Firstborn of the Frontier

“The first time I laid eyes on your father, he was standing smack dab in the middle of an active minefield.”

Modest and soft-spoken. That’s the impression most get when they first meet Theodore Ellis. A slim beanpole of man, his kind eyes and mellow temperament give off the air of a docile grandpappy rather than decorated military hero, but his appearance don’t change the facts none. There are other Marshals in the Rangers, but as far as people round these parts are concerned, Theodore Ellis is The Marshal, the Ranger’s top man along the Eastern Front. A solemn, somber, and dignified man, he commands respect not through force of will or strength of arm, but through dignity, gravitas, and dedication. It’s been over seventeen years since the Advent, when the settlers first passed through the Gate to arrive on the Frontier, and he still shows up for work in full uniform each and every day. Keeps his salt-and-pepper hair neat and regulation length, his strong chin clean-shaven and stubble free, dress shirts pressed, collars starched, ties simple, badge polished, and creme-coloured Cattleman’s hat spotless and stain free. This here is a man with more power than most historical kings, but he still lives his life by the rules and regulations set forth by a government literally a world away. Ain’t much oversight keeping him in line, nothing but the strict standards to which he holds himself. There’s more I could say about him, like the things he’s achieved and the goals he hopes to accomplish, but that right there is all a man needs to know. The Marshal is a soldier now and forever, a Ranger to the very core, and anyone who’s ever met him can’t help but respect that level of discipline and dedication.

So even through I ain’t no Ranger, when a man like Theodore Ellis sits you down for a lecture, you best sit there and listen.

“The sun had yet to rise when the Alarm Spells went off,” the Marshal says, because despite the personal story being shared, he ain’t playing the part of friendly old-timer. No, this ain’t Uncle Teddy who used to bounce little baby Howie over his knee; this here is the Marshal staring past me from across his neat and tidy desk, looking back on a memory of a different time. “We rushed out of our tents and hit the lights, expecting to find an Aberration attack. Instead, our floodlights revealed a young Qinese teen slowly making his way towards us, armed to the teeth and cradling a bundled cloth package in his arm. Step by step, your father approached, a slow and steady advance, his exhaustion evident and injuries so severe he left a trail of dripping blood behind him in the sand.”

I must’ve heard this story a thousand times from a dozen different perspectives, but I still like hearing it all the same. Makes it easy not to slouch or fidget as I hang onto the Marshal’s every last word. “What that young boy didn’t know,” he continues, his slate grey eyes sinking further back into the distant past to relive the memory, “Was that one wrong step, and he would’ve set off the explosive glyph mines we’d laid down to secure our perimeter. Naturally, we tried to warn him off, but he didn’t have any English and we were all backlit, leaving him unable to see our actions or expressions.” The Marshal’s pale, thin lips press together in self-recrimination, no doubt blaming himself for not coming up with a perfect solution in the moment, but no one’s perfect.

That’s Uncle Teddy for you though. Always striving to do better, even though he already got most folk beat.

Still grimacing over the decisions of his past self, the Marshal continues, “Unable to come up with a proper solution, I fired a warning shot over the boy’s head. Terrible choice and I knew it at the time, but didn’t think to try a Minor Illusion or Hold Person Spell. That Bolt could have spooked him into running or seen him drop down to the sand, but he just stopped and stood in place. I saw no fear in his eyes, only desperation as he placed his weapons at his feet to show he meant no harm. Then he did the strangest thing. He pressed his head against the package he’d been cradling in his arm, then bent over so he could hold it an inch over the sand as he continued his advance.”

Coming out of the memory, the Marshal returns to the present and fixes me with a fond gaze, the faintest hint of a smile stretched across his thin lips. “That’s when we saw you, Howie. A tiny little newborn swaddled in a linen blanket and wearing a tiny toque to protect you from the cold, a sight both beautiful and tragic in the moment. Your father expected us to shoot him you see, then come investigate and find you, so he didn’t want you to fall too far when his body hit the sand. There he was, a boy of sixteen, barely more than a child himself and father for less than a day, yet already he loved you more than life itself.”

I always get a little misty-eyed here, because it’s proof that my daddy never blamed me for my mama’s death, not even for a day. Don’t change the facts none, but the Marshal pretends not to notice as I wipe my eyes while he continues the story. “That’s when Raleigh stepped out, casting a Spell in hopes of Enthralling your father and stopping him in his tracks. Didn’t take, but he noticed something was amiss, likely because of how Raleigh was goose-stepping about in search of a clear path through the mines. Never mind that Rachel herself was five-months pregnant with Tina and Chrissy, or that he didn’t have any notion of where it was safe to walk. No, he had a knack for sensing where the magic lay, or so he claimed, and that was enough for him to risk his fool neck.” We share a moment here, in memory of Uncle Raleigh. A good man, one we lost too early, but that’s usually the way it goes.

