again, he don’t know how. Seems Carl didn’t share my story and Ron don’t know how highly regarded I really am. “Well,” I drawl, all too happy to let Ron stew for a bit. “Not much, I reckon. Me and Mr. Kalthoff get along fine enough, but he loves his guns more than anything else ‘sides his family. I ain’t a student you see, just an enthusiast, one who asks more questions than he cares to answer most days. In your hypothetical situation, he’d probably just pass my finger on up to the Rangers, I suppose.”

Uncle Teddy on the other hand, well, let’s just say that sending one of my fingers back to New Hope would solve Ron’s Abby problem right quick. Theodore Ellis would gather up every gun he could get his hands on and rush right over to Pleasant Dunes to personally deliver them, with the full force of the American Rangers to help carry the payload to boot. Yea, no need to worry about Abby no more once the good Marshal melts your stone walls, topples your tall towers, and drags you behind his horse through five and a half days of sand and shrub just so he can hang you from the closest tree.

But I ain’t about to tell Ron that. Might convince him to give it a try anyways. The smart ones always think they got an edge, which makes ‘em real stupid sometimes.

Got a perfect example right here. The second he found out there was a Progenitor eying his town, Ron should’ve cleaned house and called for help. Instead, he sees this as an opportunity, one he means to profit from. Assuming he wins the fight, an Abby army would mean hundreds or even thousands of Abby corpses, corpses which represented a fortune in Aberrtin and Spell Cores, to say nothing of the value of the Progenitor itself. Pure greed is what it is, and nothing else, meaning I doubt anything I say is gonna get through.

But I gotta try at least.

“Look Mr. Jackson,” I begin, leaning away to speak out loud with as much sincerity as I can muster, “I’m real sorry, but there ain’t nothing I can do to get you what you want. Fact is, I doubt anyone can. Ain’t no one selling big guns, because not even the Rangers got enough for themselves. If you looking for regular Ranger Aetherams like the Forzare, well that’s real simple. Sign an agreement to adhere to Ranger working guidelines and accept Ranger oversight to ensure they’re in place. That’ll make you a Ranger Affiliate, free to buy as many guns as you please. They’ll even have your back in a pinch, against Abby or anyone else looking to make trouble. Could have a full company of Rangers out here in two weeks if you’ve a mind to make it happen. Twenty battle-hardened soldiers packing more Aetherpower than you can handle and ready to right all the wrongs in and around Pleasant Dunes.”

Yea you heard me Ron. That there is a subtle threat. If you wanna mess with this bull, then you sure as shootin’ gonna get the horns.

Got to give the man his due, but he takes it all in stride, still slouching over the bar like we just chatting over drinks. Can’t help but respect someone who keeps cool under pressure, unlike Hobb or Jumbo sweating bullets from all this tension they been enduring. Calm and collected as ever, Ron considers his words carefully, but only his words because his decision has long since been made. “This is my town,” he says, and I believe he believes it, but that don’t make it true. “End of discussion.”

Well, I can appreciate the brevity, especially since I’m incapable of such and my steak and taters are getting colder by the second. “Fair enough. I ain’t gonna twist your arm.” Not when there are other solutions to be had, but I gotta finish my business here first. Leaning back in to whisper, I continue, “So then it appears we got ourselves a stalemate.” Offering a shrug by way of apology, I give my closer dubsie a little flick with my finger to point out the problem. “See, don’t neither of us stand to benefit none if things get ugly. I made some mistakes, and your people did too. I say that makes us even. If it were up to me, I’d let bygones be bygones and move on from here. I put my guns away, eat my steak and taters, go about my business in Pleasant Dunes, and be out of your hair by tomorrow morning at the latest.” Tonight for sure. Pursing my lips, I look Ron dead in his baby blues and show him I mean business. “But it ain’t up to me, now is it?”

