Riding up on the badlands is always a kick in the gut.

  Don’t matter how many times I see it, because it’s all about the contrast when coming straight out of New Hope. This close to the new year, the lush forest is still dense with white trees, purple loomshrubs, dark bapple hedges, and the occasional silver leaf beech trees to show there’s a good source of water nearby. Usually underground, beneath a thick layer of dark and loamy dirt, but it’s there all the same, with animal trails cutting in and around the trees and hedges to show how vibrant and vigorous these lands do be, just teeming with flora and fauna aplenty.

  As you head east though, the towering white trees grow twisted and gnarled, their pale bark cracking and peeling to reveal the blonde, ash, maple, or oaky colour of the tree trunks underneath. The grass thins out to reveal patch after patch of barren soil, dirt that grows lighter, drier, and more lifeless as the day goes by, with the withered shrubs resembling calcified skeletal remains while the dark hedges are left as nothing more than thorny husks of vines and branches.

  Then you cross the line, not one painted on the ground or suspended at waist height, but rather a shifting boundary in the terrain that can only be described as unnatural. The last dying trees stand bent and husked like a withered picket line holding out in meagre protest, a final, ineffective challenge against the devastation brought against the lands. Beyond the line stands naught but cracked and lifeless rock, with a faint dusting of white frost and dried, leeched soil being blown about by the winds. There are no fallen logs or withered shrubs, no animal trails to spot or bird songs to sound across the across the scarred and fractured hills and basins of the ugly brown badlands. The only saving grace is that you can’t take it all in from ground level, as the terrain is full of dips and fissures like pockmarks or wounds in the Frontier, with the surface stripped bare of life, but not left barren and empty, which would be a preferable alternative to what Abby have done to these once bountiful lands.

  My lands. My home. My Frontier. Not in the sense that I own the whole place, but rather in terms of where I was born and belong. Others speak fondly of the old world, of countries, states, cities, and towns they belonged to, I feel the same way for this stretch of land here. The badlands of the Divide, my country of origin as it were, no man’s land in every sense of the words yet mine all the same. While it ain’t much to look at, don’t nothing change the facts of how I was born in these lands, and there will come a day when I reclaim them for myself. Not for the value of the land or the resources it possesses, because truth is anything of value to anyone has long since been stripped bare. No, I’ll reclaim these lands and drive Abby back into the Divide and root out every Proggie hiding within so I can stand at my parents’ graves and say that I done it, that I’ve brought safety and solace to the little slice of the Frontier they carved out for themselves.

  Which is why I don’t say much as we ride into the badlands. It’s a heavy sight to take in, this swathe of bleak desolation brought about by the insatiable gluttony of the Proggies of the Divide, a stark omen of things to come should the Bulwark fail to stem the Aberration tides that will come pouring out when the Watershed arrives.

  “Eight hours, we been travelling,” Aunty Ray begins, her tone heavy and eyes distraught as she takes it all in from the wagon. “Eight hours and we’re already at the badlands, with two or three hours to before we stop for the night. Time was it took us four days of hard riding through heavy forest and hills to get to the badlands from town, with plenty lakes and river to break up the trip.” Heaving a long and tired sigh, she slips her arm around Chrissy’s shoulders and pulls the sweet girl in for a hug, unable to tear her eyes away from the badlands even while seeking comfort from its foreboding presence. “Now look at it. Ain’t nothin’ alive out there, not a bird or bee to be found.”

  Plenty of bugs though, just not of the insect variety, and most too big to squish underfoot. “Four days travel is 200 klicks give or take,” I say, to offer some solace in this dark moment. “Over 18 years, that’s only a hair more than 11 klicks of ground lost a year. Not too terrible all things considered. Least we kept them from strippin’ everything clean right up to the lake.”

  What’s left unsaid is at this rate, we got 3 or 4 years left to us before badlands reach the walls of New Hope. The Rangers are working overtime patrolling this boundary to keep bands of pillaging Abby at bay, but they can’t be out here fighting day and night. Inch by inch and mile by mile, Abby is pushing out in all directions as they strip the land bare and bring all the biomass they can get their grubby fangs, claws, and whatnot on back to the Divide. That’s the problem with Ferals. They’re big, strong, and dangerous as all hell, but they ain’t smart like gobbos and don’t know how to conserve or self-sustain.

  Them greenskins of the Coral Desert ain’t just about farming mushrooms; they got numbers enough tucked away in the Serpent Fang’s Mountains to claim the desert in its entirety, but they haven’t, at least not yet. Why? Because if they did, folks would stop trying to set up in the desert, and they’d have to range even farther for high quality biomass. The young Proggie that wanted to claim Pleasant Dunes was an irregularity, one the Rangers and Pathfinders are no doubt investigating, but I’m guessing it was fixing to settle in the mining tunnels rather than out into the desert proper, while the attack on the town was simply a bid to kick things off with a big, high value meal full of townies and outlaws alike.

  Explosives too, in hindsight, but I doubt the Proggie knew that going in. They’re smart, but not that smart, to associate the mining explosives with something they could use for themselves. Least, I don’t think they’re that smart, and I hope to God I’m right.

  Aunty Ray is smart though, and she figures out the math almost as quickly as I do. She don’t say nothing though, just gives Tina a concerned look, because if she’s stationed here in New Hope, patrolling this here boundary will be the lion’s share of her work for the first few years. Not a terrible gig all things considered, because she’d only be a day’s ride away from the town walls unless she gets stationed at one of the forward watchtowers, where there’s someone on duty 24/7 keeping vigil against Abby attacks. Which reminds me to call in, because we’re coming up on one of the rear watchtowers soon, so I ride up close hop from the saddle to the side of the driver’s box without slowing.