“Either way,” the Marshal continues, once the moment passes, “Your father was a smart man, and it didn’t take him long to connect the dots. We all saw the moment he realized what he’d gotten himself into. He straightened up and his eyes went wide with alarm while we all held our breath. See, we thought we knew what was coming. A fight or flight response. Basic human nature, even though going through with either of those options would have meant certain death.”

The Marshal leans back in his chair as his soft smile widens into a bona fide grin, and my chest swells with pride to know that grin is for my daddy. “Most of a soldier’s training is spent learning to override those instincts, and even then, it’s a hard thing to shake. I’ve seen good soldiers in situations similar to what your father found himself stuck in. Brave men and women who’d been through the meat grinder and back again, and even then, most fail to adhere to their training.” The Marshal grimaces, remembering those he lost before continuing with a sigh. “Not your father though. He saw the facts, accepted his circumstances, and did what he knew was best. He lifted you up, cradled you close, activated his Shield Bracer, and waited for Raleigh to come guide him out of the minefield.” Shaking his head in admiration, he lets his words hang before continuing on. “Took ten minutes for Raleigh to make it over, then another five for them both to make it out, and I don’t think your father even broke a sweat. Nerves of pure Adamantine, I tell you, a logical, rational, and methodical man unlike any I’ve ever met. Over the next decade and four years, he demonstrated those traits time and time again, in outlaw dens, Aberration burrows, and anywhere else his work took him. He was one of the finest soldiers I’ve had the pleasure to serve alongside, and one of the greatest men I’ve been privileged enough to know.”

The Marshal’s smile fades away, and his eyes grow hard, not angry or bitter, but disappointed as he holds up the bull’s head medallion bearing my family name, the one I usually keep forward-facing on my Stetson. “Which is why it pains me to say,” he begins, and I flinch before he’s even done, “That the events recorded in here have shown you, Howie, to be an irrational, foolhardy, and reckless child, one who’s lucky to still be alive and in one piece after this fiasco in Pleasant Dunes.”

“Oh c’mon!” Even I can hear how bratty I sound, but I can’t help it. “That ain’t fair.”

“You ever known me to be anything but?” There’s a mild heat to his words, an edge I’ve never had directed at me. Can’t even look at him no more, so I hang my head in shame as he continues his calm and cold delivery without waiting for an answer. “A logical man would have seen he was outgunned from the get-go and done something to improve his odds. A rational man would have found a better way to go about it than trapping himself in a room full of armed outlaws with only one exit. And a methodical man? He wouldn’t have gotten mixed up in that mess at all. You should have walked into town, delivered the mail like you were supposed to, put Pleasant Dunes in your six, and left word with the first Ranger to cross your path. Instead, you let greed cloud your judgement and almost died for it.”

“Wasn’t greed. Couldn’t leave. Had to commit.” I don’t know why I open my mouth sometimes. It’s like it’s got a mind of its own.

“Explain.” Straightening up in his chair, the Marshal folds his hands atop his desk and looms without leaning, waiting for the whole story. Which of course I ain’t got no choice but to tell thanks to my big, fat, stupid mouth. The worst part is how dumb it all sounds once I say it out loud, because I swear it sounded like a great idea when I put the plan together in my head. “So let me see if I’ve got this right,” the Marshal begins, without having moved a muscle at all. “You suspected the Stagecoach Killers might have made their way to Pleasant Dunes, instead of attempting to cross the Snake Fang Mountain range like our intel believed.” I nod. “So to flush them out, you put their names up on a list of mail recipients, in hopes of… what exactly?”

See, this is the part that sounds stupid. “That they’d show up and ask for their mail.”

“I see.” I don’t know exactly what look he’s giving me, on account of lacking the nerve to meet his gaze, but I can imagine it pretty well. “Did it ever occur to you,” he begins, struggling to keep his tone calm and steady, “That seeing their names up on that list might’ve spooked your outlaws and sent them deeper into hiding?” No, but it probably should’ve, and the Marshal doesn’t wait for an answer before pressing the issue, his tone growing hotter with every word. “And what you would have done if one of the Stagecoach Killers actually showed up to collect? You planning to shoot them right then and there, out on the street in front of women and children? What would you have done if the rest were hanging about?!”

…Like I said, the plan sounded better in my head.

