Four years after I done laid my daddy down to rest, I’ve finally brung the rest of the family out to pay their respects.

  Though a good chunk of time has passed, I still get misty eyed every time this day comes, and only now do I see I’ve done Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray all a disservice by not letting them grieve at his gravestone in person. It might not seem like much, crying over a carved rock planted overtop a buried body, but there ain’t nothing worse than uncertainty. I done told them my daddy died, explained how he bled out in front of my eyes and go put six feet under next to my mama, but seeing is believing even if it ain’t nothing but a gravestone sitting off to the side of house he and my mama built together on this little slice of the Frontier that belongs to them and them alone.

  Ain’t much written on it, just my daddy’s name written in Qinese, 阿明, and that ain’t even his actual name. That’s ‘Ah Ming’, with ‘Ming’ being a proper name that means ‘Bright’ or ‘Clear’ and is derived from the Qinese word for ‘Light’, while the ‘Ah’ is just a form of address no different from ‘Mister’ or ‘Doctor’. In this case, ‘Ah’ is a sort of informal term of endearment, a way to express closeness or friendship with the person you’re talking to. Like ‘Friend’ or ‘Comrade’ pretty much, and it’s the only other character I could add to my daddy’s name since he done had his family and given name taken from him when he was ‘commandeered’ from his parents at the tender age of six.

  He might not’ve held a grudge against the Republic for it, but I’ve harboured one ever since the day he told me all about the family history. A monstrous thing it is, not only stealing a boy from his loving parents and family, but taking his name away too? His trainers told him it was because he was a favoured Son of the Republic, a child of the nation and hero to one and all, so every one of them Vanguard who’d be going to the Frontier would be their brother or sister in arms. That was their family now, so who they were before the Qin government snatched them up was totally irrelevant, which was why they was being given new names. Being six years old, my daddy ate it up hook, line, and sinker, so he done forgot his name all by himself, and only regretted it many years later when he realized he’d been played for a fool.

  Said it before and I’ll say it again. My daddy was a better man than I’ll ever be, and it ain’t got nothing to do with his skills or Spells.

  He was well loved too, because even though he wasn’t around all that much, he made his time with the family count. He’d come in and bring us out to play games which was really training in disguise, and he went to great lengths to find ways to help Chrissy go about her day-to-day life. It’s one thing to say make physical contact to get her attention, don’t ask open ended questions, and make sure she don’t wander off, but it’s another thing altogether to walk the walk. Even though we all love her dearly and would do anything for her, the burden of responsibility is a heavy one, because you can’t well blame Chrissy if she does something that gets her hurt. That’s just Chrissy being Chrissy, so it falls on us to look after her, a role ain’t none of us ever complained about, but no matter which way you slice it, it is still a hardship all the same.

  I love Chrissy to bits. I would fight for her, kill for her, give anything and everything to see her safe, and even die for her if need be. There’s no question about it, and I would not hesitate at all, but I ain’t gonna lie and say I don’t wish she were different. Unburdened by her bloodline and capable of being just a regular, everyday girl with dreams and aspirations of her own besides living her life as she pleases. Makes me feel guilty to even think it, because Chrissy is who she is, a wonderful, beautiful, and compassionate person with all the quirks and foibles I’ve come to love and adore, and yet I still wish she were different. Because it’s hard to look after her, to know that in 10, 20, 30 years, she might well be the same as she is today, only older in terms of appearance and unchanged in mind and spirit, meaning she still needs someone to look after her 24/7.

  And I will do it. I’ll move heaven and earth to make it happen, either find someone I wholly trust to take care of her or do it myself, a fate to which I’ve resigned myself, because I wish I didn’t have to.

  My daddy though? He wasn’t resigned to nothing. He was tireless in his efforts to help Chrissy improve, spending all his time with her going through speech exercises and teaching her to do things for herself. It really shows now that four years have passed, because when my daddy was around, Chrissy seemed to be getting better with each passing month, just a little more alert and aware and maybe even more vocal to boot. After he passed though, there wasn’t no one pushing her beyond her limits no more, because the rest of us had our hands full dealing with our own problems and were lacking the drive or determination to help Chrissy with hers.

  And angel that she is, she ain’t ever held it against any of us, but that don’t mean she didn’t notice. It’s a rare thing to see any sort of emotion on her face, but today, she’s bawling over his grave without holding anything back, because she knew just how much he loved her and has felt his absence these last few years. Makes me feel lower than a snake’s belly, and resolved to do better in the future, because even if she can’t be a regular girl just like her sister, that don’t mean I can leave her to languish in the depths of her own mind.

  Tina and Aunty Ray are every bit as emotional, but that’s to be expected really. They cry every year at Uncle Raleigh’s gravestone, and I suspect they cry for him on many more nights throughout the year, though it’s still heart-wrenching to see in action. Ain’t a dry eye in sight for most of the morning as we gather round my parents’ graves and reminisce of memories’ past while drinking hot tea and coffee as a rare indulgence out here in the badlands.