  “Lord almighty,” Aunty Ray exclaims, startled as she is by the sound of me landing on the side of the wagon. “Give a girl some warning, will you?”

  “Sorry Aunty Ray,” I say, outwardly contrite while inwardly hiding a smile. Taking a moment to run a Script so my prosthetic hand can hold me in place, I reach over with my left hand to give Chrissy’s cheek a pinch. “Sorry to you too Princess.”

  Can’t tell if I spooked her too, but she leans into the touch with a bit of a petulant mood, like she’s saying, “You better be.” Looks darling as can be in her fur-lined cloak with the hood pulled and dark sunglasses on, all while sitting pretty in the left driver’s seat without so much of a fuss. Had plenty of fun pointing out birds, critters, and landmarks early on, but there ain’t much to see in the there and now, so I spend a minute or two cheering Chrissy up while hanging off the side of the driver’s box, then ask, “Mind if you both lean forward a bit? I gotta open up the back and get at the Radio.” Both ladies are happy to oblige, and I lift up the panel and secure it in place before reaching in to power on the receiver, which takes awhile to get going. There’s a distinct hum in the air as the dynamo powers on, so I grab the mic and pull it out so Aunty Ray and Chrissy can sit back up, so long as they avoid getting caught up on the mic’s wire.

  “Oh,” Aunty Ray says, turning about to lean into the wagon’s interior for a look-see at my setup. “That’s clever. You got it set up on multiple dynamos so you ain’t running on full power all the live-long day.”

  “Yeppers,” I say, reminding myself once more never to underestimate my Aunty Ray. She knew the answer before she even looked, because there ain’t much to see. The dynamos are all tucked under the wagon floor, so as to hide all the gears and wiring, but she heard the hum and can feel the spindles powering up, which is enough for her to figure out my setup. “It’s all linked into the same power bank, but only runs at 20% effectiveness most of the time. That’s more than enough to power the Freeze Box, Silent Image projectors, speakers, and lights, as well as the kettle and hotplate when we need ‘em, and do it quiet enough to boot. Saved me from having to fix a dynamo onto each one independently, though managing all the wires and plugs do be a headache sometimes.”

  As for the rest of my setup, the other 80% of the power bank stays idle since I got no power storage to speak of, so running them all day would just be a waste of Aether. The trade off is that it takes an extra minute or three to power on when I gotta run the Radio, pressure cooker, water filter, and various security measures me and Danny put in over the years since my daddy passed. At the start of the year, I only needed the one dynamo to power everything in the wagon, but the pressure cooker gobbles up power like you wouldn’t believe, while the kettle and hotplate take more than you’d think. That’s why I replaced the old workhorse of a dynamo with 5 newer, more efficient models I done scavenged from the houses in the quay. Takes 4 of those suckers to power the pressure cooker, while the 5th is there to pick up the slack should one of the others fall short, and it all makes an ungodly racket while powered on, while putting off a whole lot of heat.

  Wouldn’t be so bad if I set up a battery bank, but that’d take up too much real estate. Plus, batteries have this thing where they tend to explode when shot, and I’d rather not ride around in an explosive steel cage.

  All in all, there’s been plenty of tinkering done to the wagon, though you wouldn’t know it from looking. The seats, shower stall, and sunroof ain’t much of anything at all in comparison, while the Big Stick up top is imposing as ever and always ready for a good fight. Got 4 dozen shells prepped and ready to go, which is more than enough to get us out of a tight spot, so I steel my resolve and stick to the plan as the crackle of the Radio sounds out over the speakers.

  Already tuned to the public watchtower channel, I listen to the static for a few seconds to make sure I ain’t interrupting before hitting the Push to Talk button on the side of my mic twice to announce my presence. After a short pause, I hold the button down and raise the mic to my mouth and say, “Firstborn to Station Eleven, Firstborn to Station Eleven, do you copy, Over.”

  Letting go of the button, I crane my neck for a view of the watchtower, one a good distance away with the raised roof visible just over a hill in a distance. Takes a few seconds for the watchtower operator on duty to respond, even though there’s dick all to do out here all by your lonesome. “Station Eleven to Firstborn,” the gruff voice begins, and even through the tinny radio speakers, I can hear the man’s words slurring together like he drunk as a skunk while on duty, with more than a little bitter discontent mixed in. “Go ahead, over.”

  Might be sour at having to do his job, or might be sour on account of my Callsign. Don’t much love it anymore, but you can’t change it all that easily, as it’s registered on my Radio license, and if I go in to do the paperwork now, they’ll more than likely give me a random one rather than go through the list to see if my new requested Callsign is available to use.

  Ain’t nothing to do but go ahead with it. “Firstborn to Station Eleven, we are West-North-West of your position and inbound to your sector. ETA twenty mikes. No heat. No intention to seek shelter. Passing on through into the badlands.” Then, because I am legally obligated to, I identify everyone else so he can log us. “Four friendlies total, one wagon, two riders. Callsigns as follows. Firstborn. Siren. Songbird. Princess. Over.”

  The crackle of the Radio fills the silence that follows as I wait for the Watchtower’s reply. About a half minute goes by without answer, so I of course gotta hit the mic and say, “Firstborn to Station Eleven, Copy last. Over.”