Heaving a soft sigh, the Marshal pauses a beat before changing his tack. “When you come up with a plan, even a bad one, you need to commit and follow through. Write up letters to actually deliver, something magically marked which you can track. That way, if someone shows up, you have something you can hand over and use to track your outlaws down later. You’ll also have something to hand over when leave. That second part is important, because if I were a bandit lying low in town, I’d sooner steal my letter from the local Sherrif than approach a Postal Officer asking for papers. Didn’t think about that, did you Howie? You should’ve, because your shenanigans could have gotten an innocent lawman killed, and you would’ve been none the wiser until it was too late.”

Feeling like I ought to speak up for myself, I steel my nerve and look up to meet the Marshal’s gun-metal eyes, looking softer and kinder than I’d expected. “I didn’t mean to cause no one no harm,” I begin, only to run that back in my head and realize what them words actually meant. “I mean, I didn’t intend for anyone to be hurt, besides them outlaws.” I swear, my fondness for double-negatives is gonna get me in a real pickle one of these days.

“I know Howie,” the Marshal says, in a tone that don’t belong to the Marshal at all, but my Uncle Teddy. “I said you were reckless, not malicious.” Then it’s back to the Marshal again, because he ain’t done chewing me out. “Lord knows there were still countless ways your blatant fishing expedition could have gone wrong, but I don’t have time to go through it all. The worst part is your actions damaged what little trust the people of Pleasant Dunes still had for the Federation Government and the Postmaster won’t look kindly on that. Sorry to say it, but you’ve gone and jeopardized your chances with the Postal Services for good.”

“You think that’s the worst part?” I ain’t ever been one to hide my thoughts, and I ain’t about to start. “Look, I know you went to bat with Postmaster Pat to get me this opportunity, and I appreciate it, but we both know he was never gonna hand me a whole route to cover. Case in point, he already tapped Koun for the Emerald Plains circuit. Before I arrived in Pleasant Dunes mind you.” Not that I begrudge the Celt the job, but the man’s drunk as a skunk half the time and hung over the rest. Don’t see why Postmaster Pat thinks Koun can do a better job that I can just because he got two extra decades of ‘life experience’.

“That so?” If the tone don’t give it away, the Marshal’s deadpan look does. “And I suppose you think there’s only one route up for grabs? Never considered that the Postal Services are looking to expand, did you?”

“To where? East over the Snake Fang mountains?” Dangerous territory that, what with all the orcs and gobbos infesting them there parts, but I’m game to try it. Always wanted to see what was on the other side of the Divide, even though I ain’t seen all there is to see on our little corner of the Frontier just yet.

“Hold your horses now. Nothing so ambitious just yet.” Meaning the Rangers or the Métis ain’t actually found safe passage through the mountains. Shame. The Divide cutting us off from the rest of the continent really puts a hamper on trade and conglomeration. Sure, there are naval routes to take, but Abby ain’t got much competition out in them oceans, meaning they a lot bigger and stronger than their land-based cousins. We don’t call it the Serpent Coast for nothing, after all.

Even though I don’t want the job, not knowing where the postal services are planning to expand to is really gonna stick in my craw, so after running down the list and coming up empty, I give in and ask, “So then where was they thinking of sending me?”

Knowing I won’t move on until I get an answer, the Marshal just shrugs and says, “South.”

Which don’t make no sense. “To New Sonora? Why? Something happen to Matteo?”

“No and no.” Exasperated by my curiosity, the Marshal’s lips press together in an almost grimace. He don’t understand why I wanna know, because in his eyes, I ain’t getting the job no more, so what’s it matter? That’s him though, a single-track mind. If it don’t concern him or his duties directly, then it don’t matter much. “If you need to know, the good Postmaster was considering sending you to make contact with the Qin settlements by the Knife Edge mountains.”

“Oh.” Well, ain’t that a kick in the teeth? “If y’all wanted me dead, then why not just bring out yer Arbiter and shoot me clean?”

Course I don’t mean it to sound as ugly as it do, but that’s the problem you get when your words come straight from the gut. Visibly rocking back from the accusation, the Marshal looks hurt as he asks, “What are you talking about Howie?”

“You send me to the Qin, and they’ll bury me six feet deep soon as they lay eyes on what’s sittin’ under my Stetson.” Shaking my head is adamant refusal, I explain, “They’re isolationists, Marshal. The Qin’ll turn away foreigners unharmed, but they execute home-grown traitors, which is what they’ll see when they look at me.” Or hear me speak Qinese, which if I’m being honest, is worse than my Latin, and that’s really saying something.

Besides, if Postmaster Pat don’t like me shooting outlaws under a U.F.P.S. flag, then he really won’t like me shooting up Qin Nationals, which is what I’d likely end up doing.