Rage. That’s what I find swimming in Ron’s eyes, a burning anger just begging to be unleashed, but he ain’t one to be controlled by emotion. Calm comes almost immediately, closely followed by a hint of worry, only for his confidence to return in full force to assure him he got everything in hand. “You are a very clever boy,” he begins, and a hint of warning creeps into his gaze, but it gonna take more than a stern look to shake me. “Too clever really. Got a big mouth too, because you are right. We are in a bind. Didn’t expect to reveal so much in a casual meeting over mead today, and now I have a decision to make. Change all my current plans and adapt, or take… more extreme methods instead.”

Oh no, a death threat. I’m so scared. In response, I tap my index finger against the bar, reminding Ron that he ain’t in no position to be making threats.

A genuine grin stretches across his face as he leans in close, so charming and handsome I almost feel compelled to ugly him up a bit. Make the outside match the in, as it were, but I keep my temper in check. “You got stones too, son. I respect that. Admire it even, but you really think this through? Let’s say I agree. We let bygones be bygones, and leave you to your meal. Then what? You deliver the mail and go home? A lesser man than I would walk out that door and come back with every man in my crew to teach you a lesson.” Shaking his head, he straightens up and adds, “I’m concerned for you boy. Your arrogance is going to get you killed. One day.”

That gets another laugh outta me, though I don’t break eye contact. “You ain’t the first to tell me I’m too big for my britches,” I say, still tapping my finger against the bar. “I’ll tell you what I always say. Arrogance is undeserved confidence.” My smile melts away, leaving only the threat of violence behind. “You push me, and you’ll learn which is which, right quick.”

Since there’s nothing else to be said, we silently agree to break eye contact at the same time, else this staring contest would last all day. While I holster my Doorknockers, I watch Ron, Hobb, and Jumbo head out through the kitchen before sending my Mage Hands to grab the plate of rare muskari steak and roasted purple taters, both seasoned to perfection. Which I eat with my hat on, because manners is one thing, and good sense another. On the outside, I look all hunky dory, using my spectral hands to eat with while my real hands copy down the Spell Formula for Water Sphere and jot down notes to explain every step along the way. Inwardly, I admit I might be sweating a bit, because like I said, Ronald Jackson ain’t one to forgive or forget.

My rustling jimmies tried to warn me, but I still went and stepped right into this doggone mess.

Still warning me in fact, telling me to get outta dodge while I still can, but that’d be a mistake. My jimmies are good at telling me when danger’s nearby, but not so great at offering solutions. I turn and rabbit now, and Vanguard National will chase me clear across the desert for sure. Be forced to really, after a show of weakness like that. Ron’s a predator, and the only reason I’m still breathing is because I didn’t back down an inch. Then again, for all I know, he’s doing exactly as he said he would and gathering his boys for a good old-fashioned lynching. A dangerous man he is, and the only assurance I have that I won’t be gunned down in the streets is the fact that I arrived here under a U.F.P.S flag. They might just be mailmen, but they still Feds, and they take the death of one of their own dead serious. Won’t be more than a month before the full force of the United Federation Postal Inspection Service descends upon Pleasant Dunes, and I bet they’d have their killer less than a day later, likely delivered to them by Ron’s own men since the offered reward would be too great for anyone to pass up. And that’s assuming Uncle Teddy don’t decide to handle matters in-house, since he’d find my hat right quick, which’ll hold all the answers he’ll need.

Wouldn’t help me much, seeing how in those particular scenarios, I would already be dead. Least the steak and taters are delicious, and the barman even got me a glass of ginger beer, which ain’t got any ginger or beer in it, but is still a nice, cool, and fizzy drink.

While I’m re-checking my work for the third time, miss Laura comes by to collect my empty plate. “Best steak I ever had. My compliments to the chef,” I say, reaching into my duster for my wallet, only to stop as she lays down a wad of cash on the bar. “What’s this? Most places I gotta pay for the food, not get paid to eat it.”

