Stop them in their tracks with Entangle, Spike Growth, or Web.

  Ask Aunty Ray for a Hypnotic Pattern or Slow to do the same.

  Send Clayton out to the flank to sling a Challenging Shout, forcing a sharp, leg-breaking pivot that’ll turn into a traffic jam for the herd in front, then punch right through them with the Big Stick up top of Cowie’s Wagon.

  Puddles of Grease to get them slipping and sliding to break legs and necks alike. Sleet Storm to do the same while also obscuring their vision. Water, Wind, or Earthen Wall to slow, push, or stop them in their tracks. Psionic Blast to knock them on their asses, Erupting Earth to kill a good few and render the terrain too difficult to charge across, or a Force Barrier placed low and stretched wide to catch their legs and trip them up as they charge. Options for every School of Magic, most of which were available to our group and others I could pick up in time, but all viable responses to a herd of charging Cliffstriders coming towards us from both side.

  More viable than Fireball at least, which might’ve killed a good chunk outright, but wouldn’t have killed them all. Even if it did, we’d have to contend with all the corpses blocking our way, as wagons don’t handle bumpy terrain all that well, meaning I’d have to wait the five seconds to hit the Cliffstriders behind us and pray that they didn’t scatter and spread out. That’s why Kairi told Tina to keep me from fucking things up, because they had a plan and executed it perfectly. Kairi’s Fear set the Cliffstriders up, slowing their advance and bunching ‘em all together for Zeke’s Banishing Wave to knock ‘em out of the park with one big swing. If I had thrown out a Fireball like planned, I would’ve hit the herd at about 30 meters, leaving a stack of corpses to block our path and scattering the survivors who’d then come at us with a wider spread, leaving no way for a single Fear or Banishing Wave to hit them all since both Spells deliver a cone shaped area of effect that reaches up to 10m from the Caster’s hand.

  And that’s assuming a single Fireball is enough to kill a Cliffstrider outright. Got no idea how tough they are, but if they got hides thick enough to block Bolts from a rifle, then them hides might well be thick enough to keep their inner organs from getting cooked in one go. The heat from Fireball don’t penetrate all that well, and while Ferals ain’t as tough as the Soulless Undead, they sure can take a licking and keep on ticking as they tend to be all animalistic fury with brains being optional. Gives ‘em a single-minded focus and power of will that can really take you by surprise when you empty a full magazine into one and it just keeps coming at you. That’s why Ferals are so ubiquitous despite being arguably the least effective version of Abby out there. Goblins are more cunning and Soulless are tougher, but Ferals got that beast in them, a frenzied, almost mindless mindset that is sorely lacking in self-preservation instincts when it suits the Proggie.

  Just look at Harpies. They’re pretty much winged Goblins with knives strapped to their feet. Cheap, deadly, and pretty much suicidal once they smell blood on the wind. Their Proggie has been sending them out to attack towns along the Blue Bulwark twice a year every year for the last seven years. In all that time, the number of Harpies who survive those attacks to make it home to Proggie can probably be counted on two hands, or at most with two more feet added into the mix. Even the dumbest Proggie would’ve figured out that its Harpies ain’t all that great at staying alive, so it might be good to give them some brains to tell them just that.

  And yet their Proggie ain’t done shit to make Harpies tougher, cannier, or just more careful in general. In fact, I’d say it’s done the complete opposite, with the only real change I can point at being how they’ve learned to take down the biggest threat first. Don’t get it twisted, as that’s good tactics there, since once you’ve dealt with the threats, the rest be easy pickings. Thing is, some suspect that the Harpy Proggie has clued in to the fact that humans are a slow-renewing resource, needing 8 to 12 years of lead time before we produce a new one capable of using a gun. Not all that effectively, but a kid with a gun is about as dangerous as your average townie with one, and oftentimes more so considering the facts. As such, the Proggie might well have crunched the numbers and decided that a long war of attrition is in its favour, so its more than happy to cull the herd of the dangerous humans for now and call that biomass well spent.

  Couldn’t do that with Gobbos, as they’re built a little different. When you get right down to brass tacks, they’re a cowardly lot of greenies they are, with strong self-preservation instincts that can be used against them. That’s why they typically rely on their brutal cunning to lay traps and ambushes or attack from afar with thrown rocks or sharpened sticks. They make shields and amour to keep their hides intact and craft weapons to make them better at killing, and most importantly of all, if things are looking bad, they’re more than willing to run and live to fight another day. To drive them into a suicidal rush and overwhelm a fortified position like Pleasant Dunes, they needed a Proggie front and centre to muddle their minds enough to overcome that survivor’s instinct, but that just makes them less effective Ferals, while also rendering them useless long term as going berserk shortens their life spans significantly, so much so that most will probably die regardless if they win or lose.

  Whereas Ferals got that suicidal killer instinct baked right in, because their Proggies don’t care all that much about their minions surviving. If they don’t, then at the end of the day, all they’ve really lost is a bit of time and biomass.

