Instead, Blake called in a marker from the boss of the Cutters’ Atlanta "chapter," and within twenty-four hours of Ranger’s last ride, there was a new hoop in Ranger’s chair. Bubba, his nickname was—I drek you not; fragging Bubba— a red-necked Georgia cracker who also happened to be ork. (Considering the way a lot of good of boys view the metaraces, it’s surprising Bubba managed to avoid lynching himself. Or is that too cynical?) To my eternal surprise, I found myself both liking and respecting the newcomer after talking to him for a while. Even though his accent made him sound like his IQ was in the room-temperature range—and yes, we’re talking Celsius here—he turned out to be smart as a whip, aggressive but willing to listen to people more familiar with the scoop going down in Seattle. I could almost get to like him.