  The response is immediate. “Station Eleven to Firstborn,” he says, all cold and snippy as can be. “I copy. Inbound 20 mikes. Four friendlies, one wagon, two riders. Firstborn. Siren. Songbird. Princess. Passing through. Over and out.”

  Which really grinds my gears for various reasons. First is the fact that protocol dictates that the person who initiated contact is the one who ends it. Second because the whole point of a watchtower is to watch, meaning I ain’t just calling in to let him know I’m here. I want a situation report on what he and his fellow watchtowers have seen, both along the boundary and further East. So I hail him again, to no response, then again, and again, and again, and again for the next 15 minutes, giving him a minute between each try while watching the watchtower come into view. Soon as it does, I spot the tell-tale shine of a scope staring down at us from the top of the watchtower, a lofty, elevated platform with a cabin stuck up top where 2 operators split 12 hour shifts to watch the badlands for a week or two before they’re relieved. They ain’t Rangers, not here at the boundary at last, just trained civilians sitting up high in their roost with a stable for their horses down low and not much else. Even if I wanted to drop in for a visit, I’d have to camp outside the tower proper and wouldn’t none of them operators come see me, as ain’t no one allowed up without proper documentation.

  Don’t mean they’re allowed to stare down their sights at me neither, so I give Cowie a command that sees him bank hard left to show him our back, keeping Chrissy and Aunty Ray relatively safe from any rifle fire. “Firstborn to Station Eleven, Firstborn to Station Eleven,” I hail, gritting my teeth while staring at the glint in the window. “I say again, come in Sector Eleven. I have movement in your sector. If you do not respond, I will assume Watchtower is compromised and act accordingly. Acknowledge, over.”

  Given the last 15 minutes of unsuccessful hailing, Tina has long since caught on to the issue and has her rifle in hand, but the silly girl rides over into the lee of a hill before dismounting to take aim. Not that she gonna do much besides waste ammo at this distance, as a sharpshooter, she ain’t. It’s about a klick and a half away, and while the operator in the watchtower might be a better shot, at these distances, even Tim might need a few tries to land a headshot on a moving target.

  Might. I mean, I seen him hit some nasty shots first try, and if he were up in that tower for a week, he’d have all his markers set and math done beforehand, so I’d rather not risk it. Against Tim or this unnamed operator, who is ignoring his radio in a fit of pique and hoping I’ll just accept it and ride off. If it was just me, I would, but I got Tina, Chrissy, and Aunty Ray here with me, so I want my god-damned situation report from the chuckle fuck sitting in his tower up there, and I’ll happily take a potshot at him if that’s what it takes to get it.

  I doubt I’d hit either, but I could probably get closer than Tina would and scare him something fierce.

  Takes all of five seconds for the operator to respond now that the threat of violence has been levied. The glint in the window disappears movements before the gruff voice sounds out, all hurried and upset since I done forced him to do his job. “Station Eleven to Firstborn, Station Eleven to Firstborn, I copy. Situation normal. Proceed onwards. Over and out.”

  Which again, steams me up, so I give up on playing nice. I hail him again, and instead of waiting for him to copy, I say, “Request sitrep, weekly activity from neighbouring and forward posts, as well as visibility and weather report. Over.”

  He don’t respond, because he being a prissy little bitch, so after giving him a minute to respond, I have Cowie move the wagon into cover while putting the radio mic away. “Tina, you take your mama and Chrissy due north,” I say, hopping from the driver’s box to Sunshine’s back. “Stick to cover and keep out of the watchtower’s sight.” Powering down the dynamo on my bracer, I Conjure up my Wildshaped Hand and ready my Ranger Repeater by racking a round into the chamber before turning my horse about with the intention of riding up to that tower, climbing my way up to the top, and beating the situation report out of the belligerent operator. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Siren to Station Eleven, Siren to Station Eleven, do you copy?” The crackle of the radio sounds out as Aunty Ray lets go of the Push to Talk and listens for a response. With none forthcoming, she continues, “I’m riding out for the Divide with all three of my babies, so we gonna need that situation report. Now you can share it over the radio like you supposed to, and we’ll be on our way, or my boy can head on up there and hear it firsthand. Dealer’s choice. Over.”

  Rather than ride off immediately, I give the fool the benefit of a doubt and bring up my rifle instead, peering down the scope at the face of a man I probably done seen in town sometime or another. Don’t recognize him, but he’s a local in New Hope no doubt, so chances are we’ve crossed paths before. That’s why he’s being so difficult, because he probably drank the cool-aid and believes I’m a full-on cultist. Hence the little dig about heading home, as he ain’t talking about the mesa. No, he’s saying I done thrown in with the Proggies of the Divide, and I’m going back to them for the holidays. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I’ve killed men for less, and it takes a good bit of self control not to just rack off a shot to scare the bastard.

  I can see his face clear as day as he stares out from behind the Aberrtin reinforced glass, sitting pretty behind the radio with his rifle in hand. He ain’t looking down the scope, else he’d probably shit himself since I’m drawing a bead, but I can see the gears turning in his head like he trying to work out the math. Eventually, he gives in, picks up the mic, and says, “Sitrep as follows. Minimal activity to the…”

  Stowing my rifle, I grab a loose 22-10 round so I got the full 5 in the tube plus 1 in the chamber. Might as well since we heading out into the badlands, so I turn around back to listen to the rest of the report while reaching my hand out for the mic. Aunty Ray relents and hands it over to me, and when he’s done with his report without signing off, I respond with, “Firstborn to Station Eleven. Copy that. Heat and smoke inbound to your East-North-East in approximately 2 hours. Acknowledge. Over.”