  Yeah, whether it be Goblinoids, Ferals, or Soulless, each specific brand of Abby got their own quirks, but here on the Frontier, most Proggies went with Ferals because humans weren’t around when they made the decision. No need for smart Gobbos if all you’re hunting is animals, and Soulless don’t much care for inhabiting animal bodies, because in doing so, all you really get is a real expensive Feral with no benefits from being Soulless. Juice ain’t worth the squeeze, not like it is with humans who might be powerful Spellslingers in their own right, and while Magical Beasts might make for a good Soulless host, those are too few and far between to bank on as a Proggie.

  It’s a good thing Proggies can’t easily switch tracks between the three. Something about the inherent biology of the Proggies themselves that matches up with the type of Abby they produce, with researchers theorizing that it’s a choice new Proggies make and pass down to their progeny in turn.

  All that to say that there’s a marked difference between Ferals, Gobbos, and Soulless, with the biggest one being that Ferals are pretty much always all-in when they start a fight. Gobbos can go either way, while Soulless rarely ever commit with the big dogs, as even Ghasts, Wight Lords, and Archliches ain’t nothing compared to the resources invested into a single Mimic, which starts out as a weak and piddly Spirit thing that grows in strength and cunning over time as it devours the minds and souls of the hosts it inhabits. And if my my math is right, I got not one, but two shards of Mimics incubating inside by head, so if I’m not careful, they’ll eat and eat and eat until I’m too dumb and twisted to realize I’ve turned into a fucking monster, one that’ll kill anyone and everyone starting with those nearest and dearest to my heart.

  Hell, the brain drain might well have already started, as I done near panicked and fucked up seeing them stupid Cliffstriders come at us so quick. I even have Spike Growth Prepped and available as it’s a great Spell to use against charging Abby. Learned that first hand hunting in the Badlands and the Coral Desert, and these days I keep three Entangle Grenades on my belt at all times because they’re just so darned handy to have.

  Problem is, a tool’s only as good as the person using it, and no good at all if you forget you have it. That’s why I’m kicking myself six ways from Sunday, because I utterly botched my response to that whole attack. Not just by Readying a Fireball to try and brute force my way past twenty plus tonnes of muscle charging headlong towards us, but also telling Clayton and the Wildshapers, four very mobile and highly effective Spellslingers, to bunch up in between the wagons where they’d be trapped like rats once them Cliffstriders came charging in.

  Stupid is as stupid does, and if it wasn’t for the Rangers, I would’ve lost big here. Hubris that, getting too big for my britches and failing to consider all the angles before showing up in a new location. Made that mistake in the Deadlands and would’ve paid bigly if not for Edward, Aaron, and Luther holding my hand, and now I done it again here in the South-Eastern Front. Figured Cliffstriders were just a bunch of jumpy goats, so how hard could it be to pick them off as they charged in? A lot harder than anticipated, which just goes to show I ain’t half as good as people think. I got the benefit of years of experience up in the Coral Desert and going up against the Bugs of the Badlands, but put me in a new area and most that experience don’t mean shit, not when I’m going up against unfamiliar Abby for the very first time.

  Which is what Rangers excel at mind you, what my training was focused in, and yet I’ve gone and cocked it up on my very first encounter with Ferals I’ve known and heard about for years now. Part of it is me getting complacent about hunting Abby after being on my own for so many years, but a part of it is also my over-reliance on Fireball. Almost feels sacrilegious to think it, but maybe Fireball ain’t the end all be all of all Spells. Sure, it’s gotten me out of a lot of tough binds in the short time I’ve had it, but it’s been my go-to answer for almost every situation even when it’s clearly not the best response. Worked great for taking out all them Vanguard Nationals and assorted groupies, but maybe wasn’t the best Spell to Ready before walking into that first meeting with Ronald Jackson in the saloon. Kept me from utilizing Misty Step to make space, dropping Fog Cloud to obscure vision, Grease to deny movement, or just an Elemental Orb of Fire to set the shelves of bottled alcohol aflame.

  Yeah, I had a lot of options for that particular encounter, some better, some worse, but most of which wouldn’t put me at risk of friendly fire. Fact is, useful as Fireball is, it’s best used in concert with other heavy hitters to throw out a big Alpha strike and take out a whole group at once. I’d even go a step further and say it’s not all that useful to me most days, because if I’m riding solo and within 40 meters of a big group just primed for a Fireball, then I probably made a mistake. Thing is, I’ve been all too happy to make those mistakes while seeking out opportunities to use Fireball, because Big Spell make Howie happy. That’s the American in me, when the Scout ought to say, “Hey, idjit. That’s not your job. Know your fuckin’ role and stick to it until there come a time when you good enough to branch out.”