  Mostly because this is the first time I done brung a hotplate out here. Though my mama’s Wards do plenty to keep Abby from noticing much of anything at all up here on the mesa, it can only do so much. Most of its efforts are spent keeping the fluctuations from the Aetheric Condenser contained, so a bonfire would likely still bring Abby out in droves, since the Wards don’t do nothing to physically stop them. Not that there’s anything to burn out here in the badlands, as wood is still biomass after all, and any trees, bushes, or blades of grass have long since been uprooted and fed to Proggies. In retrospect, it’s incredible how the Wards have held up for so long considering my mama was the definition of an amateur when she put them up.

  My eyes wander over to her headstone setup next to my daddy’s, which unlike his, has got a full name on it. Zhu Li Na, or 朱李娜, with Zhu being her family name, and Li Na being her given name. Means ‘Pretty’ and ‘Elegant’, though with Qinese names, the literal meaning of each character ain’t the same as what they mean when put together, which in this case is ‘Graceful’. There ain’t no meaning to her family name 朱, because that’s all it is, a fairly common Qinese surname shared by countless others who ain’t related in the slightest, but the fact that she had one and ain’t many other Qin Vanguard can say the same speaks volumes to her mysterious history.

  One even my daddy wasn’t privy to, or if he was, he lied and claime as much. It's times like these when I stop to wonder what my mama’s life was like in the old world. Easy enough to assume she was torn away from her family just like my daddy was, but considering her all-encompassing education and highly placed brother, it’s got me suspecting something different. The education I could rationalize as my mama being brilliant as the day is bright, meaning she could’ve been picked out for extra attention by the same trainers who taught my daddy everything he knew. Say what you will about the Qin Republic, but they went to great lengths teaching their child soldiers everything they’d need to know in order to have any chance at all of survival.

  Because if they didn’t, then they’d literally be sending meat into the meatgrinder, whereas this way their people at least got a fighting chance.

  So yeah, the Qin know how to teach, and I done benefitted from those lessons myself since my daddy taught me more or less the same way. Not as harshly of course, but I don’t think I benefitted much from the kid’s gloves as other people would think. Just look at the mesa, because all this here is a testament to what my parents accomplished in the span of 8 or so months while being younger than I am now, and I ain’t nowhere close to matching them.

  That said, I don’t think my mama’s brilliance was polished by your standard Qin education system. Why? Because if every member of the Vanguard is a son or daughter of the Republic, then why’d my mother’s brother come all this way to see me in person? Why’d they take a son and daughter from the same family even? For all their talk of the Nation’s children, the Qin still put a whole lot of stock into bloodlines, which makes what they done to my daddy and the rest of the Vanguard all that more monstrous. As for my mama, I suspect her family is a big name back in the old world, highly placed Council Elders or well-connected private citizens. Either or, but one thing is for certain: she got powerful Spellslingers in the family tree, else she’d never have learned so much about so many different esoteric and inscrutable subjects.

  Like the Metamagic bead bracelet I wear on my wrist which once belonged to her, or the twin to it my daddy used to wear which I snagged from the Condenser room downstairs. Kept it hidden there for four long years because I didn’t want no one to know there was a second. While the Rangers and their ilk might have qualms about stealing away my daddy’s keepsake, they’d be far more tempted if they knew there was a second bracelet. I came home with my mama’s bracelet on my wrist, because I didn’t think I could make it out of the badlands without it. A far cry from my parents who took on a Proggie with slings and torches, but it is what it is. Now that Tina’s a proper Ranger though, she can wear my daddy’s Metamagic bead bracelet without too much concern, because if anyone tries to take it from her, she’ll have the full force of the Federal Government stood firmly behind her.

  As for me? If anyone wants my bracelet or anything else I got, then they most welcome to try.

  It's a heavy thing to hand over all the same, because it’s pretty much the only thing I got left to remember my daddy by. His Ranger Star done been tainted by the Feds after they done disavowed him, and he wasn’t one for keepsakes aside from his gear, so while I still got the wagon, guns, and some other equipment laying around, didn’t none of it mean nothing to him like that star did. He was proud to be an American Ranger, happy to ride around all the livelong year helping folks and hunting outlaws in the name of the Federal Government, and they repaid his efforts with scorn and disrespect. This Metamagic bead bracelet is also just a piece of equipment, but oftentimes I’d catch him running his thumb over the beads while lost in memory, no doubt thinking of my mama who crafted them herself.

  They don’t look like much, just a string of 18 glass beads no bigger than a marble. Clear ones at that, with dark, hair-thin strands suspended within that look randomly scattered and yet make up a three-dimensional Metamagic Rune unlike anything the Marshal has ever seen. Which is saying a whole lot considering he was on the fast track to making Archmagi if he done stayed in the Old World, meaning he had the finest Mentors and teachers a Spellslinger could ask for and all the resources the Federal Government to place at his feet. Archmagus candidates were treated like American Royalty pretty much, rockstars and celebrities even though most folks were wary of Spellslingers in general, because hypocrisy is just human nature, now ain’t it?