  What follows is an angry tirade full of slurs and curses, the gist of which is to tell me to leave off instead of making trouble like I’m intending. There might have been more, but to spare Chrissy’s ears, I hit the Push-to-Talk so we don’t gotta listen to the angry operator’s tirade. I check in every few seconds to see if he done, and soon as I got the open airwaves to respond, I say, “Firstborn to Station Eleven, unable to copy last. I say again. Heat and smoke inbound to your East-North-East in approximately 2 hours. Acknowledge. Over.”

  A few seconds later, the Radio crackles and spits out, “Station Eleven to Firstborn, Acknowledge last. Over and out.”

  This time, I leave it, because if I gotta talk with that bastard any longer, I might well burn the whole watchtower down. Instead, I put the mic away and leave the Radio on before riding off in a foul mood. Aunty Ray ain’t much happier as she glares up at the watchtower until the terrain blocks it from sight. “Should’ve demanded his Callsign,” she grumbles, utterly appalled by the operator’s foul language and complete lack of decorum. “Now I can’t give him a piece of my mind when we all back in town. Ought to take away his certifications and boot him from the job fer cussin’ over the air like that and refusin’ to give a sitrep to folks heading out into the badlands. The nerve of him!”

  “Should, but they won’t,” I say with a shrug. “Rangers are strained enough keeping the watchtowers manned as it is. Most he’ll get is a slap on the wrist assuming someone higher up the chain was even listening in.” And said person is unsympathetic to the operator’s feelings regarding me and mine. I don’t say as much though, just give Aunty Ray a nod before riding off to talk to Tina. “Slow response Songbird, and a poor one to boot. Know your limits and work within them. You ain’t gonna hit sh – nothin’ from this distance, so no sense in even trying. Dismounting only slows you down, and if the shooting does start, Winnie there might well have spooked since you didn’t hobble or hitch her to nothing.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Sorry,” Tina mutters, throwing a dark glare back at the Watchtower as if to blame the operator for her mistake. Which is the wrong way to go about it, but I don’t want to rag on her any more than necessary, not while I’m all heated like this.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I reply. “Be better. Focus up. This here is your last chance. We’re gonna ride on in and poke the hornet’s nest, then you gonna clean up while me and your mama watch over Chrissy. I want to see how you handle yourself, and how Chrissy reacts to bein’ round Abby in the wild for the first time.”

  She seen them before, but always from behind a pane of reinforced glass or a tall wall or something. Never up close and personal, not that I intend to let her see them here and now. Got a whole armoured wagon for her to hide in, and here’s hoping Aunty Ray will hide in there too, but that’s probably asking for too much. Rather than fret about what I can’t change, I focus on making sure Tina’s got her head in the game while we ride on out towards my intended destination. Takes a bit longer to get there, since I try to avoid being spotted by Station Eleven as much as possible, since there’s no sense risking the drunk bastard taking a pot shot for no reason than to quell his rage. Doubt it’ll happen, as he’ll hang for attempted murder if the Bolt comes anywhere close. Especially since I got everything on recording, and doubly so since the other watchtowers were probably listening in on our conversation.

  Didn’t none of them chime in though, mostly because it’d’ve been their ass on the line if they did. Plus, I’d still have justification to make my way up to the top of Station Eleven, since I could claim I couldn’t be sure the watchtower wasn’t compromised and didn’t want a potential sniper watching me as I ride off towards the Divide.

  Which I do, but for once, I’m happy the terrain is so topsy turvy and difficult to navigate. Cowie makes it look easy as he skirts alongside deep basins and down deep declines with the wagon rolling on behind him. Sunshine and Winnie a bit more skittish and unsure, as they ain’t ever been this way before and don’t much like what they see or smell. Ain’t nothing for it but to ease them along and keep them from descending down into the dried lakebeds or over unsound flats that could crumble into sinkholes if too much weight moves across it.

  To ease their nerves as we go, I tell Tina how it is even though she’s probably heard it all before. “Working theory is that the Divide was caused by a meteor strike,” I say, keeping my tone calm and gentle to keep the horses from spooking. “And all these pits? They’re caused by debris that came along with it, or got flung up into the air during the initial impact to leave craters and holes all over the place. You take an aerial view of all this, and it’ll look like someone took a giant Blastgun to this side of the Frontier, leaving all manner of dents and divots in the ground for water to flow into. Which it did, except that there meteor might well have been the source of the Proggies that infest the Frontier, or one such source at the very least.”

  Which of course begs the question of where them Proggies came from if they had to hitch a ride on a meteor. Or if that’s even what happened at all, since the land could have formed naturally like this, or the meteor was independent of the Proggies and they just liked it well enough to move in. Something about basins being like bowls stacked one atop the other until the tectonic plate underneath shifts or something. Either way, I got no answers, and Tina got no questions since she’s already heard this all many times before. With dirt, grass, and other vegetation, the badlands probably wouldn’t be much different from the hilly forests around Last Chance Lake, just with more lakes sitting almost side by side and not many rivers to connect them. All that water and grass has done been stripped away though, mostly by Abby and the rest was lost through natural erosion as there wasn’t nothing holding anything in place no more.