  And today’s proven I am nowhere close to good enough to move on from my roots. Being a solo operative means I gotta be a jack of all trades, and while that’s still more useful than a master of one, it ain’t by much. In a group like this with 4 Rangers and 5 heavy hitting civilians in the form of Clayton, Aunty Ray, and the three Wildshapers, that downgrades me to a master of none, making me more or less useless, if not detrimental to the cause. Kairi was right to tell Tina to keep me contained, because I almost screwed the pooch back there trying to do my own thing. Bet they’re all laughing at how dumb I looked, barking all the wrong orders and making terrible decisions when they had it all well in hand. Tina knew it too, was halfway through telling me that there were probably more Abby lying in wait ahead, and I bet Sergeant Rowan even knew exactly what sort of Abby we were up against. How else would she know to put Kairi and Zeke up front? Then again, maybe Sergeant Rowan didn’t know about the Cliffstriders, but knew her people could handle whatever may come, unlike a certain snot-nosed kid who’s gotten much too big for his britches.

  Don’t much care for eating crow, but that there is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Puts me in a foul mood it does, to say nothing of my concern for Mr. Tillman’s safety with only a rag-tag merc group to keep him safe, but ain’t nothing I can do about that now. Nothing besides fret and fume for most of the day, leaving me too distracted to realize we’re coming up on the first build site until we’re almost on top of it.

  Ain’t much to see, as they’re still digging pits and shoring up foundations, but there are a fair few sections of wooden walls that look sturdy enough I guess. Plenty of pointed barricades to pad out the defensive line, while there’s also an overabundance of signage stating there be mines, tripwires, and pitfalls out on the open ground, so don’t drive out and park wherever you please. All contained in a fairly ambitious square of a build site that’s a good two-hundred meters a side if not more. That’s 40 thousand square meters or round about ten acres to work with. Not a whole lot of room for a fortress, as you need more than just housing to make it work. You need workshops for building and maintaining gear, storage areas for weapons, ammo, and food, kitchens to cook out of and stables to house draft animals when not in use. Ideally, you want room on the walls to fight atop them, plus a clear killing ground inside the gates to handle anything that breaks in, to say nothing of internal roads to move around faster and a command building to oversee the inevitable siege, as there ain’t no way this fortress will stand without a fight.

  Nor has it gone unchallenged, as I spot the telltale signs of exploded mines in the churned earth all around the site, as well as the wary gazes of hardened guards posted up in watchtowers following our group as we ride by. Don’t no one stop us though, not with Rangers leading the way, but when Kairi and Zeke look to bring us into the build site proper, I can’t help but balk to see it. Wasn’t planning on camping inside with the condemned criminals building the fortress, as I figured we’d be safer outside on our own, but after our run in with the Cliffstriders earlier today, I’m not so sure about that anymore. If we get caught with our pants down out there in the middle of the night, there won’t be much we can do except stand and fight, as by the time we get Dumpling and Samosa into their harnesses to pull their wagon, Abby would already be on us like fleas on a sick marty.

  So I swallow my pride and follow the Rangers into the fortified built site, one that’s fairly cramped all things considered. Without any machinery to do the heavy lifting, it takes a whole lot of manpower to build a fortress, manpower primarily supplied by criminals serving hard time. Who as you might imagine ain’t all that enthusiastic about the work, much less skilled at it, but the Feds seem to think throwing more bodies at the problem will fix all our woes. Now, 10 acres is a fair amount of space, but when you gotta keep everyone contained inside of it, that really limits your options. With 40,000 square meters, you might think there’s plenty of room for 1000 people, as that’s 40 square meters a head, except that’s not how it works.

  First, you need space for tools, materials, animals, and whatnot. You need an area to cook in, an area to clean, and an area for human waste that hopefully ain’t too close to the first two. Then, you need to account for the fact that the prisoners outnumber the wardens, guards, and civilian workers by a fair margin, and while they’re all clapped in anti-magic manacles, that won’t stop them from using an Aetherarm if they get a hold of one. So you gotta segregate the prisoners at night and keep them from sneaking out and about, which means putting down a guarded perimeter and taking up even more space than they might otherwise need. Add in the space needed for doing work, like carving stone or cutting timbers, and quarters for the hoity toity types that don’t much care for breathing the same air as plebs much less occupying the same space, and you’re left with not a whole lot of room for a whole lot of people.

  Which is why Sergeant Rowan’s gotta get into a shouting match with the local quartermaster, as he wants to split us up into groups of 4 or 5 to camp out at different sites instead of clearing out enough room for all 13 of us. Tries to requisition our wagons while he’s at it, or at the very least arrange to park them out on the picket line to provide cover should an attack come in, but I ain’t about to let my very expensive wagons carrying all my very expensive things out of my sight. Credit where credit is due, Sergeant Rowan ain’t about that either, as she pulls out a line I intend to use more often now that I know for a fact that I can. “We are travelling under a Letter of Safe Conduct issued by the Federal Government,” she says, enunciating the capital letters in all those words while pulling out the same orders she showed me that were signed by High Command, “Escorting a special envoy and his advisors to a diplomatic event in New Sonora. As such, we hold a Writ of Exception disallowing the acquisition, requisition, or seizure of any and all belongings of the special envoy and his party.”