  Goes to show just how incredible my mama was though, because up until now, I ain’t even heard of anyone making anything like my Metamagic bead bracelet here. Most folks use Metamagic Rods to modify their Spells, which is just a wand by a different name. Arcana Technology has come a long way since the times of folklore Spellslingers being a thing of the imagination, and they’ve managed to condense Metamagic Rods down to a slim dowel measuring about 5 inches long and a half inch in diametre. That’s still a long ways away from a bead the size of a marble, to say nothing of how they tell you not to carry more than 3 unshielded Metamagic Rods on your person at a time, because putting them in close proximity to one another can lead to terrible things.

  Like your Spells going out of control and exposing your physical form to the raw energies of the Immaterium, alongside all the flesh rotting goodness that comes with it. Could also just plain cactus your Spell, make it poof out of existence or do something entirely against the grain, but far as anyone knows it’s a roll of the dice, and you never know what might happen when Metamagics get out of hand. The whole reason it don’t happen to Aetherarms is because each one is designed with strict measurements in mind, meaning they harmonize and integrate with one another instead of working against themselves, and all the steel, lead, and other metals used in construction helps shield those Metamagic Runes from interfering with stuff outside of them. Can’t shield a Metamagic Rod while in use though, and you can’t craft it to account for every possible variation or every possible Etch it might come across, so you keep them separate and deal with it because there ain’t no other options.

  Least that’s the prevailing wisdom, but apparently it’s a solved issue seeing how my mama done made 2 such bracelets that ain’t ever given me or my daddy any grief in 18 years of use. That’s the thing about Spellslingers though; lotta them are… traditional and conservative folk whose worldviews have yet to adjust to the 20th Century, much less the 21st. They ain’t big on group think and collaborative efforts, as they prefer to stick to their own councils, covens, cabals, and cults as it were, so who know how many are hoarding secrets that might well change the world as we know it?

  There are probably plenty of other words that could be used to describe a group of wizards, and many not starting with a C even, but what can I say? I love alliteration same as the editor of the New Hope Times, and I ain’t gonna hide it anymore.

  Course, I make sure Tina knows not to flaunt the Metamagic bead bracelet about even as a full-fledged Ranger. Me and my daddy ain’t ever said what it can do, even if we never really worked all that hard to hide it. Lot of folks go to great lengths to conceal Metamagic Rods on their person, including in some rather unsavoury places, because all you need is skin contact to get the benefits of the Metamagics and can choose whether or not to utilize them on the fly. That’s why I wear the bracelet out in the open, because trying to hide it would make it all the more suspicious, and seeing all Metamagic tools are just that, a tool and not magic in and of itself, the bracelet don’t even glow under a Detect Magic Spell, so it’s safe as can be really.

  “You sure you want me to have this?” Tina asks, her big blue eyes full of tears as she reluctantly tries to hand the bracelet back. “It’s all you got to remember him by.”

  “Do a whole lot more good sittin’ on your wrist than buried here on the mesa,” I say, mustering up as big a smile as I can before hitting her with the honest truth. “Besides, he’d want you to have it. Ain’t like I can use two, and you know he loved you like his own.”

  Which gets her crying some more, and wanting a hug to boot, so I hold her close and let her get it all out while Chrissy and Aunty Ray join in. Sweetheart that she is, Chrissy don’t make a fuss about not getting nothing, even though she got her violet eyes locked on the bracelet too, because she does so love all things magic and knows good and well what them beads can do. To make it up to her, I hand over a leather pouch packed full of marbles that I then stitched closed, because I done seen one of Clayton’s kids playing with something like that and figured Chrissy would like it. She does, as the texture ain’t quite like anything she’s ever felt before, and it’s so novel she breaks off the hug to give it a good two-handed squeeze. Ain’t just the novelty of it all, but the randomness too, because each time she squeezes it does something different, which for a brain as hardwired for pattern recognition as hers is like scratching an itch you can’t reach.

  That’s why she likes the pinwheel Danny made after all, because even when spinning at the same speeds, the patterns of light and magic given off are always new and different. It’s why Chrissy gets so lost in her thoughts sometimes, because she’s found a pattern and is trying to figure out what it means, when most of the time, there ain’t no easy answer to be had.