  Leaving a big, ugly blight on the surface of the Frontier, one that could still stand a chance of recovering if not for the pervasive Aberration threat. One Tina’s seeing for the first time ever, as she ain’t ever been out this far before. Eight hours from New Hope, that’s all that stands between us and the first signs of Proggie paradise, because they are not content to simply strip these lands bare. No, they’re compelled to do far more, and though Tina’s heard all about it, seeing is believing after all, so I pull up at the ridge next to a shallow basin, dismount, and say, “Grab your 10-foot pole.”

  “…Is that some sorta euphemism?” Tina asks, dismounting all the same with her brow furrowed in faint disgust. “It better not be, because if it is, I’mma have mama wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “What? No.” Shaking my head, I say, “It’s a ten-foot pole. Like this.” Pulling mine out of the saddlebag where I keeps it, I wave the 2-foot-long extendable baton for her to see. “What would it even be a euphemism for?”

  “I dunno,” Tina replies, looking all sheepish over being caught out. “You’ve gotten a real potty mouth on you lately, so you can’t blame me for thinkin’ it.”

  Which is fair enough I suppose, but I’m more annoyed that she don’t got a 10-foot pole. Rolling my eyes, I hit the button and give it a twirl as the telescoping rods pop out from both ends. A flick of my thumb locks it in place, and with two good hands left to me since I still got my Wildshaped Hand going, I extend the pole out towards the bottom of the basin to poke at the ground. Looks all lumpy and uneven, raked into ridges and furrows like a thousand fat worms been wiggling around on the surface to leave scattered mounds of hard earth in their wake. Except it ain’t earth, as I reveal to Tina when I jam my 10-foot pole underneath one such mound and lift it to reveal something out of an unholy nightmare.

  Imagine a chubby snake as thick as your arm and long enough to build a bridge out of, except instead a head at one end and a tail at the other, it’s got no head and a whole bunch of gaping, fanged mouths embedded lengthwise into its belly. That’s what I done lifted off the bottom of the basin here, and as I reveal its lip-smacking underside for Tina to appreciate, she recoils in a reasonable amount of disgust. “Ewwww,” she exclaims, stepping behind me as if to shield herself from its view, though far as I can tell, it don’t got no eyes to see with. “What is it?”

  “That there is a Proggie pedipalp,” I say, giving the pole a little heft to lift it higher and show the dense network of pedipalps entangled with it going all throughout the basin. “They grow these baby tentacles, shed ‘em, then have Abby bring ‘em to the surface where they drink in the sunlight and absorb nutrients out of the soil. They’ll also process any creature that croaks near them, breaking all manner of biomass down into goop which it expels and stores somewhere down under the earth. Saves Abby a long trip down hauling bodies or whatnot, making these here pedipalps kinda like roots, only up on the surface instead of deep underground since this is where all the sunlight and biomass is.”

  “Gross.” Leaning over my shoulder like she working up the courage to go down and give it a poke, Tina asks, “Is it… you know. Alive?”

  “Alive as any plant,” I say with a shrug. “They can move slowly to consume biomass, but if you asking if Terry Tentacle here has any opinions about his cousin Tyler Tentacle coiling all up around his business? That’s anyone’s guess.” Dropping the pedipalp back to the soil with a meaty thwack, I give myself a second to catch my breath, as them tentacles are heavy when they all bunched over one another in a criss-cross like they are. “They’re a scourge though, best gotten rid of quick to save the land, but Abby will protect these networks because they’re like forward fuelling stations to them. Problem is, the pedipalps can outcompete any natural flora and ain’t good to eat, so the fauna will pretty much leave them alone unless they get entangled in them.” Gesturing at the desolate badlands around us, I say, “If we can clear out all the pedipalp networks and keep Abby from establishing new ones, this here land would bounce back in 10, 20 years on its own, and faster if we help things along.”

  But to do so, we’d have to not only clear out all the tentacles and Abby, we’d have to get rid of the Proggies too. An impossible task given the lacking levels of tech and manpower here on the Frontier, but once the Watershed hits, we’ll be in a race against time to scale up our weapons and gear to match the more powerful Abby Proggies will spawn forth using the heightened Aetheric Concentration levels. Abby ain’t all biomass after all; they got plenty of magic to them, mostly in the form of Aberrtin and Spell Cores, though there’s more to it than that.

  I ain’t no expert on Abby development though. I just know what I need to know in order to kill ‘em fast. Today though? It’s time to see if Tina learned what she needed from this last year of Ranger training. I tell her as much, then leave her to set up wherever she thinks best while I head up and see to Chrissy and Aunty Ray. Back at the wagon, I let Aunty Ray know what’s about to happen, then lean in close so Chrissy won’t hear. “You got good sightlines up on this ridge,” I say, and it’s true, as we’re overlooking Tina as she sets up down below. “Don’t poke your head too far out trying to watch Tina though. Abby out here got plenty of range, and not all of it is magic. I’ll be down there with Tina, but I’ll keep an eye on the cliff face and signal if something’s climbing, so look sharp and keep your weapons ready.”

  Aunty Ray gives me a look that is both petulant and worried, because she knows everything I’m telling her, and also knows I gotta be worried to be talking it through like this. Giving her the best smile I can muster, I say, “I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t sure Tina could handle it. I’m just nervous is all.” Especially about Chrissy, which is why I head over to the other side of the wagon and say, “Heya Princess.”

  “Hi Howie.”