  See see no touch pretty much, and I can’t help but crack a smile to hear it. The quartermaster ain’t none too pleased though, and he even takes the time to read through the stack of papers instead of simply glancing at them like I did. While Mr. Tillman assured me that the Federation wouldn’t want to step on my toes with regards to me carrying illegal Aetherarms and other such weapons, it’s always good to have it in writing, meaning I might want to ask Sergeant Rowan if she got a copy for me to keep to myself. Couldn’t get a full-on diplomatic seal or letter of immunity or nothing, but a Letter of Safe Conduct sounds pretty handy to have in my back pocket.

  The quartermaster don’t buy it, as he keeps throwing incredulous looks my way, but Sergeant Rowan’s a recognized Staff Sergeant in the Rangers and got all the papers in order, so the quartermaster got no choice but to shuffle his people around to clear out a space big enough for me and mine. Well away from the prisoner camp, though most are still hard at work digging, moving dirt, and securing timber frames where they’re supposed to. Doesn’t look like much now, but in a week or two on my way back, I bet I won’t even recognize the place anymore, as it looks like all the foundational work is finishing up what with the brick-cutting and gravel pours and whatnot.

  Won’t be a fully fledged fortress town like New Hope anytime soon, nor is it anywhere close to size, but that’s how it’s gotta be. Build yourself something big enough to house everyone working on it, then expand from there so you always have a place to fall back to. If the Watershed breaks in the next few months, then I imagine all three burgeoning forts will be abandoned right quick. If not, then I reckon they’ll have something built to last before the first snowfall this winter, and a proper, sizable fortress town by next year.

  Might not sound like it, but I’m rootin’ for ‘em, because the last thing we need is for the Badlands to extend out to the west and cut off Redeemer’s Keep from New Sonora. While the Feds got a pretty decent pipeline going all the way to the west coast via the Wayfarer River, and the Highway to link them to the Métis and Coral Desert up north, the lands to the south will be vital come the Watershed. The Fuchsia Flatlands got a year-round growing season, as the climate gets a whole lot warmer once you get down close to the ocean. I’m talking almost to the coast mind you, as this here slice of the Frontier is only about 12 to 14 hundred klicks from north to south, so only the areas closest to the coast can really grow crops year-round.

  Depending on what you plant though, you still get a much longer growing season compared to further north. For example, New Sonora is warm enough to grow a whole lot of Bristle Grains, which take a long time to mature, but also have ridiculously high yields compared to regular wheat or potates. While it do take a lot of manual labour to harvest and a bit of effort to shell, the farmers don’t gotta do much else besides keep them Bristle Grains watered for the long growing season. Granted, they do be a thirsty crop, and the Fuschia Flatlands don’t get as much water as New Hope, but it’s still a decent cash crop that a lotta nations love because the end result tastes like rice from the old world. Most even sell the grains in the shell and off-source the husking onto the consumer, which is how I typically buy it, but there do be something tempting about buying a big old sack of shelled grains and just cooking them up as needed.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  That’s just one crop mind you, but there’re plenty of other staples that come out of the Flatlands. Tabacco, cassava, all manner of beans and melons, as well as a bunch of fruit that doesn’t travel well so I’ve only ever had it dried. As such, they export a whole lot of foodstuffs up north, and while New Hope is pretty self sufficient thanks to the Marshal making sure his people had everything they needed to be just that, our neighbours to the North ain’t as fortunate. They’re hampered by a growing season that lasts about five months on a regular year, unless they’re content to growing berries, tubers, and grass. As such, they’re heavily reliant on imported crops like bristle grain and breadroot grown in the Flatlands to keep their people going. In return, the Métis Export truckloads of Muscari meat and related products, like hides, furs, ivory, and whatnot, all of which be in pretty high demand down south since they don’t got many meat animals that thrive down that way.

  On account of all the Ferals running amok, to say nothing of the natural predators. The unending conflicts between minor nations don’t help things much, but I don’t know much about that except to know that it happens. Even though the major conflict I’m riding into is between the Feds and the Republic, there are dozens of other Nations with skin in the game, and I’ve no doubt the Qin were happy to raid anyone and everyone along the way. Say what you will about the Republic, but they don’t discriminate; they hate people of all races so long as you ain’t Qin, and even then I’d say they don’t seem to care all that much for each other. It’s more like they fight alongside each other because they feel they’re better off presenting a united front as opposed to letting foreigners run roughshod over them all.

  Whereas Americans are proud and nationalistic, but trying to get them to work together is a lot like herding marties. In that they will claw and bite the shit out of you and each other the whole way through, without caring one whit for the fact that you’re trying to save them from an impending disaster.

  So really, my whole plan is to show up and make such a big nuisance of myself that they send me away. Won’t happen if I don’t get there in one piece though, so as soon as the quartermaster clears a space and we’re all settled in, I get to making nice with the Rangers. Breaking out a crate of mead, I go around offering a bottles to every member of the party, leaving the Rangers for last. They’re all gathered about making ready to cook off their catch from the day, most of which was carried by Armando who’s a Conjurer with a Floating Disc that can carry way, way, way more than the 450 kilograms the base Spell accounts for. While I didn’t get a head count on how many Cliffstriders they killed, there had to be close to 60. Assuming each one weighs 750 kilos, that’s 45,000 kilograms of mass, or about 100 times what a basic Floating Disc can handle.