  Got one of my sorta sisters gearing up for the Rangers, and the other being sweet and innocent as can be, which means I gotta step up my game if I want to keep them both safe. That’s the next port of call once we done with our memorial, or the group portion of it at least. While Aunty Ray takes charge of cleaning up around the house and Tina watches over Chrissy and our prisoner in the toolshed, I get to the other reason why me and my daddy made the trip up here every year, namely maintaining all the Wards and mechanisms keeping the place intact. That means swapping out old dynamos with fresh ones and topping them up for the year, and using Detect Magic to check for leaks, short circuits, or other sorts of interference that might’ve cropped up along the way. There’s a dozen other things I gotta do, none of it all that difficult since it’s mostly checking for damage and replacing parts exactly the way they was before. It’s like copying a book in a language I can’t read using letters I don’t understand. It sure looks like I know what I’m doing, but I assure you, I don’t got a clue as to how all this works.

  Least I didn’t until recently when I started learning how to put Automatons together. For the first time since I laid eyes on these Wards, I’m starting to understand a little bit of the theory behind them, because my previous foundation was far too lacking for me to even begin to comprehend what’s going on. Still is, but at least I can fathom out that this here Etch is for stability, and that one there is to boost the signal along over the next Etch over yonder which is just gobbledegook to me. There so much more to the Wards here that I don’t understand, because they’re so much more than your standard Alarms or Protection from Abby. Those are simply Spells laid out in the form of a Ward, a translation from one type of magic to another, which folks do all the time.

  An Alchemist can store a Spell in a glass vial like the Gaseous Form potion, or suspend it in a Matrix for later use like what I’ve got in my boots. An Artisan Imbues an object with the same properties as a Spell that can last almost indefinitely, like say the Endure Elements Imbuement on my duster and the cloaks I gifted to the girls. An Acana Technician uses Aetheric Circuits in place of natural flows to replicate magical effects, like the cattle prods which deliver an Electric shock similar to the Shocking Grasp Cantrip, but there ain’t no actual Spell or Cantrip being cast.

  And an Artificer? They use principles from all of the above and put it together in a way to create something… more. It’s difficult to explain really, because so much of it is theoretical, and given how all three of the professions listed above require years of study and practical experience to become proficient in, most Artificers tend to be rank amateurs compared to a true master of the craft. And yet, most innovations in the last 100 years have come from Artificers who’ve cobbled together some magical tech that really don’t look like it should work, but does all the same because it just does.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Like Aetherarms. Going by what we know about the Laws of Magic and Physics, cramming that many Metamagics onto a single Spell Core should end in disaster, but someone figured out the right way to layer them all one on top of the other so that it all works out in the end. It ain’t simple in the slightest, because if it was, someone would write down a simple way to explain it, but it is easy once you know the trick, and all but impossible if you don’t. That’s why Junior back in Pleasant Dunes could never figure out how to make a working gun with Intensify and Empower Metamagics put together. The two Metamagics do more or less the same thing, so most of the time, it’d be like lifting your leg as high as it’ll go, then being told to lift it even higher, which can’t be done. Done the right way though, and you step on up to an elevated platform, then take the next step up right after, bringing you twice as high as you would be without them stairs in place.

  And that there is just one of the countless foibles to look out for when Etching Metamagic circuits, things I learned from Danny, his daddy, and yeah, Conner too among many other people. All of it very practical advice with only a minor dusting of the theoretical explanation, because truth is most folks don’t know the answer. They just know it’s what they gotta do, like how you add salt to a pot of water to keep it from boiling over on the stove, or how you can use starmelon juice to write an invisible message on regular paper, which you can then reveal using the heat from a fire. That’s just how it is, and I’m sure there are some folks who know the answer as to how and why that happens, but most get by well enough just knowing the cause and effect.

  That’s Artificers in a nutshell, which is a less exact science than I would like. That’s probably why I’m struggling so much to get what I need out of it, as I’m nothing if not a fiend for structure and logic, even if I thrive in chaos and disorder. No matter though, because slow and steady wins the race, so if I can’t learn it quick, then I might as well learn it slow. The maintenance don’t take me all that long to get through, though it does bring me all around the mesa and back down into the only tunnel up. Which works well because if it does ever get breeched, we can lock it down and use our potions of Gaseous Form to float off whichever edge we please, since the Anti-Magic Wards won’t affect any Spells originating from inside its area of effect. There’s some hinky calculations going on there, where it’s technically possible to Fly above the mesa out of range of the Wards, dismiss your Fly Spell, let gravity bring you into range of the Wards, and wait long enough for them to recognize you as a non-hostile entity so you can activate your Featherfall before pancaking into the ground. Problem is I done the calculations, and the window of opportunity is so slim that you’d have to wait until you’re only a couple feet off the mesa summit before activating Featherfall, which means you got about a half second of leeway to get it right.

  And seeing how there was only three living, breathing Qin Vanguard waiting up here on the mesa with zero human pancakes, I gotta assume they got up here another way.

  Bothers me plenty how I can’t figure it out, especially now that I done brung another Vanguard up here. One my family is treating with kid’s gloves it seems, because not only did Tina give Who Sheng a reprieve from the Silence Artifact last night when she was supposed to be keeping watch, Aunty Ray has now taken it upon herself to seat the kid inside the house my daddy done built and prepare him a meal with the food that I paid for.