  “Things are about to get a little noisy out here. Might be dangerous, so I need you to take shelter in the back of the wagon okay?”

  “Okay Howie.” Doesn’t need me to open up the side of the driver’s box or lower the stairs, as she’s figured it out by herself. Has her a little stretch once she’s got boots on the ground, and even twirls a bit just to feel the air on her face. It’s cold, but not mind-numbingly so, and with her new cloak I doubt she’s even chilly. She knows the drill though, and doesn’t dawdle for too long before heading around back, where I’ve got the doors opened and stairs ready for her to ascend. Sits herself right on the side so I can help with her boots, and once again takes her socks off right quick so she can wiggle her toesies about. After dusting off her boots and hitting them with Prestidigitation, I set them to one side in the wagon interior before climbing on up to access a storage panel by the door. Inside, I got a dozen beer bottles full of high proof alcohol and ready cut strips of cloth for quick and easy Molotovs. As I grab what I need, Chrissy leans over for a better look and asks, “Juice?”

  “This ain’t juice, but if you want some, it’s over there behind you.” Hearing what I said, Aunty Ray pokes her head in from the front panel and lifts the lid on the Freeze-box with a bright beaming smile. “The clear bottles are cider, while the fizz is in the green,” I say, smiling as Chrissy crawls over for a look. “I done made it myself you know. Got bapple, grumbleberry, and starmelon, as well as classic sarsaparilla, but that last one is store bought. You remember Creasy? Clayton’s wife, who makes the cider? She showed me how to make a ginger bug so I could bottle fizzy juice myself, except there ain’t no ginger involved. Bugs either,” I add, when Chrissy turns around to see if I’m playing the fool, because even I was asking what in tarnation a ginger bug was when Creasy done brung it up.

  Chrissy picks out a grumbleberry fizz for herself to enjoy, and Aunty Ray helps set her up with a bowl full of salty potate chips which I baked in preparation for this trip. Real easy when you got an Aetheric stove where you can not only set the temperature of the oven, but how long it’ll run for to boot. Add in the Aetheric juicer I done broke out for making fizzy juice, and we are all set for sodas and snacks on this here trip, which honestly took up way more room in the wagon than I should’ve allowed. I didn’t skimp on anything to make it all fit, but Cowie’s working a little harder than he usually would to drag it all behind him, which is why he gets a feedbag full of grains, bapple slices, and dried grumbleberries to munch on while we wait.

  “You be ready to leg it as soon as I give the word, understand?” I ask, though Cowie is too busy eating and enjoy the head scratches to respond. “I’m countin’ on you to protect Chrissy and Aunty Ray, so if I catch you sleepin’ on the job, I’mma turn you into dinner.” Giving him a kiss on the head to show I don’t mean it, I feel my cheeks burn when I turn and see Aunty Ray watching on with a smile.

  “Look at my two best boys getting along on the job,” she croons, hugging her 3-Line rifle like she wishes it was one of us in her arms. “Ain’t that sweet as sugar? Don’t you be puttin’ so much responsibility on his shoulders though. Cowie ain’t nothin’ but a sweet baby still, so I’ll be doin’ the protectin’, thank you very much.”

  “No doubt,” I say with a smile, and truth is, even though I ain’t ever seen her in action, I ain’t all that concerned about how she handles herself. Don’t matter what it is she tries her hand at, she always comes out aces, a clever and competent woman who can do anything she sets her mind to provided she got the time to do it. I seen photos of the first blankies she made for me, Tina, and Chrissy, and they are, to be polite, full of heart, but these days, she do most of the stitchwork I need and can’t rightly buy in a store. Mostly with leather, as she done made my duster and hat, as well as the nice cozy sleeve that goes over my Whumper complete with a cushioned cheek rest.

  That said, I need her to be… less of a go getter today. “So here’s the thing,” I say, and instantly, we both know she ain’t gonna like what I have to say. “Later on, when things kick off, I need you to sit back and watch.” Holding up a hand to forestall any arguments, I add, “I know you got some Big Spells that’d make this a cakewalk. Slow, Hypnotic Pattern, Paranoia, Battle Ballad, all great Spells you could throw out, but I want you to hold off unless it looks like we can’t handle it, or I call out for help. Whole point is to see how Tina holds out under pressure, which means we gotta put some pressure on her, now don’t we?” Narrowing my eyes in a way that I hope brooks no argument, I add, “And if she needs her mama to save her back bacon on something simple as this, then she ain’t ready to make this trip and I’ll bring you all back to New Hope tomorrow.”

  Before setting out on my lonesome again, minus the horses. All of whom are still finicky, which is why I got them hitched to the wagon instead of roaming free, but they get feedbags too as soon as Aunty Ray relents. Once that’s all done, I check in on Chrissy one last time, make sure the back is all locked up tight, then head on down to rejoin Tina who’s dug herself out a shooting position and a few more places to fall back to should Abby move to encircle her. She got a Mage Armour Spell up as well as her Hearing Protection, but otherwise, she’s got no defensive Spells to cast besides Mirror Image which she’s holding off as long as she can. Spell only lasts a minute at base, so it make sense not to pop it off too early, but sometimes when the fighting kicks off, it’s already too hot and heavy to get off a defensive Spell.