“Howie.” I can hear the pleading in the Marshal’s tone, on account of how he thinks I’m overreacting, but he’s someone who sees the best in all people. “I know you have your hang-ups about your people, and rightly so, but I hardly think they’d murder you for dressing like an American.”

“First off, they ain’t my people. Second, hardly ain’t much of a hook to hang yer hat on, much less my life, so excuse me for not caring to test it.” Then, because I’m an idiot, I add, “Especially since I reckon none of y’all would do anything about it if the Qin do kill me, no matter what flag I’m flying.” I hate myself for saying it even I as I said it, but it’s too late to take back now. Too ashamed to look at the man I just wounded with my words, I stare down at my hands instead. The silence hangs over us both like a heavy shroud, and even though I want to break it to apologize, I also don’t, because I’d much rather hear him tell me I’m wrong.

Except he can’t. Them’s the facts, and the Marshal don’t lie.

After a few false starts, he comes around to the front of his desk and leans against it, which is about as casual as he ever cares to get in his office. “Alright son,” he says, patting me on the head. I don’t hate it when he calls me son, can’t hate it, because that’s what he called my daddy, and my daddy loved him. Would have charged through the gates of hell and back for the Marshal, then gone back a second time without being asked. Which makes me all the angrier knowing the Marshal wouldn’t do the same for him. Couldn’t, but that don’t make a lick of difference in the end. “Okay. No postal work then. We’ll find something else for you to do.”

“All due respect,” I say, trying to keep the hurt and anger out of my voice, “But I don’t need no help finding work. Doin’ alright as is.”

“You think so?” The heat is back in his voice, an edge that got nothing to do with how I’ve hurt him, which only makes me feel worse for what I’ve said. “From what I’ve seen, you’re lucky to still be breathing, much less in one piece.” Before I can interject about it being a lucky shot, the Marshal fixes me with his stormy glare. “I’m not talking about the shootout Howie, though Lord knows it wasn’t your finest hour. I’m taking about Ronald Jackson.”

Oh. Right. “In my defense, I was fairly certain Ron wasn’t gonna kill me, not with half the townies out and about. I had the warrants ready and everything, meaning the Accords were all firmly on my side.”

“I seem to recall you saying something about hooks and hats? Care to repeat it for me?” Seeing me suitably chastened, the Marshal gives a little shake of his head. “I’m also afraid the Accords don’t mean much to a man like Ronald Jackson.”

There’s no denying the familiarity in the way the Marshal says the name. “You know him?”

“Can’t say I’ve had the displeasure.” Which for Marshal Ellis, is about as close as he’ll ever get to cursing a man out. Seeing my surprise, he gives a little tilt of his head to say he regrets saying it out loud, but he ain’t gonna take it back, which means Ron must be a real piece of work. “After your report came over the radio, I did some asking around to see what we had on him. Turns out he had a whole file ready and waiting, as he was deemed a person of interest before we even stepped through the Gates.”

Which means he don’t have much. All pre-Advent reports would’ve had to have been memorized and jotted down once they was here on the Frontier, which means a lot of information was lost in transition. Couldn’t bring nothing through the Gates that wasn’t living and organic, and what does go through comes at a cost, a cost which shoots up exponentially when magic is involved. Hence why my daddy arrived buck nekkid and without a Spell Structure in memory, because it was more ‘cost-effective’. Course, not every settler from the other nations were experienced Spell Slingers, not even most, but at least they had good soldiers like Theodore Ellis and the Federation Rangers to lead and protect them.

Old grievances aside, I settle in to listen as the Marshal narrates what he knows about Ron. “Lebanon did a real number on Ronald Jackson,” he begins with a grimace, slipping all too easily into the familiar role of teacher. “The country had an ongoing civil war that started in the 60s, one between religious revolutionaries and old blood Monarchy looking to reclaim what they lost when their Immortal died in the second world war. Religious extremists on one side, cultist fanatics on the other, and the legitimate government being a mix of the two. Both sides were ruthless to themselves and each other, and the fighting went on for years before they reached out for help. The U.F.A sided with the revolutionaries because they had more legitimate representatives in government, and in 1983, we strongarmed an agreement between both sides to exile the remaining old blood nobles. Should have put an end to the fighting, but things just got nastier as the exiled nobles rallied the people to their cause. Civilian suicide bombings became a daily event, targeting U.F embassies and military barracks. Ronald Jackson survived two such explosions, and took part in thwarting who knows how many more.”

I’m getting a clearer picture on what Charlie Foxtrot is supposed to mean, and it ain’t pretty. “I don’t get it though,” I say, always eager to learn more about the old world. “Why were there people supporting the old blood? The Immortal Monarchs ruled over their nations with an iron fist, so why would anyone want their families back in power?”