  Armando didn’t carry all of it by his lonesome, but he got more than half onto his comically oversized Floating Disc that took up about three lanes on the Highway and wobbled precariously once it was fully loaded. To get that big, it most certainly had to be upcasted to Third Order and Metamagicked with Widened, meaning in one encounter, we used 64 Aether to cast 4 Big Spells, with Fear, Banishing Wave, and my wasted Fireball rounding it out alongside this upcasted Floating Disc. If it was me by my lonesome, that’d wipe out my reserves for the day, but with Specialist Magi here to take on the bulk of the costs, it ain’t nothing but a chicken wing.

  Which is why I was almost offended when I found out Sergeant Rowan wasn’t planning on stopping to collect her catch. Because her job is to escort me apparently, but even though I don’t got no share of the proceeds, I wasn’t about to let them leave all that black gold behind on account of me. On the one hand, I get where her head is at, as Sergeant Rowan don’t got no personal stake in cooking Abby. Don’t none of the Aberrtin or Spell Cores go in her pocket, so she wasn’t all that eager to spend an hour hauling bodies onto Floating Disc and even more time cooking later on. Thing is, I ain’t about to leave these bodies for Abby to pick up and recycle, to say nothing about how the Marshal funds a large portion of the defense efforts along the Blue Bulwark using the proceeds from Abby his Rangers kill.

  So as soon as all them Abby were handled, I turned us all right around and even personally helped with stacking Abby, while Clayton, Raja, Bodvar, and Nhiall all pitched in too. Sasha tried to help, and so did Aunty Ray, but they were both panting and red in the face after ten minutes of work, so I sat them down and had them help Tina with the cooking, as we had time enough to use my oversized pressure cooker to boil off a single batch while we secured the rest of the bodies in place. Didn’t get to try my hand at butchering Abby all efficiently like how I seen them Protectorate Squires do it, so once we’re all squared away in the build site, I open up a dialogue once the Rangers are sucking back on mead while ignoring Tina’s pleading gaze to try one now that she’s eighteen. “Was thinking I could help with the butchering and cooking,” I say, gesturing at the pile of corpses Armando left on the dirt, as he couldn’t be bothered to maintain his oversized Floating Disc anymore.

  Which to be fair, was probably difficult seeing how he pumped so much extra effort into the Spell then held it for like six or seven hours after the fact. Still kinda sloppy is all I’m saying, but I suppose there’s a reason why he’s a part of the Remedial Three.

  “Have at it,” Zeke says, grinning from ear to ear in that disarmingly goofy sort of way as he raises his bottle in silent thanks. His weathered features and square face has got an asymmetry to it, like one side droops more than the other, which combined with his unshaven chin and nose that been broken far too many times makes him look like an ugly, beat-up couch in human form. “Hell, you do as much work as you want. I ain’t gonna get in your way.”

  Holding the crate out for Sergeant Rowan, I look to her for the final say as neither Kairi nor Armando care to weigh in. The former is busy scowling at all the men who happen to walk by to give Aunty Ray a good look or three, while the latter is lighting up in broad daylight with no shame for the disgrace he is. As for the Sergeant, she holds up a hand in refusal and says, “I’m on duty. As to the matter of cooking, you’re welcome to it, though I feel the need to point out that any and all gains are the property of the U.F.S.A, and we are offering no payment for services rendered.”

  Crosses her I’s and dots her T’s, that’s Sergeant Rowan Lee for you. Seems odd that she’s being all formal and by the book with me when she got a Ranger smoking marijuana not two feet away from us, but whatever. “No need,” I say, setting the crate down within easy reach of the Rangers in case they want more, as you can’t get much of a buzz from honey starmelon mead. “Figured it’s the least I could do seeing how y’all pulled our giblets out of the fire today.”

  Kairi scoffs to hear it, but don’t no one else really acknowledge my words, not even Sergeant Rowan who looks like she’d love to just dismiss me, but doesn’t because she knows I ain’t no recruit. Stifling a sigh, I get to work chopping up Abby with Tina, with my new oversized knife that is almost as big as Vicente’s, even though I made fun of him for carrying it way back in the day. It’s a plain old clip point, but the massive 7” blade still feels oversized and unwieldy even after putting many hours of practice in over the last few weeks. Wasn’t much else I could really train with after running through my Spells, as I had Aunty Ray watching me like a hawk to make sure I didn’t overexert myself and open up old injuries. Also talked a little with Hamish about what to look for, and while I ain’t no aficionado like him, I’ve learned a thing or three about efficient butchering, and end up teaching Tina a little while I’m at it.

  Which don’t save as much time as you’d think considering I got my oversized pressure cooker to do most the heavy lifting. Does help to stack all them long, muscular Cliffstrider legs like firewood, and racks of ribs stack pretty well too, but goat heads with massive, pointy horns embedded deep into their skulls don’t stack nicely no matter how you turn them about. Can’t leave them off either, because the horns got a fair bit of Aberrtin seeing how it’s their primary means of attack. No matter though, because it’s pretty easy work once you get into the rhythm of things, and by the time Aunty Ray got a meal fit for a king ready, me and Tina have got a pile of dismembered Abby body parts all laid out nicely to cook.