  Which is why I gesture at her potion pouch and tell her to quaff a Barkskin while I set up with three Molotovs beside her. Makes her round, rosy cheeks take on a withered appearance, all dry and hard as can be to give her a sharper appearance, but the juice is well worth the squeeze. I quaff a potion too because I know she’ll complain if I don’t, but truth is, I don’t expect to get shot at. Her, I’m not so sure she can manage, but I spare no expense to keep her mind focused and on the fight, and soon as she gives me the all clear, I light up a Molotov and pitch it into the basin proper to set a whole bunch of pedipalps aflame.

  Don’t nothing happen right off the bat, because it takes some time for the signals to get passed back to Abby. Being Ferals, and bug Ferals at that, the Abby of the badlands aren’t particularly smart, but are highly ordered and specialized. What that means is you can pretty much set your watch by their response times, as well as predict their moves well in advance since they only got the one playbook. When the pedipalps are damaged, the first responders are almost always gonna be drones, worker bugs that I’m told look like giant, greenish-black termites. They got a big, bulbous head with 2 antennae and 4 mouth mandibles that act like hands, all on top of a round tube of a body which got 6 legs protruding out from its midsection. The drones scurry out from all manner of hidey holes that were well hidden before the fact, emerging from the base and sides of the basin to hurriedly put out the flames.

  Mostly by throwing themselves into the fire, which ain’t as bad as it sounds since they don’t feel any pain. Don’t mean they can survive the flames, only that they don’t care, because it’s easier to replace a drone than the highly specialized, slow growing pedipalps that require something special from the Proggies to propagate. Since that’s the case, I light up my second Molotov and toss it out, because them drones are too stupid to understand they under attack unless you spell it out in a language they understand.

  Which in this case is high heat and flammable liquids, a language I’ve come to learn and love this last year or so.

  The drones don’t scream, don’t run, don’t scurry about in panic. The ones on fire just move away from the pedipalps and hunker down to die, while those that managed to avoid the flames continue putting the fires out. I leave them be, because the message is sent, and now we’re waitin’ on the next phase of their standard response plan. Arrives right on cue no more than a minute after the second Molotov as Swarmlings emerge from those same hidey holes with the frenetic energy of a horde of glowhoppers that done been startled by a hungry quillrat.

  Though still bug-like in appearance, Swarmlings are technically centigaur, if you wanna go by the official classification. An Abby whose lower body is built like a quadruped, while its upper body is built like a biped, that’s the long and short of what a centigaur is. Rather than horse and man like the titular centaur though, the Swarmling is bug and bug, or maybe bug and slug. It’s got a flat bottom belly that skims close across the ground while 4 spindly but powerful legs propel it along in an almost crablike motion, with two legs on the left moving forward, followed by the two legs on the right. Sounds silly, but they move lightning quick, covering the uneven ground faster than a grown man can sprint. This speed is only made possible by the fact that its bottom half is connected to the upper half by a set of hips, with the whole thing coming together to look like a bug that done lifted its front half off the ground similar to how a snake would. Add in a pair of ‘arms’ that are really legs that end in a honking big pointy talon that makes up for one third of its total body length, a soft squishy head bearing more eyes than I care to count, an unhinged jaw full of needle-sharp fangs, and more hatred than you can pack into a wet marty, and what you got is a Swarmling.

  Drones and Swarmlings make up the goblins of the bug Feral world, but I’ll take a goblin any day of the week over a single Swarmling, because them centaur bugs be fast as all hell.

  Me, I sit pretty to watch it all unfold, while Tina reacts a beat too late and kicks things off with her Merlin 45. Which I’d say is a mistake, because the rifle only holds 6 rounds same as my Ranger Repeater, while the Maximize and Penetrate Metamagics tacked on top of what my repeater has is overkill for Swarmlings. Don’t get it twisted, they move like a bat out of hell and can do some real damage with them talons and fangs, but they’re weak, squishy, and have terrible eyesight. Each one is about the size of a large cat or a medium sized dog depending on who you ask, while I’d say they’re about the size of one baby Cowie. Which ain’t exactly tiny, but ain’t huge neither, and in this target rich environment, Tina’s 1911’s would shine most bright.

  She figures it out soon enough, but not before she’s on her last two shots of the Merlin. Uses them up all the same, and I can almost see the gears turning in her head. She figures she don’t got time to reload it, so she might as well empty the tube, but me, I think she should’ve held those last two shots off in case something big and bad comes a tunneling up in response to our little challenge. No time to critique in the middle of battle though, as Tina throws on her Mirror Image and gets to shooting with her dual pistols in hand. Never fires them both at the same time, even though she’s pretty accurate when she does. Instead, she fires a three-round burst from the right, followed by a three-round burst from the left, repeating until one gun runs out of ammo. While the other gun unloads its last three shots, Tina hits the mag release on her pistol, flicks her wrist to send the empty magazine flying out to the side, then slides the butt of her pistol over the topmost mag she got fastened at an angle on her thigh holster. A firm press down sees the fresh magazine seated in place, while her thumb moves up to hit the slide release and get the first cartridge into the chamber, so the gun is Primed and ready to fire as soon as she brings it back up towards Abby.

  To someone watching, all you’d see is Tina’s gun click empty, her wrist flick, and her arm drop low with gun in hand like she fixing to put it away. Then it comes back up and she’s guns blazing again, just in time for her off-hand gun to click empty so she can repeat it all on the other side. It’s a fancy routine which she got down pat, meaning not only does she reload faster than I can, even with my Mage Hands to help me out, she can also put a lot more Bolts downrange without having to pause or switch guns like I do. The downside is that once she runs out of loaded mags, her 1911’s are pretty much paperweights, since loading one magazine takes even longer than loading a revolver twice.

