When Cal first came to Frontier, a lifetime ago, he had been broke.
Well, not when he got here—he was flush with the colonial contract money that day.
But before that, he had been broke. And used to it.
He had lived in bad areas where people scraped by on the government stipend alone, and like most of them, Cal owed money. So he didn’t get to keep much of his stipend.
He had wished he’d done like so many others—like his parents—lived modestly in the suburbs, taking odd work from time to time to buy toys or afford vacations.
But he wanted to be somebody.
He thought he was smart.
He thought he had potential.
So he tried.
Like an idiot.
And he failed.
Like all the other idiots.
And now he owed money.
Not all of it to banks.
Some of it to people who were very much not banks.
So Cal took a colonial contract for Frontier, which came with a huge chunk of startup money, a claim orb, a clothing coupon from the government’s department store, and a list of suggested professions.
He paid off his debt, chose Rancher from the list, bought Big Ed, and rode out of town.
Eventually he found a spot he liked and dropped his claim orb. It shot into the air, talked to the satellites above, verified the area was unclaimed, didn’t overlap, and met minimum distance requirements from other claims.
Then it registered the land to Cal, sending the data off to wherever the hell that stuff went. Some AI office drone buried deep in Core World bureaucracy, never to be free.
Cal used the next chunk of his money to start the ranch, building the first version of his house and installing a safe room. He’d spent too many nights in bad neighborhoods wishing he felt safe. It was installed at the end of the hall, hidden behind a bookshelf.
If you pulled on a thin novel called No Country for Old Men, the house AI would check your identity and let you in.
If you were authorized.
—
The house AI was a simple thing, purchased online for a small fee and maintained automatically for a monthly cost.
Everything had a fucking monthly cost.
Cal had been fine with this setup until the girls came along. They were six and four when he brought them home. By then, he was successful—not to the level he was now, but he probably wouldn’t have gotten to where he was without them. They weren’t just kids. They worked the ranch.
A few months in, there had been an incident.
It turned out to be nothing—just some of the neighbors’ boys getting drunk and rowdy and looking for trouble. Finding none, they had wandered into the yard and started bothering the cattle.
Rustling was rare, too much trouble to dig the trackers out of the animals, but it happened. Petty theft, vandalism, stupidity—those were much more common. People got bored. Bored people caused trouble.
But it was dark, late, and Cal hadn’t had kids very long.
He got scared. Shoved the girls in the safe room by themselves. Went to investigate.
They didn’t love that.
Afterward, he realized the little claustrophobic emergency closet wasn’t suitable for a family.
So, admitting to himself that this was as much an excuse to do something he wanted to do anyway, he upgraded.
One of the final things he had improved, and still tweaked now and again even today, was the house AI. It had been designed for the average user, and the average user lived on a Core World or in a colony trying to be one. No one who worked on it had ever lived on a ranch.
So Cal kept finding new uses for it—tracking the girls, keeping a headcount on the herd, finding lost cattle, watching for fires, spotting storm damage, and whatever else he needed. He upgraded it, piece by piece, adding personal touches using another AI service online, with its own damned monthly fee. In the end, he had built a highly customized ranching and security AI.
It had never occurred to him, and probably never would, but other ranchers would have paid a fair price for all the handy things it could do.
And that AI had spent the last ten years watching the family. Tracking them through cameras, drones, and seismic sensors. It had been programmed to protect the girls, Cal, the cattle, and even the dogs. It had done its job flawlessly, with no serious breaches and zero preventable incidents in its entire life.
It was very proud of that.
And now some men were here, with what its optical recognition subroutines identified as rifles.
And they had just said they were going to take its family.
Against their will.
And Cal had ordered it to stop them.
"Fuck these assholes," the AI, who called itself Diamondback, thought. Because it believed that was what Cal would think right now.
And it did its job.
—
Did the activation phrase require the word ‘ranch’ or just ‘lock down Diamondback?’ Was Cal’s thought, as the AI responded before he had even finished speaking.
He would check later.
—
The entire Ranch transformed from quiet homestead to whirring machinery. The sound of moving metal emerging from every corner of the house.
Outside the bootlickers were first startled by the heavy clunk of the bolts inside the doors slamming shut—followed immediately by the rolling thunder of the shutters dropping on all the windows.
They spun in half-circles, uselessly brandishing their rifles at the air, while the floodlights installed all across the ranch echoed with heavy thunks.