“A hundred and twenty dollars,” Miss Laura replies, her expression cold and unreadable, but her voice rich and melodic with the familiar tones of the southern U.F.A. “For the mead. Ron told me to tell you he meant what he said.” About buying more mead or about how my arrogance getting me killed? Probably both, not that it matters. I was already planning a return trip, but maybe I’ll bring some mead too, just to see the look on his face when I roll up to deliver it. “Meals comped too,” Miss Laura says, “So you can go about your business after you bring in the mead.”

“Well ain’t that a treat.” Rather than count the cash or check for counterfeits, I slide the top note towards Laura, a crisp five-dollar bill. That ain’t small money, but she only got eyes for my spell scribing, reading it quick as she can to memorize the numbers and procedures as best she can. Turning it so she don’t got to tilt her head so much, I say, “Just a simple Cantrip. Water Sphere. Good for washing, hazardous for drinking.”

“Heard about your little show out front. Girl’s’ll be talking about that for weeks.” Laura’s brown eyes meet mine and she gives me a good long look. Not interest, just curiosity. Trying to learn what makes me tick. “Heard you said was gonna write up the Formula, but not what you was charging for it.”

“Nothing.” Holding my hands to my heart, I act wounded by miss Laura’s suspicions before bringing back my pearly whites. “Said it and I meant it. Ain’t my Spell to sell, and its a right useful one in the desert.”

“Which make it all the more valuable.” The look in miss Laura’s brown eyes turn a slight shade more serious than merely curious as she takes the stool beside me and rests her pretty little head on her hand. I dare say interested even, though not in the way I’d hope. “So why not put a price on it and pad your pockets? Like Ron said, you selling yourself short.”

“Could do a lot to pad my pockets if I wanted. Don’t make it right.” Gesturing at my slanted brown eyes, I say, “If you really need a reason, then you might say I’m doing what little I can to right the wrongs of my daddy’s people, and the government fools who done sent y’all over here unprepared. Make sure folks got the know-how they need to make life on the Frontier better.”

But not my people, a distinction miss Laura takes in with a shake of her head which sets her dark ringlets a swaying. “That why you come here? To right wrongs and spread Spells?”

“Nah. Just here on a job to get paid.” Not just the one job, but still the truth.

“Then you best do it quick and be on your way.” Nodding at the Spell Formula, miss Laura adds, “I’ll talk to Ron, see if your Cantrip don’t buy you a bit o’ goodwill. Might even be enough to keep you alive.”

What’d I say? Heart of gold. “Thank you kindly for your concern miss Laura, but I’m afraid I can’t just up and leave. See, a postman’s job ain’t just delivering mail and packages. If that were the case, then I’d hand everything off to the Sherrif and be on my merry way.” Which judging by her look, is what miss Laura suggests I do. “Part of the work is community outreach,” I explain, smiling as if I wasn’t dreading that part of the work most. “That’s what they call it. Connecting with the locals, seeing how they live, what they up to, and what they lacking, so the suits can jaw on about what they can do to help.”

Without ever doing anything of real value. I want to say more, but seeing how miss Laura got Ron’s ear, I button right up. My loose lips got me in enough trouble already, jawing on about big Abby when I should’ve feigned ignorance instead. No need to stick my boot in there a second time, least not so soon after, but I ain’t fooling miss Laura. “Guess you don’t think much of our little home here then,” she says, her lip curling it anger, “You fixing on fixing Pleasant Dunes?” Settling in with a sigh, she says, “Sometimes, I forget what it’s like.”

“What what’s like?”

“Bein’ young and idealistic.” Reaching out to pat my cheek, miss Laura’s eyes get that knowing look when I jerk away to avoid the soft touch on reflex, and I do my best to pretend not to see it. After a moment’s pause, she decides its best left alone, and for that, she has my gratitude. “Heard you come outta New Hope? Makes sense that you see how we live and don’t think much of it. Well sugar, you ain’t seen nothing.” Her eyes take on the same look mine must’ve had; a haunted, hardened gaze filled with memories best forgotten. “Before Ronald Jackson tamed these parts and built them walls, this here was the wild Frontier. Miners’d go up the mountain for ores, and come back down to find bandits ready to take it all away. They robbed, killed, and raped to their dark hearts content, then would come back the next night and do worse if them miners didn’t have more ore for them to take.”