  Which I would’ve had to give him anyways, seeing how I didn’t think to ask Jinfeng’s cadre for extra food supplies so the kid wouldn’t starve, but that’s on me. Besides, they didn’t look like they was carrying much of anything to begin with, and truth is I wouldn’t have trusted anything they gave me and would’ve pitched it out right quick. Still, there’s gotta be some lines in the sand, and I might as well draw on right here and now, so I muster up my meanest scowl and ask, “What’s he doin’ here?”

  “Sittin’ down for lunch,” Aunty Ray replies, pretending like it’s no big thing. “After stretching his legs on a nice walk around the mesa. With the blindfold on of course,” she adds, seeing my aggrieved stare that I’m sure looks more like a petulant pout through her rose-coloured glasses. “You can’t keep him cooped up in the toolshed all day and night Howie. Even prisoners get an hour of yard time every day.”

  More typical American silliness. They’re all gung-ho about the punishment fitting the crime, but then make an issue out of the punishment being too harsh without any regard for what the criminals done to deserve it. Three squares a day and a warm dry place to lay their weary heads to rest, that’s all them criminals deserve in my books, and you won’t hear me say otherwise. Ought to be damn grateful we don’t just line them up and gun them down like they used to in the Second World War, when taking prisoners was a liability because didn’t no one want to take responsibility for the safety and well-being of enemy combatants. As for me? I promised the kid’s sister to get him home safe and sound. I didn’t say nothing about making sure he comfortable throughout the trip.

  Ain’t no arguing with Aunty Ray though, because she done already compromised by leaving the kid’s blindfold and wrist bindings in place. She redid them of course, making them snug but less constricting so they do the job without causing too much discomfort, and even has the cloak I done bought for her wrapped around his shoulders. Not that he seems all that cold or put off, and instead is sitting pretty on his best behaviour without making any sort of fuss. Makes me almost wish he’d go back to snarling and glaring at me from the side, because that I know how to deal with. Ain’t much to be done when he being a model prisoner and tugging at everyone’s heartstrings by being young and adorable like, though truth be told I don’t think he all that cute for a kid. The pastel blue hair and matching eyes make for striking appearance, and the baby fat clinging stubbornly to his cheeks gives him a baby-faced sorta look, but otherwise, his looks ain’t nothing to write home about.

  Don’t stop Tina and Aunty Ray from fussing all over him, and even Chrissy seems to have some fascination with the kid. Though seated well away on the other side of the room because Aunty Ray ain’t entirely without caution, Chrissy can’t take her pale violet eyes off of Who Sheng as she gives him a piercing stare while playing with her leather sack of marbles. Every now and then, she glances off to either side to see what everyone else is up to, then does nothing because she sees that Tina and Aunty Ray are both keeping an eye on her. Seeing me walk in, Chrissy visibly brightens up and says, “Hi Howie.” Pointing at Who Sheng, she asks, “Friend?”

  “No, he’s not a friend Chrissy,” I say, giving the kid a dirty look. Despite the blindfold, he somehow manages to catch it, or at least it looks like he does as he meets my eyes with what I imagine is a level-headed look. I hate how calm and collected he’s been, because it makes me feel like I’m in the wrong for hating him on principle since he ain’t acting like he hates me back. And believe you me, this kid is chock full of hate. I seen it in his eyes back before he got a talking to from Jinfeng, and I gotta admit, I’m dying to know what that girlie said to get Who Sheng here to behave. It’s almost like magic, how he made him change his whole attitude in less than two minutes flat, just long enough to walk away out of sight so I wouldn’t see her tear him a new one so he can save some face.

  Which is a concept I don’t entirely understand, but I roll with the punches all the same. It’s the subtle difference between having a quiet chuckle over another man’s gaffes and pointing them out for all to see. Simple as that, because even if he knows you laughing at him, so long as you ain’t working to let others know all the embarrassing things he done, then he can still pretend to maintain his dignity in front of the ignorant and oblivious. The Qin put great stock in face, which my daddy explained as something that can be given or lost, fought for or presented as a gift. It is abstract and intangible, yet still the most delicate standard by which Qinese social interaction is regulated. That’s the explanation he himself was given, and truth is, much like magic and science, he never entirely understood the concept of face himself, not enough to explain it outright at least. That don’t matter though, because most folks just learn the rules and go along with them, or break them willy nilly, but few ever question why things are like this in the first place, which drives me up the wall.

  Not as much as it does when Chrissy tries to take a seat next to Who Sheng when it comes time to eat, and I almost trip over myself getting in between them before she saunters on into arms reach. “Why don’t you and me sit over here,” I say, quietly guiding Chrissy away while she glances back at the kid like I done stopped her from petting the friendliest marty you done ever did see. “Have ourselves a nice little lunch on this side of the room.”

  “Howie,” Chrissy begins, coming along without fighting but still half turned so she can point at the kid. “Friend?”