The Marshal gives me a look, the one that says I ought to know better but don’t. “Things aren’t always so cut and dry, Howie. Look at Pleasant Dunes. You saw how they were being exploited and mistreated. You think they don’t want better? So why don’t they do something about it? Ronald Jackson is just a man. Any one of them could put a Bolt through his back, poison his wine, take a razor to his neck, or do something to end his reign, but they don’t. Why do you think that is?”

“Because they’re afraid.”

“Exactly, but it’s not just fear of Ronald Jackson that keeps them in check.” There’s a liveliness to the Marshal which is rarely seen, because of course the born soldier loves everything to do with military history. “It’s fear of the unknown. Things were worse before Ron sorted everything out, so they tell themselves they’re better off with the evil they know. Least then they’ll be safe, sheltered, and fed. That’s all they want, all they dare dream of, living small and afraid to hope for more because the world has shown them how cruel it can be. That’s how it was in Lebanon with the old blood supporters. Even though their Immortal Monarch denied them their freedom, he also kept them safe for centuries before. After he was deposed, the corrupt government that cropped up was unable to provide that same measure of safety, divided as they were by their various loyalties. Religious mostly, with various Islamic denominations vying for supremacy against one another as well as the Druze and Christians. Things turned ugly as they often do, with widespread persecution among the common people of Lebanon, who then turned to the evil they knew for support.”

Realizing he’s gotten off track, the Marshal hits me with an inquisitive look, wondering if I’d done this intentionally. “Anyway,” he says, after deciding that no, I didn’t raise a question with the intent of making him forget he’s supposed to be haranguing me, “What I was getting at is that Ronald Jackson came out of Lebanon a changed man, and not for the better. After the U.F.A pulled out, he was given the choice of early retirement or a Section 8, dishonourable discharge on the grounds of his psychiatric evaluation finding him unfit for continued service. He chose early retirement and returned to his hometown of Pittsburgh, where he started a motor club under the name of Northern Guard with a number of his ex-military buddies.”

“…He was an outlaw in the old world?” It takes a second to connect the dots, seeing how they got so many different words just to say the same thing. Gangster, mobster, triad, yakuza, all outlaws in my book, but somehow different in their own special way. Nationality mostly, and ideology too, but when I group people using that same criteria, somehow that’s racist. Old world folk got a lot of hangups about a lot of different things, and it gets real tiring navigating through it all. “Why wasn’t he wearing no cut then?” I ask, once I remember the subtleties specific to motor clubs. “Ain’t they supposed to have some vests and patches to show rank and affiliation?”

“Normally they would,” the Marshal replies, with a nod to show he appreciates my attentiveness to past lessons. “I suppose Ron thought he’d have an easier time getting answers from a young and impressionable postal worker if he looked more legitimate and business-like. The sweat stains on Jacob’s shirt could’ve clued you in, but I don’t fault you for missing it.” Ah. I didn’t miss seeing it, just missed making the connection. No sense bringing it up now though. Would just sound like making excuses, so I keep quiet as the Marshal continues, “Within a year of Ronald Jackson’s return, Northern Guard had become a major player in the Pittsburgh organized crime scene. Though no one could ever prove it, local law enforcement believed he was the man responsible for murdering the top men of the Pittsburgh Mafia, a jumping point he used to take over their criminal interests. Drug running, weapon smuggling, extortion, loan sharking, hits for hire, and more. Then a few years later, things got hot as they often do, and Ron ended up going to ground with most of the company funds while his people were slaughtered by his rivals. Didn’t resurface until eighteen months before Advent when he put in an application to help settle the Frontier, and by then, his name was old hat.”

“But you read his file,” I say, unable to wrap my head around things. “Which means someone knew who he was and what he’d done, but y’all still let him through?” Talk about letting the fox into the henhouse.

“Ronald Jackson is a very careful man, so he technically didn’t have a criminal record.” Although he’s making excuses for the Federation government, I can tell the Marshal ain’t too pleased by their decision. “We weren’t exactly flush with volunteers either. Not many were looking to leave everything behind to start over on a world without technology. Since we were already sending actual criminals, the brass figured one more couldn’t hurt much.” Narrowing his eyes as he turns his gaze northeast, the Marshal stares off towards Pleasant Dunes as if he can see it from here. “It appears they were wrong.” Bringing his eyes back around to focus on me, the Marshal takes a deep breath before continuing. “It’ll take some time to unravel what he’s been up to outside of Pleasant Dunes, but the fact that he let you come back alive tells me Ronald Jackson is a scary smart man.” Tapping my bull’s head medallion, the Marshal says, “He suspected you might be recording him and didn’t let anything slip, yet still gave you enough to bring back that we can’t ignore. That’s the only reason you walked out of town intact, so you could deliver his message. Wasn’t your fetching smile or your faith in the Accords which saw you out safely, not after kicking over that particular viper’s nest.”