“And Ronald Jackson come fix all that, did he?” I ask, leaning back to stretch after a big meal. “Lay down the law and dole out Frontier justice?” More like legitimized banditry and codified exploitation. Amazing what people will overlook for a man with a pretty smile.

“You make fun, but he did. Killed the worst of the bunch and put the rest to work guarding the miners.” Gesturing at the saloon around us, she gives me a look that tells me she don’t find me funny. Which hurts, because humour is one of my best features, just after my big smile and winning personality. “Ain’t no woman working here that don’t want to, and Ron makes sure his girls don’t get hurt.” Yea, because he a business man who know marks ruins the merchandise. “Limited drinks per man, so nobody don’t start nothing.” That explains why those same five sorry souls still nursing their drinks and ain’t no one else come in. “Anyone who does start something don’t ever do it again, Ron make sure of that too. As for the miners, anyone who works is fed, clothed, and protected. Their families too. No more hoping and praying to strike gold, silver, gems or Q-ace, because work pays the same for mining iron, lead, and coal too.”

Which sounds nice in theory, it really do, but some of those things are worth a whole lot more than the others. Q-ace especially, or cupric acetate, a rare, naturally forming chemical compound used to Imbue or Augment mundane items with magic. Course, argument could be made that we need iron, lead and coal just as much as the others, if not more, but I like to think supply and demand would take care of that.

I ain’t here to argue though, and miss Laura ain’t exactly said anything wrong, so I keep quiet and let her get it all off of her chest. “Ours ain’t the happiest town I reckon,” she says, crossing her arms and getting all defensive, “But it’s a safe one, which is more than what it was before Ronald Jackson came along to sort things out.” Giving me a light poke in the chest, she gives me a warning gaze that’s more concern than caution. “Plenty people still remember as much, so if I was you, I’d be on my way outta Pleasant Dunes quick as a bunny. Don’t be counting on no goodwill or no lawmen to keep you safe.”

“You mostly right.” Taken aback by my quick concession, miss Laura returns it with more suspicion. Now she really breaking my heart, talking Ron up like that and taking me for a snake in the grass. “I ain’t gonna deny the facts. You saying things were much worse before Ronald Jackson, and I believe you. That it’d be smart for me to leave now, and that’s true too.” Before she can ask, I meet her gaze and hold it, so she can see the truth in my eyes. “But you wrong about one thing, miss Laura. I’m the Firstborn on this here wild Frontier, lived through most of those same years you did, so believe me when I say I’ve seen plenty.”

A truth I compel her to acknowledge before I continue on, and she does with a bite of her lip and a nod of her head. It’s like looking in a reflection at times, seeing those same invisible scars, ones neither of us care to elaborate on. “See,” I say, once I know she’s got the gist, “My daddy scouted for the Rangers, so he was always out and about. When I was eight, he decided it was high time I start learning the ropes and join him on his trips. From then on, we only wintered in New Hope while travelling about in search of people and communities to connect with.” Miss Laura’s shock comes as no surprise, since every parent’s first instinct would be to protect their child, and most did that by sheltering them from the worst of the Frontier as best they could. My daddy had a different way of going about it, which was showing me what I was up against so I wouldn’t balk when confronted by the ugly truth.

Didn’t come out of it smelling like roses, but I’d say it all worked out well enough. Better in fact, seeing how well I turned out, so I won’t hear no one say any different.

Now that I have her full attention, I paint miss Laura a picture of what I seen. “Those days, the Frontier was as ugly as you said. Rode through places where there was no law and order to be had, and kept going back until one day, there was. Didn’t happen overnight, but I watched it all unfold in real time. Communities came together under Ranger protection, built up defenses and began trading amongst themselves. Criminals were caught, tried, and convicted dozens at a time, and soon enough, the Accords were respected by most round those parts.” Laws the nations of the old world all agreed their settlers would adhere to without any real way of ensuring they would. Really silly bunch, them government officials, no matter the colour, race, or creed, but things have worked out good enough so far. “For a time, it seemed like a new settlements would pop up every six months or so, with some going from little shanty camps to full on fortified towns in little more than a year.”