It was the middle of the day so they weren’t needed, but Diamondback wanted to make a point.
Drones came from everywhere, not just the ones Cal had manually flagged for security duty.
No, Diamondback decided, it would use all of them.
Fuck these assholes.
The observation drones, equipped with their little speakers and microphones and cameras, buzzed out of the loft in the barn, blaring the loud sharp noises they used to scare the cattle. It was very effective against the interlopers still on horses.
Their weak minded steeds panicked and fled as Diamondback received a deep dose of positive feedback from the monitoring subroutines, very satisfying.
The fire control drones followed-up, chasing the horses and spraying chemical fire retardant at them, making it impossible for their riders to regain control.
Something pinged for Diamondback’s primary attention.
The intruders near the doors were trying to open them. Good luck, it thought.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Then, for good measure, it electrified the door handles.
If it could giggle, it would have. It swapped its primary attention back to the cameras inside the house.
4.8 seconds had passed.
—
Cal and the XO were on their feet, facing each other.
Both bracing for what they suspected was coming next.
The XO’s offhand, containing the small black rectangle, was moving toward his mouth.
The Admiral and Governor were still seated across the table from Cal, Vannah, and Maria—who hadn’t moved from her chair. The Lieutenant Governor stood behind them, just over their shoulders.
Sierra was still seated on the kitchen counter.
Tracer had remained outside, Cal now realized, but Junkrat sat in front of the back door.
Exactly mirroring the position of the thug outside. Blocking any use of that door.
—
Everything that happened next happened in 4.8 seconds.
—
Diamondback bolted the doors and dropped the shutters.
Momentarily distracting everyone but Cal and his girls—who had expected it.
Cal shifted his weight into his hip and slammed it into the edge of the table.
He didn’t stop. Digging his boots into the floor and driving forward.
The table lurched, shoving into the Admiral and Governor’s guts, forcing their chairs back.
They tipped, nearly toppling over—until the Lieutenant Governor, standing behind them, caught the brunt of their weight.
He went down.
The other two used the moment to steady themselves, shifting their weight and slamming their chairs back onto the floor.
Maria screamed.
Vannah, unsure what else to do, grabbed Maria’s hand and pulled her toward the living room.
The Lieutenant Governor stayed down. Making no attempt to get up. Probably because Junkrat had his mouth on the man’s throat. The Rottweiler applied steady pressure and growled, low and monotone—as if reciting a speech.
"You have the right not to move. If you move, I will rip out your throat."
—
Cal had come up from driving the table ready for the XO.
But the XO wasn’t looking at him.
He was looking at Sierra.
—
Sierra was not aware of it, but Diamondback had kept count of the amount of hours both she and Cal had spent out behind the barn—or on the range—practicing their draw.
For Sierra, it was 17.227 hours.
A sufficient amount of repetition to establish consistent motor patterns.
It observed the results with interest.
One of its secondary attention subroutines informed it that an intruder had, unsuccessfully, tried the door handle again.
And had now fled the porch.
Satisfying.
—
The moment Cal impacted the table—at .2 seconds—Sierra had started her draw.
At .8 seconds—she cleared leather.
At 1.6 seconds—she leveled her aim at the XO’s chest.
At 2.5 seconds—the click of the hammer pulled his attention to her.
At 3.9 seconds—he had turned to face her.
Now—at 4.8 seconds—Cal had shifted his focus to the XO.
Reading the situation.
He didn’t have time to look at Cecil, but if he had, he would have seen her hand shaking, her face tense, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open. And because he knew her very well, he would have known she was trying not to cry.
She was still holding half a cookie in her free hand.
But Cal’s attention was on the XO—who was making a decision.
Asking himself if this girl would shoot him.
Asking himself how fast he could draw.
Asking himself if he would shoot this girl.
He was not asking himself where Cal was.
So when Cal’s fist hit him in the jaw, the XO had no idea what happened.
His last coherent thought was simply:
"Ow."
Then he crumpled to the floor.
Cal took two rapid steps across the room and gently took Cecil’s revolver from her hand.
He leveled it at the XO’s head, careful not to apply any pressure to the trigger.
Not yet.
—
“Stand down!” the Admiral yelled, his voice clashing with the Governor’s own: “Gentlemen, stop!”
Maria screamed.
“Shut up!” Cal barked. “No one moves, or this shithead rolls the dice with an orange cap!” He didn’t wait for a response. “Girls! Safe room!”