Can’t say the Marshal’s wrong, considering how little I liked the look of Ron’s face while peeking out the Sherrif’s office. Never seen a man turn that particular shade of red before, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was ready to go down Blasting. Even after he promised me safe passage and pulled his heavies out, I was leery to step foot outside the sheriff’s office, and you better believe I high-tailed it out of Pleasant Dunes quick as a bunny. Ran both Floating Disc Cores and pushed Cowie all night and most of the day before I felt safe enough to rest, and didn’t feel fully assured until I passed through Meadowbrook’s Darksteel gates a few days later.

Still, can’t let a little scare keep me from earning. “Actually, I was kinda hoping to get in on whatever excursion the Rangers are planning to Pleasant Dunes,” I say. “Reckon I could help track down the Proggy, so y’all don’t gotta fight behind Ron’s walls.” It’s a good suggestion, and a tempting one too, because the Marshal don’t shut me down right quick, which means there ain’t no better chance to make my arguments. “Now you know my daddy taught me most everything he knows about tracking Abby, and I can narrow down a Proggie’s location to within a hundred metres, long as I’m within half a klick.” Which ain’t as useful as it sounds, considering how much they like to burrow, but still better than most. “Chances are, this baby Proggie will be making its way towards Pleasant Dunes through the existing networks of Abby tunnels and human mineshafts within the Snake Fang mountains. It won’t be travelling with an entire army though, so if I can lead a Ranger Strike Team right to it and hit it in transit. Nip this problem in the bud. No baby Proggie, no reason for the Abby army to attack Pleasant Dunes, and Mommy Proggie gets busy making herself another baby, which should buy us a few years to deal with Ron.”

And earn me a fat paycheck for leading the Rangers to a Proggie, whose corpses are chock full of expensive prizes. I win, the Rangers win, the townies of Pleasant Dunes win, and best of all, Ron loses.

“Not a bad plan.” Encouraging as the words are, the Marshal’s tone and expression are anything but. “Except you overlooked one thing. You are not the soldier your father was, not even when he was your age.” Something breaks inside me to hear it said out loud. I can’t tell what face I’m making, but I can see it hurts him something fierce too, even though we both know it’s the truth. “I’m not saying this to hurt you son,” the Marshal says, his cold tone warming just a hair. “It’s a hard pill to swallow, but it’s a fact, and not one that reflects poorly on you. You’re one of the most talented orthodox Spellcasters I’ve ever met, and if this were the old world, you’d have gotten a full ride to the University of your choice and be well on your way to becoming an Grandmagus. I’ve also no doubt that your father could have pushed you harder and moulded you into becoming the soldier he was. Could’ve started your training earlier, at six years young like he did, and put you through some of the unspeakable practices he endured, but he didn’t. You know why?” I shake my head and hate myself for tearing up as Uncle Teddy drops down to one knee and wraps me in a hug. “Because he wasn’t set on raising a soldier or Grandmagus. He was raising his son. Hao Wei, that’s the name he gave you, one which means ‘Great Abundance’, because he wanted you to have everything he never did, including a happy childhood.”

There ain’t much I can say, so I simply hug Uncle Teddy back. Not just because I need it. He needs this hug too, maybe a bit more than I do on account of what I said earlier. That wasn’t fair, because even if the facts are what they are, that don’t make them the be all and end all of truth. Theodore Ellis ain’t a man who’d order someone to march through hell and back without leading the way. If there was anything he could have done for my daddy, he would’ve done it already, so it ain’t right to blame him for doing nothing.

No matter how much I want to.

When we break our hug, Uncle Teddy takes up the mantle of Marshal once more as he stands back up and looks me square in the eyes. “That said being said, even though your father was better trained, he didn’t start Scouting for the Rangers right away, and he rarely did so alone. You want to be the soldier he was? Then you need training. Ranger training, which you’d have gotten if weren’t so mule-headed and signed on for boot camp already.” Holding up a hand to forestall my argument, one we’ve had many times before, he says, “There’s nothing that says you have to enlist as a Ranger after boot camp.” He took it hard when I told him I was giving up on my childhood dreams of joining the Rangers, but he didn’t fight it. Knew I had good reason, and he rallies here with a twinkle in his eye. “Nothing says that we’d have to take you on either, thank the Lord.” We share a smile, because we know I got the chops to make it, and then some. “So stop being stubborn and sign on. Finish Basic. Show everyone you know enough to keep yourself alive, and I’ll see to getting you the training you’ll need, out in the field alongside the Rangers just like your father, except you’ll be freelance. It’s that or you find yourself a profession that keeps you away from outlaws. One or the other Howie, that there is an ultimatum, or so help me God, the next time you ride out alone will be when you’re old and gray.”