  “No Chrissy,” I say, as calm and patient as I can, because I love her dearly and she don’t mean nothing by this. Moving my head so she sees my eyes, I bring her gaze away from the kid and hold it firmly on me. “He’s not a friend Chrissy. He is a prisoner, and not to be trusted, so whatever he says, you stay good and well away from him. Understood?”

  Chrissy blinks a few times which is already a bad sign, then takes a few seconds more to process what I said. Doesn’t answer though, which is another bad sign, as she points at Who Sheng one more time and asks, “Not friend?”

  “Correct,” I say, nodding emphatically so she can see and hear what I’m saying. “Not a friend. Dangerous.”

  “…Okay Howie.” Deflating like a balloon, Chrissy leans heavy on my shoulder and keeps glancing at the kid while we settle in to eat, while Tina does her damnedest not to smile at my obviously foul mood. Ain’t Chrissy’s fault though, so I keep her occupied and distracted while we eat a lovely meal of canned pasta and rehydrated jerky heated over a hot plate for an ungodly amount of time. Add in some stale hardtack with preserved clove butter and it’s almost like we back home even, so I ought to be enjoying myself here except I can’t. Why not? Well because this kid is playing the part of the perfect guest, sitting patiently without a peep and acting all gracious with his head bows and polite smiles when presented with his meal, which I gotta feed him using my Mage Hands since I ain’t about to let Tina or Aunty Ray lower themselves to do it. I get some literal jabs in by poking him in the face with the fork while moving pasta from plate to lips, but other than a few minor scowls and heavy sighs, Who Sheng don’t so much as bat an eye.

  Which is just annoying. The kid is like 13. Throw a temper tantrum or cry or something. Don’t just soak it all in and play the victim card. That ain’t fair, even if in this particular case he is technically the victim here.

  Soon as our delicious meal is eaten and the dishes cleaned, I stalk on out with Who Sheng and bring him over to the grave I dug out for his daddy and the other two murders who come in with him. “Should be round about here,” I say, gesturing at the general vicinity of where I done buried them, because it wasn’t like I carved them a headstone or nothing. “Make sure nothing you dig out goes over the edge, and dig inwards towards the centre of the mesa, not out.” With that said, I Conjure up my Wildshaped Hand and make a fist to crack my knuckles before drawing the Rattlesnake and cocking the hammer for extra effect. Then and only then do I undo the kid’s bindings, who I gotta say is holding up admirable considering how often I’ve threatened his life since we met.

  Annoys me something fierce though, and doubly so when he removes his blindfold all tranquil like and hits me with a serene yet disapproving glower, like he expected more from me besides childish pranks played while eating. Lights a fire in my belly it does, because I just spent the morning crying over my daddy’s grave, while this kid is acting all stoic and at peace while doing the same. I ain’t a magnanimous man, so the mere thought of a comparison between us has got me all heated and furious as I lock eyes with the kid and resist the urge to kick in his teeth for no good reason at all.

  Don’t know what he sees when he looks me in the eyes, but it’s enough to know he looks away, acting all hurt and petulant while glancing around at the ground around him. “Here?” he asks, and I give him a grunt in reply, to which he heaves a soft sight before getting right to it. “Not even a marker,” the kid says, with a soft shake of his head. “They were not your enemies, but even if they were, an enemy is deserving of some respect.”

  “That so? You saying you gonna give me fancy gravestone after you put me in the ground?

  The kid doesn’t rise to the bait, just looks up from his work as the earth flies up and out of the ground to form a neat pile on the side. He’s almost as good as I am with the Mould Earth Cantrip, or at least that’s as much as I’m willing to admit, because he ain’t no slouch with it either. “I would dare not raise hand against you,” the kid says, in a tone so frank and forthright I almost believe him. “The General has given express orders to treat you with all the courtesy your station merits.”

  “As his nephew? Well you can tell Zhu YuanZhang that there ain’t no need for courtesies, because he might be my mother’s brother, but he ain’t no uncle of mine.”

  Bolting upright like I done goosed him good, the kid hits me with a look that ain’t so much angry as it is aggrieved. “Though misguided and misplaced, your hatred for the men buried here is at least understandable,” he begins, losing all them stilted, even tones when he gets all heated. His voice goes up a half octave too, which just goes to show he still a kid, though there ain’t none of the pitchy cracking I suffered through around the same age. Drawing himself up to full height, which is still a head shorter than me, he hits me with a challenging glare and asks, “Why must you hate the General too? He has done nothing but seek you out in hopes of reuniting with his closest blood relative, the son of the younger sister he doted on so much.”