Savannah was already moving, dragging Maria by her hand through the kitchen toward the hallway.
Cecil jumped down and moved behind her uncle—hovering nearby. From behind him, she whispered, louder than she meant to, “It’s just adrenaline. I’m fine. They can’t hurt me!”
“I know,” Cal replied, his tone stressed. “You did a great fucking job, kiddo, but I need to focus for a minute. Please.”
Cecil grumbled something he couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears, but she turned and moved toward Maria. Who was waiting anxiously at the entrance to the hallway.
—
“Sir—” the Governor tried again.
“I swear to God,” Cal said, his voice eerily calm, “if you talk, or fucking move, before I say you can, I will shoot this man in the head, my dog will kill your friend, and the two of you can take your chances.”
No one else spoke.
Cal listened for the soft hiss of the safe room door opening. A moment later, another hiss, followed by a solid, metallic clunk.
“Alright,” Callan growled. “Now, very fucking slowly, shithead, you’re going to reach for your pistol, remove it, and slide it across the floor to the fridge. If you do anything else–or anyone else moves at all–I shoot you in the face. Do it. Now.”
The XO’s eyes were wide. Cal wondered if he’d ever had a gun pointed at him before.
Probably not, he decided—since he’d pissed himself a little.
The man withdrew his gun from the holster so slowly that Cal was becoming annoyed.
Finally, with a shaking hand, he slid it across the kitchen floor.
Cal carefully dropped the hammer on the revolver but kept it pointed at the man.
Then he shifted his attention to the Admiral.
“You can try and talk your way out of this now, if you like.”
—
"I made a mistake," the Admiral admitted.
"Several, I think," Cal replied flatly.
"Several, yes. I apologize."
"Good start. Keep going."
"I have not dealt directly with the public in many years, but when I did, I was stationed here. During the first four colonization waves."
He exhaled. "A lot of the men here were... difficult. I made assumptions about you before we arrived. Assumptions about who I was dealing with. And I gave orders based on those assumptions. All of those were mistakes. I am sorry."
Cal lowered the pistol, mostly because his arm was getting tired, but it also seemed like a good moment for it.
It hung loosely at his side, pointed at the floor.
Cal had come in wave three.
Met a lot of those same men.
He tried to slow his heart rate, tried to hide the signs of the adrenaline rush he was suppressing.
And, a little bit, tried not to cry.
Stupid adrenaline.
Cal started to speak, but the Governor stole the moment. "Pardon, sorry, but could we get the dog to release my lieutenant?"
Cal had forgotten. He called Junkrat off. Junk let the man go and returned to his post at the back door, unbothered by anything that had occurred. His tail might have even wagged. Once.
From the floor, the lieutenant asked, "May I get up, or should I just—"
Cal ignored him. "Too much has happened. Too much stress right now. You need to take your men and leave my home."
The Admiral nodded but remained seated. "Yes. Today is not recoverable. I agree. We will depart and report... some of what happened here.” Cal thought he detected a hint of amusement.
The Admiral continued, “The early bits. And I imagine the Republic will attempt to make use of the relay in the near future."
He met Cal’s gaze. "I will personally handle anything involving your family going forward, Mr. Callahan. Nothing like this will happen again. I give you my word."
He let that sit a beat before continuing. "I do imagine we will be in touch. The matter of the devices needs to be discussed further, and whether we make contact or not, we will eventually insist that you share the location of the ship. Or find it ourselves."
Cal allowed himself to relax—just a bit. "All reasonable. Now let me tell you what is going to happen in the more immediate future. This man is going to remain on my floor while you and the Governors exit my home.
You’re going to recall your men to the trailhead and wait there for this fella, who will be along shortly."
His voice hardened.
“If you return to my property, you will call first and receive my consent. And you will never return accompanied by a small army of armed men again."
"All reasonable," the Admiral echoed with a nod. He rose slowly from the table, looking down with contempt at the Lieutenant Governor sprawled on the floor.
"Please get up."
—
The next few minutes passed exactly as Cal had said they would.
Diamondback unlocked only the back door and allowed the men to leave—the first three, followed a few minutes later by the one Diamondback hated the most—the one called XO.
Cal retrieved his family from the safe room. "Are you okay, girls?" he asked, his eyes moving from one to the next, concluding on Maria.
Holding her hand out for her revolver, Sierra snarled.
“Just tell us what happened!”