…Oh no. He invoked the big guy, which means he’s serious. “When’s the next boot camp start?”

“Four months, or thereabouts.” My sullen expression earns me no sympathy here, as the Marshal shakes his head and says, “You have no one to blame but yourself. Most kids your age who wanted to sign up, already did. Those who didn’t either have their own professions sorted or signed up for training at HQ, so we need to wait until there are enough kids old enough to fill a second class.”

Don’t get why Ranger HQ is all the way over on the West coast. We’re more centrally located and can get to most places quicker, on account of moving downriver instead of up. “Alright. I’ll think about it,” I say, and I will, despite my answer sounding like I’m blowing things off. Basic might be a waste of time, but if it gets me freelance work with the Rangers and training to boot, then I can’t rightly refuse. Besides, Marshal Ellis ain’t the type to make idle threats, so it’s Ranger training or nothing. That said, Basic is a six-month course, and I don’t got six months to waste, especially when half that time gonna be spent covering things I already know. “So what you gonna do about Pleasant Dunes then?”

Shuffling a couple papers around his desk, the Marshal works real hard to avoid my gaze, which I find mighty peculiar. “Well,” he begins, drawing it out before finally giving up the game. “Marcus thinks it’s a good chance for the new boots to get stuck in. Young Progenitor, primarily goblin Aberrations, with a well-fortified outpost to fall back to. Checks all the right boxes, but knowing what I know now, my concern is that this is exactly what Ronald Jackson wants. Might be that we come in heavy to defend Pleasant Dunes, and once the dust settles, he takes us for everything we got.”

“And starts a war with the Rangers?” Don’t seem right, but I can’t come up with a better answer as to what Ron is up to. “No disrespect, but that sounds too short-sighted for the man I met. Ron got a game plan, but shooting Rangers in the back ain’t it. Wouldn’t sit well with most his people.” Like Carl, Vicente, and miss Laura. “No chance they’ll all keep quiet about it either, and then it’s only a matter of time before Ron get his own bounty.”

The Marshal don’t disagree, but he ain’t nodding along either. “Except for all we know, this is the same play he used to take out the Pittsburgh Mafia.”

Didn’t think about that. I can see why the Marshal all twisted up about it. “So… what you fixin’ to do about it?”

“Well,” the Marshal replies, heaving a heavy sigh, “I was thinking we go with Marcus’ plan as a diversion, then send in a Scout and Strike Team to take out the Progenitor in transit. Marcus gets good a look at Ronald Jackson, we show the people of Pleasant Dunes that the Rangers have their back, and do a sweep for any outlaws with open warrants you might have missed. Then, if the worst comes to pass and the Strike Team fails, we have all our ducks in a row and face off against an Abby horde from behind Pleasant Dunes’ walls.”

Ha. Can I come up with a plan, or can I come up with a plan? Now, all I gotta do is not look too pleased about it so the Marshal can save face when he tap me as Scout.

“Problem is,” he drawls, scribbling something out as he does, some official looking writ, “All our best trackers are either recovering, occupied, or unreachable. Ekun broke his leg during his last burrow delve, Harper’s tied up in the deadlands following up sightings of a Synapse, and we’ve been trying to reach Durden for the better part of a week now. Damn fool took his company back under dark to look for a safe passage through the Divide again.”

Already knew about the first two, and Drex Durden spends so much time under dark that you’d get better odds betting on when he’s not spelunking. Every other worthwhile Scout is either too far away or too busy with their own missions to get involved, which means I’m the best available option. Course, I try to look gracious about it, though it don’t work too well, and it don’t last long neither when the Marshal looks up to meet my smile with a firm shake of his head. “No Howie. I’m not sending you.” Tapping my bull’s head medallion, he adds, “I might’ve, if it wasn’t for what I saw on here. You’re clearly not ready, not without more training, and you already missed the window on that.”

Why don’t things ever work out the way they supposed to? “Now hold on a second,” I begin, sitting up to make my case, even though the Marshal already shaking his head. “You said you was sending out the new boots to Pleasant Dunes, right? Couldn’t you just slip me in with them? They only been at it for two months, learning which end of the gun is which. Even if I am lacking in training, it’s nothing they would’ve already covered. I join in, saddle up to Pleasant Dunes, do a bit of Scouting, and come back to finish boot camp. Everybody wins, except Ron. Perfect solution.”