  “You feeling better yet?” Tina asks, as we thoroughly wash the gore off of ourselves using Water Spheres. Got her head poking out from the shower stall I built into the back of my wagon for a bit of privacy, as I don’t want no one staring at my shapely sorta-sister while she’s soaking wet. “Been in a foul mood all day and workin’ yourself to the bone, but I don’t see no reason why.”

  “I’m in a foul mood because I almost screwed the pooch today,” I reply, a touch more harshly than intended. “Almost every decision I made was the wrong one, and if it wasn’t for this Ranger escort, we would’ve lost a few horses at the very least.”

  “Only because you didn’t know what you was up against,” Tina replies. “Sergeant Rowan heard from the Templars that Cliffstriders have been active these last few days, and she’s faced them before plenty of times. Same goes for the rest of the team, so they all knew what to do, while this here is your first rodeo. Can’t really blame yourself for not knowin’ what you don’t know Howie.”

  “That so?” I ask, scrubbing away a particularly stubborn patch of Abby goop that done hardened on my jeans. “Then who do I blame, Tina?” Ain’t no answer forthcoming, so I push on and say, “If I want to keep going as I am, ridin’ solo around the Frontier, then the buck stops at me. Wasn’t nothin’ stoppin’ me from asking the Templars about Abby activity down south, or pickin’ their brains on what to expect and how to react. Had days to ask the Rangers about it too, but I didn’t, now did I? Got no one to blame but me, so yeah, I can blame myself because I should’ve known better.”

  Again, Tina’s gone silent, so I heave a sigh and finish washing up without another word before joining the rest of our group for dinner. Ain’t in any mood for conversation, as I’m going over all my plans moving forward. Talked Sasha through our contingencies regarding Abby encounters just last night, and while most of it focused on shoot and scoot, after today, I’m thinking I need to be a bit more proactive about it. It’s the Highway that threw me off, as I typically worry more about people than Abby when riding along it. South of Redeemer’s Keep though, I need to keep a wary eye out for both, as you never know you might run into out here.

  Case in point, as we’re eating, some pasty fella in a guard uniform and a perpetual sneer shows up with a few other guards, with all of them making the wrong sorts of eyes at Aunty Ray, Chrissy, and Tina who’re sat together. “Evening ladies,” the lead guard says, paying no mind to me, Clayton, or any of the other men sitting around the campfire. “Hope I’m not intruding, but it’s hard walking past a meal that smells so divine without stopping to take it all in.”

  I see the look in his eyes, and I know that ain’t all he taking in. Now truth be told, I’m still in a foul mood from my cock up today, and getting more or less snubbed by the Ranger Reject Squad didn’t do nothing to improve it. As such, I don’t bother trying to play nice and just dive right in. “You are.” Meeting the guard’s eyes, I give him the look that says I don’t see him as nothing but dead meat. “Intruding that is. Stop if you must, and take it in as you like, but unless you got official business here, I’ll ask ye kindly to do it from outside the marked boundaries of our camp site.”

  Can tell the lead guard is cut from the same cloth as Dave, the guard who done drew on me for no reason really and is now suing me for injuries suffered and wages lost due to the ‘assault’. Stupid that, as he don’t stand a chance of winning in court seeing how I was unarmed and recorded him drawing on me without warning. Contrary to guard protocol mind you, to say nothing of the fact that he was off duty and I wasn’t harassing Nora like he claims, but rather she was trying to get me to stay and talk it out. Still a kick in the gut to think about it, and I’ve since come to realize I didn’t beat Dave nearly half as bad as he deserved, so if these fellas don’t leave right quick, they’re gonna pay for his mistakes.

  I’m almost eager for the fight, ready and waiting for it, but the guard finally looks past his anger and annoyance to see who he’s dealing with. Not some punk kid who’s being disrespectful, but the Yellow Fucking Devil himself, sitting here with guns in easy reach and a willingness to use them. Don’t matter if he’s a guard employed by the Federal Government to keep the peace at this here build site. I’m still within my rights to be left undisturbed without cause, and I’ve made that clear to them all. If they push the issue, they best find an excuse and quick, because I’m about a hair’s breadth away from invoking the Accords and threatening to gun them all down where they stand.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, the lead guard recognizes me for who I am, and so do his lackies who all back off a step or two. Without his buddies to support him, the guard deflates and steps back to join them. “I’ll leave you to it then,” he says, furious enough to be spitting chips like Uncle Rigsby would say, but too cowardly to direct that ire right at me. “Have a good night.”