  She’s got plenty of clips though, a full 24 on top of the 4 in her guns to start, so Tina shows off her skills by skeet shooting Swarmlings as they scurry on up towards us. To keep them away from our left flank, I toss a third Molotov to block their path up to us, letting Tina focus on one avenue of Abby attack. Had to be a least 3 dozen Swarmlings that done come up, which means a minimum of 36 Bolts to kill them all assume it’s one hit per kill for Tina. It ain’t though, because she’s Ranger trained to double tap her kills, and she goes the extra mile to plant a third in each Swarmling to boot. Not terrible as a general rule of thumb, but Swamlings are fodder barely worth a single Bolt, if that. Makes 3 real wasteful in my eyes, as I’d’ve found a better way to kill them all than wasting an approximate 9 clips assuming she don’t miss a single shot, and more if she does.

  Like say a Blastgun, similar to the Whumper I done placed down beside her earlier, but she ignored completely because it ain’t a standard part of her kit.

  A Fear Spell would work wonders too, because Swarmlings are a cowardly bunch, but not all that smart and wholly dedicated to their cause. Means rather than scatter and run, they’ll freeze up under the threat of the Spell and hold still for a nice, juicy head shot. Tina don’t got the Fear Spell, only Cause Fear, which is the First Order variant that only targets a single creature at a time. Aunty Ray has the Third Order big boy Spell though, and she knows how to fight Swarmings, which is why I asked her to hold off unless it looked like Tina was about to be overrun.

  Credit where it’s due, Tina is a crack shot with her dual pistols even when firing from the hip. She don’t waste too many shots and keeps them well at bay, though my heart bleeds to see of so much ammo wasted on Abby meatshields. That’s all most Swarmlings are good for really, though Proggies got wise to our ways once we started fighting back, and started adding Spitters into the mix to shake things up.

  The difference between a Swarmling and a Spitter is simple. A Swarmling got 2 taloned ‘arms’ it raises overhead in comical threat, until it gets in close enough to spear you. A Spitter looks exactly the same as a Swarmling, only without the stupid raised talons. Instead, they hunch over to use their arms to help run, meaning they move faster and climb better which allows them to get into position to do what they do best. Spit, and unpleasant as that sounds, it’s actually worse, because it ain’t just bug juices they horking out at you. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a spine Spitter, which means they shoot out bone-like projectiles that can pierce through a half-inch of steel from 50 metres away. If you’re unlucky, you’ll get an Elemental spitter, meaning they’ll hork gobs of Acid, Flame, Frost, or Electric at you, which is never a good time. That’s why Spitters get target priority over Swarmlings, though in the heat of battle, its difficult to tell the difference between the two with only a glance.

  So Tina doesn’t spot them in time, but I’m ready and waiting with my carbine to pick them off as they rear their heads back to spit. Pick off three in quick succession while covering her from behind, and it ain’t until I take my fourth shot that Tina cottons on to something wrong, because I done told her this was her show, only now I’m stealing the spotlight. She figures it out right quick though, and to be fair, I’m pretty all those spitters were aiming at her Mirror Images, all of which have taken up tempting positions that make Abby want to get at them, but not so easy to get at that it’s a dead giveaway.

  Soon as she starts targeting Spitters over Swarmlings, I step back to reload my carbine while continuing to watch on. Don’t take her long to clean up, and the whole fight might’ve lasted 3 or 4 minutes at most, with the closest Abby corpse sitting a good 15 meters away from our position. Tina is ruddy cheeked and short of breath by the end of it, having gone through 11 mags and change just for this short skirmish, leaving her no much of any hanging off her thigh holsters as the rest are tucked in her bandolier and will require both hands to reload. I don’t pull up to criticize right off though, despite her looking like she half expects it. Part of it is because I’m trying real hard not to quash her confidence, but the other part is because she needs to learn some things the hard way.

  Like how it ain’t over until it’s over, and this fight here has only just begun.

  The rumbling underfoot alerts Tina to what’s coming about a full second before it arrives, and I stand and watch as her eyes go wide with alarm while she twists in place to see what it’s all about. The ground churns at the bottom of the basin, then erupts in a spray of dirt and stone as the Beetle behemoth emerges from its slumber below with a trilling bellow of a battle cry. It’s a sight to behold, for the term ‘behemoth’ ain’t lightly thrown around, with the smallest ones coming in around 3 meters tall and about 5 tons in weight. Metric tons, mind you, so a full 5000 kilograms, and the big beefy bug down in the basin looks like he clears that and then some.

  A stag beetle is the closest comparison I’m told, and if so, I don’t want nothing to do with them. The bug down below is a hulking, six-legged brute of a beast with a thick, chitinous exterior that ain’t technically armoured since there ain’t much Aberrtin content in the shell, but is still hard and thick enough to block small arms fire. Add in the actually armoured head complete with sharp, forward-facing horn and pinching mandibles so thick and strong they can chomp through solid stone walls with ease, and you don’t need anything else to really ruin your day. Might well ruin Tina’s if she don’t make the right moves, but I step back and leave her be to see how she handles her first big girl rodeo here in the desolate badlands.

  And whether she rises to the occasion or falls victim to it, I gotta stay cool and let it happen. Can never really know the sort of person you are, not until you put everything on the line, so better she learn sooner rather than later if she ain’t up to snuff, because I won’t always be there to watch her back.