Mostly thanks to the Rangers funding the whole efforts, building up that Red, White, and Blue Shield to stop the encroaching growth of the Aberration infested badlands, but I ain’t here to brag. Miss Laura seems to think I have though, her lovely features putting together the best ‘so what?’ face I ever seen. “Well,” she drawls, getting all huffy and defensive, “We can’t all be so lucky as to have American War Hero Major Theodore Ellis to cover our ass.”

“You could, actually. That’s the point I’m trying to make.” Gesturing around us the same way she did earlier, I do my best to convey my sincerity. “What y’all have done here is incredible. Y’all endured. Survived. Now you got tall walls, lofty towers, and hard men with big guns to keep you safe. I can count on one hand how many settlements can say the same around these parts without backing from an official, old-world military faction, so believe me when I say I’m impressed.” And I really was, until I saw what those walls were concealing. “I’m not here to look down on what you’ve accomplished. I’m here to remind you and the folks of Pleasant Dunes of something y’all forgot, something others just like you also forgot.”

“And what’s that?”

“That life is about more than just surviving.” The words hit her hard, and not just her. The bartender and the patrons have been listening in, no longer afraid to be noticed now that Ron and his thugs ain’t here. “Y’all stepped through the gate in 1989 and left all them modern conveniences behind,” I say, casting my gaze across the saloon and meeting the eyes of my meagre audience. “Since then, it’s been a struggle to survive, but y’all made it. Today is taken care of. So is tomorrow. Now, it’s time to start planning for next week, next month, next year, plans to get back what y’all gave up to come here. You got food and security. What about homes? Beds? Roads? How about schools for the kids? A church or town hall to gather in? An open space for sports and activities? A radio tower to connect you to the rest of the Frontier? Fact is, I’m surprised a man like Ronald Jackson ain’t already working towards all that, as he could have it all built up right quick.” Pausing for a moment to let my words sink in, I add, “If he had mind to do it.”

Having made my point, I sit back and let miss Laura process what I’ve said, and I can see her hesitation. Her fears, doubts, denials, all of it flits across her fetching features, but none of it can smother that newborn spark of hope. Oh, she tries to drown it right quick by ending the conversation and walking away, but it’ll come back soon enough. I can tell by the way she looks back over her shoulder, that hope already reignited only to be quashed once more, because she’s afraid. Afraid of losing what she has, and afraid of what their great protector might do to maintain the status quo, but so long as there is hope, then the folk of Pleasant Dunes has got a fighting chance. Ronald Jackson might’ve done right by them in the past, but whatever his motivations were to begin with, it’s clear that greed has made him more obstacle than advantage, and it’s high time the rest of this town saw it too. That’s why I ain’t gonna run. Not just because of stubborn pride and practical sensibilities, but because I want these people to see that I ain’t afraid, and they shouldn’t be neither.

End of the day, Ronald Jackson ain’t nothing more than a man. It’s the people who hold the power, not him.

Course, I don’t expect much to change in the short-term. I’ll deliver the mail, head on out, and tomorrow, Pleasant Dunes will be the same as it was yesterday. Nah, inertia ain’t easy to overcome even without someone like Ronald Jackson working to keep things as they are, and I ain’t about to try it all by my lonesome. I’m just a man here to deliver the mail, and I reckon I ought to get to it. So after making sure my Spells all still up to snuff and the medallion with my family name still facing forward on my Stetson, I head out into the sunlight hoping I ain’t about to get shot.

It do be like that sometimes, and when it do, then all a man can do is make his preparations and play the hand fate dealt him. If this is where I die, then so be it, but I sure as shooting won’t be going out alone. No sir-ree bob, so if Ron thinks he can get one over the Firstborn, then he got a rude awakening in store for him, and that right there is a stone-cold fact.