  Ain’t no sense hashing it out with this kid, as he done drank the cool aide, whatever that is. The Republic’s got its claws deep in him, so much so that he’s standing over the grave of his daddy and arguing with his killer over another man’s honour. He don’t see nothing wrong with it either, just stands there and waits in silent demand for an answer to his inane question, to which I give a shake of my head and ask, “Done nothing huh? That how it is?” Pointing back towards the grave of my daddy, I lean in close and snarl, “If he done nothing, then why’s my daddy buried over there?” Pointing down at our feet, I ask, “And why’s your daddy buried here huh? They just happen to meet up here and have it out? Nah, you and yours came here with intent, laid in wait for me and my daddy to get here, and then they shot him dead right before my eyes, likely because my mother’s brother wanted him dead.”

  Shoving the kid none too gently with one hand, I’m thrown for a loop when he don’t budge an inch, as he much more solid and sturdier than his scrawny frame would suggest. So I shove him again, only this time I put some real muscle into it. Problem is, he’s ready and waiting to go with the flow and puts up no resistance at all. To an onlooker, it’d look like I’m just hurrying him along as he glides across the dirt, which is a fair bit of footwork if I ever seen it. Kid’s trained in melee combat, and probably better than I am at it, meaning the only things I got going for me are height, weight, reach, and the gun in my hand. None of which I’m willing to use just to shove him around a bit, and it only serves to fuel my anger to new heights because he ain’t responding in kind.

  Don’t got nothing to say about my accusations, no defense or justification on hand, nor any indication that he feels one is warranted. He just looks at me with those pastel blue eyes, all sad and full of pity, like I’m the one who’s dumb and misguided instead of the kid who done literally been brainwashed by his brainwashed kin. “Is that what the Federation told you?” he asks, spitting the word out like a curse. “That the General, your own uncle, ordered your father’s death? Why would he do such a thing? How would he benefit?”

  “You saying otherwise then?” I ask, because truth is, I could never answer those questions either, especially seeing how he ain’t ever tried to reach out in the last four years. Why kill my daddy after letting him walk away the one time they met when I was twelve? Why not do it then and steal me away, when he had us dead to rights back then? I always figured it’s because he was so confident in his Republic teachings that he figured I’d learn the truth and be horrified by what my daddy had done, then got impatient when it turned out the rest of the world don’t love the Republic like he does.

  Stupid is what that is, but true believers will always be amazed when others don’t see things they way they do. I don’t say as much though, because I want to hear what the kid has to say, as he hits me with a pout that says his older sister spoils him too much. Far too girly and petulant, wholly unlike how the man of the house ought to be, which makes me rethink my desire to have a daughter first if it’ll make my son soft. Not that it matters as I ain’t got no prospects or inclination to find any for a good long time. Can’t compare losing my daddy to losing Josie, as they both hurt me more than can even explain, but I only got the one daddy to lose, while I can lose as many lady loves as I care to fall in love with.

  So best way to go about it is to stop falling in love, because the bard was full of shit when he said it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

  The kid takes his sweet time answering, and I suspect it’s because he don’t have a good answer at hand, one that explains why his daddy and two friends snuck up here to ambush my daddy. “Although your father abandoned the Republic,” the kid begins, choosing his words carefully since he sees I’m itching for a fight, “His name was never struck from the Vanguard roster. Even in death, Corporal Ming was still an honoured son of the Republic, and we would have welcomed you both with open arms should you have ever sought to return to the cause. As for you? The General has always yearned to bring you back to his side, but on the day you two met, he saw how fiercely devoted you were to your father and how insulting his honour raised your ire. A mistake made in the heat of the moment, a lapse of judgement due to emotion, for he saw in you the sister he loved so dear, and in your father, the man who failed to protect her.”

  Spoken like someone with an inside track to the General, which makes me give the kid a closer look. Lot of Qin hold Innates in high regard, especially multi-Core Innates who’ve taken things too far, like the squid-faced monk travelling with Jinfeng’s cadre, or the creepy faceless woman who was stood at the General’s side the one time I met him. Their mental instability is feared of course, but their actions largely seen as those of a wild animal, meaning if they’re attacked by one such Innate, the onus of responsibility lays either on the victim or the Innate’s handler, and rarely the Innate themselves. Can’t say I like that much, but truth is, things ain’t all that much better in the Federation seeing how there a whole village full of Innates only a few hours from New Hope who are too scared to live in the town proper.

  So maybe Who Sheng here is another one of the General’s ‘pets’, as it were, a favoured Innate who gets all the best treats so long as he lives up to his latent potential. If not, then he’ll probably be driven to take on a second, third, or fourth Core, believing the idea was all his to begin with because he wants to become stronger and more useful to the General and the Republic too. It’s so disgustingly exploitive and transparent, yet the victims themselves can’t see the trees for the forests, which I suppose is why my daddy had nothing but pity for his fellow Vanguard. Me? I already said I ain’t as good as he is, and that applies in more ways than one. I got no pity for the stupid, and the only mercy they’ll get from me is a quick death, one made as painless as I can unless they so happen to upset me.

  …

  Which I realize makes me sound like the bad guy here, but ain’t like I gone hunting for Qin scalps. Yet.