“No.” Stamping the paper he been scribbling on with his official seal, the Marshal holds it out for me to take. I ignore it in favour of meeting his eyes in silent demand of an answer. Never one to be outdone, he lets go of the paper and I can’t stop myself from catching it, or looking to see what it is. Authorization on my bounty payout in the sum of $6,000. Should’ve taken a bit longer for me to get paid going through official channels, but I suppose this is his way smoothing over the rejection. “I already told you,” the Marshal begins, that hint of an edge back in his tone, “You’re a smart boy Howie, but you’re not ready for something like this. The fact that you think you can just skip the first two months of boot camp is proof positive. They’ve been covering fundamentals, I’ll give you that, but the important thing is that those boots have been doing it together. They’re not just learning how to fight and survive, but how to trust the people beside them and work together as a cohesive unit. I throw you in there tomorrow, and it’ll set those boots back three months, because you’ve never been one to play nice.”

I’d love to argue the point, but truth is, he being mighty generous about it. I’m a friendly sort, all smiles and sunshine, but for some reason, my bright disposition tends to rub some folk the wrong way. Not a problem, so long as they don’t do nothing about it, but if they do, well… all I’ll say is that Ron found out the hard way how I don’t spook easy, and he handled it better than most.

“So you serious about benching me for the next ten months?” I hate how hurt and whiny I sound, like an upset kid, but I got a right to be upset. Four months twiddling my thumbs, followed by six jumping through hoops, and for what? A chance at more training? “How am I supposed to make a living then?”

“You nearly died son!” The Marshal’s palm comes down on his desk like a thunderclap, and I’m ashamed to say I jumped in my seat. I seen him angry before, but not hot like this, face red and gaze fierce. “Why can’t you get that through your thick head? Six-thousand dollars. A fair sum indeed, but is that worth your life? Because that’s what this work will cost you!” It’s a rare sight, Uncle Teddy flying off the handle like he does, and I feel ashamed for having brought it about as he points at me and says, “You lucked out this time, but lady luck is a fickle mistress, and she’ll turn on you eventually. All it takes is one bad roll of the dice, one time when you run up against an outlaw who’s either smarter than you, or so stupid he doesn’t even think about the consequences before pulling the trigger.” Slumping back down into his chair, the Marshal lets the flames of anger gutter out, leaving only grim resignation behind. “And then I’ll have to bury you next to your mother and father. So yes, Howie. I’m dead serious. You’ve made enough to tide you over, and I’ll find work for you if you need more. Go home son, and stay there until you finish boot camp.”

That’s a dismissal if I ever heard one, so I leave with my papers and medallion in hand. All quiet like too, without letting my mouth run on like it usually do. There’s a lot I could say, want to say even, about how he got no legal right to hold me in town, or how I still want to be a Ranger but I can’t, or how this here is the Frontier, and ain’t nowhere safe, but it’s all old hat now. I hurt him today, so I don’t wanna argue anymore. I know how much Uncle Teddy cares about me, know he would’ve burned Pleasant Dunes to the ground to get to Ron if I’d died there. I also know there are things the Marshal can’t do, things I can only count on myself for.

I love the man like family, and respect him like no one else, but he’s wrong about this. Sure I got a couple rough edges that need smoothing, but I ain’t about to sit on my hands for the next ten months just because he don’t wanna hafta bury me. We’ve all buried people we don’t want to. My daddy buried my mama, I buried him and Uncle Raleigh before him, and chances are I’ll bury more before it’s all said and done. If Uncle Teddy ends up having to bury me, well then I’m sorry for that, but I’d rather be cold in the ground than sit idle and watch the Frontier pass me by.

Ain’t nothing left to say, nothing which hasn’t already been said. All that’s left is to learn from my mistakes and show Uncle Teddy that ready or not, I’m old enough to make my own decisions, and I’m of a mind to be out there earning, even if it might cost me my life. I ain’t an idiot. I know how close I came to dying in Pleasant Dunes, but I can’t afford to let that slow me down, because he got one thing right. My life is worth much more than six grand, but there ain’t no reward without risk. Like I said, we all selling ourselves out here on the Frontier. Some for labour, others sex, and still more for danger and violence, among many other options, and none of it goes without the risk of death. That’s the only real choice we have, how we sell ourselves, and for how much, so I might as well go for broke and pick the option which pays best. Go big or go home, that’s what they say, ain’t it? Except in this case, home is a hole in the ground next to my parents, so I’m happy no matter which way it goes. As for Uncle Teddy and everyone else I’d leave behind? My heart goes out to them, but they’ll manage.

Because one thing the Frontier teaches well is that no matter what tragedy might befall you, life will always move on.