  “Y’all have a good night too,” Aunty Ray replies, her smile all bright and cheery and no doubt giving all the guards mixed signals. Not saying a woman can’t smile at a man and mean nothing by it, but these the sorts to read too much into it, so ain’t no sense adding fuel to the fire. Soon as they’re away though, Aunty Ray’s smile melts into a glower which she turns over to me. “Howie,” she says, sounding all sorts of scandalized, “Is that how you greet all the locals on your trips? Small wonder you keep gettin’ into trouble then. Didn’t I ever tell you that you catch more flies with honey.”

  “Never understood that saying,” I grumble, feeling my cheeks redden as I twirl up a forkful of pasta to shove into my mouth as soon as I’m done retorting. “Why would I ever want to catch flies? Or waste perfectly good honey doin’ it?”

  Aunty Ray got no reply for that, just keeps up her glower while I shovel food into my face and stare down at my plate. Can see Clayton and the Wildshapers all trading smiles as they ain’t ever seen me cowed like this before, but I’d like to see any one of them try talking back to their mamas. Or their wives, as Clayton does everything Creasy asks of him, even if he don’t do it right away. As for the Rangers, they’re better at keeping a poker face, though Zeke looks much too amused for my liking, while Armando is so out of it I don’t think he even clocked the exchange. As for Kairi, she’s busy chatting it up with Sergeant Rowan while giving Aunty Ray the side eye, no doubt blaming her for being too damned pretty and attracting all the wrong sorts of attention because of it.

  Same kinda attention Tina’s getting, so for Kairi’s sake, I hope she got a better plan of dealing with it besides heaping all the blame onto my sorta sister. The Catfish done earned herself a little goodwill today, and a whole lot more respect, but ain’t nothing gonna stop me from putting her in the ground if Tina gets hurt because her Mentor don’t got her back.

  Which is just another way for me to direct my anger elsewhere, because the only people I’m really angry at are me, myself, and I. Aunty Ray sees it too, as she don’t say nothing else and just reaches out to give my arm a good squeeze before going back to her chat with Tina while Chrissy and Sasha practice ASL. As for me, I eat my meal, keep my head on a swivel, and glare down anyone who’s paying me and mine too much attention. Ain’t in the right headspace to be studying with pen and paper, and seeing how we’re out in the danger zone, I don’t feel safe enough to practice my Spells. Instead, I check and double check anything and everything I can, including Old Tux’s shoes which look almost brand new. Seems hale and hearty as ever too, even after a week of hard travel, which only hammers home the point that his health wasn’t in decline because he was getting old. No, it was in decline because I kept him penned up in the ranch and only walked him once or twice a week for close to four years. Guess I let him down too, just like I let down everyone who ever had a hand in teaching me, because I sure as shooting ain’t where I ought to be in terms of skills and foresight.

  Which is why I spend all night dwelling on just that, sleeping up top of Cowie’s wagon and leaving the interior for Clayton while Sasha sleeps on the driver’s seat. The Wildshapers prefer sleeping out under the stars, while Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray all slept in the other, newer, more comfortable wagon with a leather mat built right in with settings for hooks to keep it from shifting all about. While we eat breakfast, I bring Sasha over to check out the Radio and show him how it works and how to get a better signal if it ain’t clear enough. “Don’t need to respond to nothing if you hear it,” I say, seeing that the kid is about maxed out on new information and needs time to process it. “The channel should be empty, but if you pick up chatter that ain’t me, you got the list of backups to use.” Patting my recently acquired hand-held radio, I explain, “If I hear anything that ain’t us, I’ll signal that I’m switching over and give it a minute before changing channels. After that, I’ll check in every minute on the minute until you respond with two long presses of the button, like you gonna say something but don’t. Got it?”

  Sasha nods, then looks at me and asks, “You need me to do this why?”

  “I’ll be riding point,” I reply, gesturing out ahead of us. “Moving serpentine out ahead to cover as much ground as I can and watch for incoming Abby. Hoping it gets us a little more warning than we had yesterday, yeah?” Before he can ask, I say, “Can’t bring you with or let you get more practice riding, not out here. I’ll need two horses to keep them from tiring out too much, so man the Radio for me, will you? Leaving it on gives Aunty Ray and Chrissy a blistering headache after a bit.”

  “Signal feedback,” Sasha supplies, nodding like he knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Ground loop maybe, or bad power to speakers. I can fix. Need pliers and soldering iron.”

  “Much appreciated. Show me when we stop off for the night,” I say, knuckling the kid’s shoulder and giving him a nod of thanks. “Daylight’s burning after all, and I want us behind defended walls before nightfall.”

  Sasha nods and gives the Radio another look, but his gaze is stolen away by the Nanfoodle hanging in front of it. I know the kid wants the gun bad, but he ain’t ever asked, and while I do feel for him seeing how it’s a memento of his daddy’s work, I don’t really want to part ways with the beautiful and expensive rifle because I love it so very much.

  As a show piece more than a weapon, as I don’t love giving away my position every time I shoot, though there’s something to be said for how quiet it is. Rather than say anything, I give him another tentative pat on the shoulder and mount Old Tux, who’s ready and raring to go as he rears up on his hind legs and lets loose with an excited neigh. Hard not to smile to see it, and harder still when he dips his head down into the driver’s seat to let Frowny, Stella, and Terrance hitch a ride, as they’re the three most adventurous kiccaws while the rest are content to perch on either wagon with Sasha, Chrissy, and Aunty Ray.