  While I’m working things out in my head, Who Sheng here is listing off all the General’s virtues and how much I would stand to benefit from his teachings. “Even if he had nothing to offer,” the kid concludes, after making the General out to be some virtuoso in everything he tries his hand at, “He is still blood of your blood in the end, and a man burdened by his responsibility to see the People of the Republic prosper one and all, a responsibility you also share as Firstborn of the Frontier.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?” I ask, even though I know exactly why and would rather slap the fat out his cheeks for calling me the Firstborn.

  “Because you are the eldest,” he says, so emphatic and full of indignation, like he done idolized me or something. Might be he did, right up until I killed his daddy, though if I’m being honest, he don’t seem all that torn up about standing over his daddy’s grave. Who Sheng here seems more concerned about making me understand my place in the Vanguard and my role as everyone’s Senior Brother, the most Senior of them all in fact. “It is our place as the elderst to offer guidance to those younger and aid to those older in a time when it is most needed, when the older generation begins to slow while the younger has yet to reach their prime. Given your skills and exploits, you would be a celebrated member of the Vanguard even without your ties to the General, a man to be respected and regarded as a goal to match or even surpass.”

  Which is pretty much the same thing my daddy told me, only he wanted me to be the standard for the whole generation here on the Frontier, not just for any one nation. Well, I fell far short there, so I ain’t gonna say much, but there is one thing that stands out to me in the here and now. “Our place?” I ask, looking his stunted frame up and down with undisguised scorn. “You barely out of diapers, and you wanna put yourself on the same level as me?”

  Okay. I admit it. I’m being childish, but I want a reason to deck him good, because there ain’t no arguing with fanatics. It almost works too, as the kid draws up to full height for all of second before deflating in place. Not because he’s afraid; no he sees what I’m doing and resents it, but also refuses to rise to the bait. “Not me then,” he concedes with a complete lack of grace, “But Second Sister Jinfeng has shouldered your burden in its entirety. Aside from her day of birth however, she is not suited to the role. She is a mediator, a peacemaker and negotiator, not a leader who strikes fear and awe into all like you.”

  …Two things. It’s hard to hit a man who throws out compliments like that, and it only now occurs to me that Second Sister was actually in reference to her being … well, the Secondborn, for lack of a better term. Does that mean Ow Tian and Who Die are actually the Third and Fourthborn? Might be, as far as the Qin are concerned, though statistically speaking, there are probably a few other kids from other nations who slot in between. Either way, I got no desire to be the Firstborn no more, and I don’t believe for a second that my mother’s brother had nothing to do with my daddy’s death. No sense talking to the kid about though, because he just gonna quote Council lines and wax on about how great the General is, so I spit off to the side and say, “Well too bad for Second Sister and the Republic then, because I’m Frontier born and proud of it.” Cutting him off before he can retort, I say, “Get busy digging, or get busy dying, because I brung you up here for one reason and one reason only, and if you ain’t gonna do your part, I don’t see why I gotta hold up my end of the bargain anymore.”

  Say what you will about the kid, but he knows how to back down when he sees that the fight can’t be won. Ain’t the same as losing though, and he makes it clear with his little indignant huff, one made to let me know that even though this conversation is ended, it ain’t over just yet. Yeah, the kid could use a little less coddling from big sister Who Dieh and bit more tough love from the General perhaps, else Who Sheng here is gonna grow up into a passive aggressive girly man. Ain’t my place to sort him out though, only to stand back and watch as he digs, then get him and them corpses home safe and sound. No more, no less, and as an added bonus, maybe I’ll use the trip as an excuse to do some scouting for later on down the line when I’m feeling ready to see the General again.

  On my terms of course, at gunpoint while he looking the other way preferably, because even if I think he’s blowhard for calling himself a Grand Magus when it ain’t even possible to cast Fourth Order Spells, much less Sixth, he is still my mother’s brother after all. If he’s even half as smart as she was, then he ain’t a man to cross lightly, but unluckily for him, I ain’t even a tenth as smart as my mama. Come hell or highwater, I will hear the answers to my questions from his own two lips, and if I don’t like them, then Second Sister Jinfeng is gonna have an even heavier burden to shoulder without the Republic’s beloved General standing at the helm.

  As for what happens if things don’t go as planned? I haven’t thought that far ahead, and truth is, I don’t see myself coming up with any brilliant ideas to get through any troubles I might come up against. These days, I can’t say I care much either, which is why it burns me to know I can’t spend this time walking Tina through all the specifics of things to do here on the mesa. Instead, I’m stuck watching this kid dig faster than I can, which means I gotta wait at least one more year before I head south in search of answers on what might well be a one-way trip.

  I long since made my peace with that, and truth is, ain’t much going for me anyways. Long as Tina, Chrissy, and Aunty Ray are all taken care of, then I got nothing to lose, and there ain’t a man more dangerous than that