  Pausing long enough for Old Tux to trade raspberries with Cowie, I give my partner a good pat on the flank before riding out to do what I said. Thankfully, Sergeant Rowan don’t send no one out after me, as I done already told her my plans. She was the one who gave me the range of channels to use, as the Rangers got some encrypted for their own use. If I tune in and try to use it, I won’t hear shit, nor will Sasha on the receiving end if I try to transmit, but Ranger Command most certainly will and they won’t be none too pleased about the chatter gumming up their radio network.

  Another mistake, as I didn’t check to see if the encrypted channels were different from the ones used in and around New Hope. Suppose they’re being extra careful, seeing how the Rangers have been hard pressed to defend these areas, and it’d make their job even harder if their enemies were listening in on their Radio check ins. Easy to know when to attack when you can listen in on the patrol checkups, so I’m guessing encryption is taken a lot more seriously around these parts compared to back home.

  Alas, I don’t find nothing to kill in the way of Abby or Outlaws, and there ain’t no one willing to cross me once we camp down for the night at the second build site. I’m sure there are unofficial names for these fortresses, or even codenames that won’t be used in perpetuity, but I’ll be damned if I care what they might be. I’ll learn the names when they’re done being built, because any time before that is a waste of effort. Who knows if it’ll even last? Or stick around for more than a year, as there’s no telling how much time we really have left to prepare for the Watershed or how hard Abby will hit us once it’s here.

  Which is why I haven’t really done much to prepare the quay. Either the Blue Bulwark will hold and we’ll only have to worry about the odd incursion every now and then, or it won’t and we’ll have to run for the hills all the same. Some might call that defeatist, but I’m just being practical. Even if we had walls as tall as the ones in New Hope surrounding the Quay on three sides, we don’t got the manpower to defend them. At most, walls would only buy us more time to get away, or get into the underground bunker that still needs to be reinforced, as right now it’s just a big cavern with a tunnel leading deeper into the depths of the lake, one big enough for three men standing shoulder to shoulder to fit inside. I went down for a little bit, but not too too far, as even though I couldn’t sense nothing on Detect Abby, I knew full well where the tunnel leads and didn’t want nothing to do with it. Instead, I closed it up and hid it away, because there ain’t no sense letting others know that this was where Luisa and the rest burrowed down to the Proggie’s nest before luring it out of hiding so they could kill and feed it to Matías.

  The next day, I ride out on point again, and again, it’s looking like a bust, right up until four in the afternoon when we’re about two hours out from the third and final build site. I don’t see nothing, don’t sense nothing on Detect Abby, but I hear a shot ring out and many shots follow soon after. Shots that got that flat ‘blap – blap – blap’ I know too well, so I urge Old Tux on a little faster while grabbing my Radio and hitting the button to talk. “Firstborn to Slaterock, Firstborn to Slaterock, do you copy, over.”

  Takes a moment for Sergeant Rowan to respond, but seeing how I’m reaching out to her Callsign, there’s no reason she wouldn’t. No idea why they call her Slaterock, but I know Callsigns ain’t always flattering so I haven’t asked. Can hear how annoyed she is as she respond to my hail, as she’s none too pleased about this babysitting gig as is. “Slaterock to Firstborn, Slaterock to Firstborn. Copy. Go for Firstborn. Over.”

  She’ll be even less thrilled once she hears what I have to say, but ain’t nothing for it. “Firstborn to Slaterock, hearing gunfire up ahead. I repeat, hearing gunfire up ahead and proceeding to investigate. Over.”

  “You will do no such thing,” comes the reply, in direct breach of Radio protocol mind you, but I don’t think she cares. “That is a November Gulf. You will return to the caravan forthwith. Understood, Firstborn?”

  Rather than reply, I toggle the call button on my handheld repeatedly while talking like normal, meaning it’ll cut in and out over on her end. “Firstborn to Slaterock, you copy? Signal’s breaking up on my end. I repeat. I am hearing gunfire up ahead and am moving forward to investigate. Over and Out.”

  Sergeant Rowan’s response is almost immediate, but I quickly turn off my Radio and remind myself to maybe snap the antenna and turn it back on before we meet up again. Gotta say, Staff Sergeant Rowan Lee looks all calm and sedate, but when her temper gets the best of her, she’s a real firebrand for sure. No matter though, as I hide the kiccaws in my pockets and ride towards the sound of shooting El-minister rifles which I identified by ear. That’s why I ain’t all that worried, because I’m either riding towards Rangers or folks with Ranger gear who’ll likely have things well in hand by the time I get there.

  And if not? Well, I can’t screw things up if they’re already messed up, and I might even get a chance to finally use my new guns, or at the very least toss out a Fireball for shits and giggles without feeling guilty for using it under all the wrong circumstances. What can I say? I know the error of my ways, but my love for Fireball is just much too great.