Spawn Point Zero

by Nancy Osa

  Jools stood up straighter and tugged on the cuffs of his tweed jacket. “I suppose I am exemplary, now that you mention it. But then, you know what that’s like. Right, Captain? How would the others ever get by without us?”

  Rob’s vision clouded.

  “Come to think of it, how would we get by without us? I realized the other night that if I died at the hands of some skelemob, I might end up lost in the Nether, and then I’d never get to finish my transit project.” He grinned. “It’s near and dear to my heart.”

  “What about the battalion?”

  “Oh, yeah. You mates are loves, too.” Jools pulled out his computer and went back to working on his drawings for the track layout and station design.

  Rob had Jools’s pay added to his personal inventory, making sure the other troopers were on hand in camp that afternoon to witness the exchange.

  “Y’know, boss,” said Turner, “you could give my earnin’s to Rose to . . . hold for me. Until such time as you might relinquish ’em, that is.”

  “You mean, you haven’t changed your spawn point?”

  Turner grunted.

  “It’s not so bad, Meat,” Jools said, flashing his inventory.

  Turner scowled, but didn’t respond.

  “Jools is right,” Kim said. “C’mon, everybody. Three down, three to go! Right, Bat Zero?”

  Rob gave her a guilty nod. Jools counted his stacks of gold ore. Stormie, Frida, and Turner wandered off, suddenly remembering something else they had to do on the other side of camp.

  By the next day, Rob had come up with yet another excuse for postponing his own commitment to the group. He secretly watched Kim and Jools throw themselves into their work. They looked happier. They had also, he realized, received things they wanted once they’d made the leap: a new foal for Kim, a new project for Jools—not to mention the gold ore they had coming to them. It was as though the universe had rewarded them for following orders. Was that possible? Suppose Rob changed his own spawn point and enjoyed some sort of good fortune that he hadn’t foreseen. Maybe something even better than going home to his ranch. What would he wish for?

  Just then, Rob saw Frida cross the compound with Gratiano. Well . . . I guess that ain’t gonna happen.

  He had never really expressed his feelings for Frida to Frida. Getting involved with a fellow trooper could be risky. Besides, it wasn’t captain-ly. And even if it were, it seemed that—now—he was too late.

  *

  A few days later, Rob stood at the edge of civilian camp after dawn and surveyed the scene. The castaway cowboy had never lived in a center of such high activity. All around him was movement: workers filed by with pushcarts full of mushrooms or cobblestone. Foremen squared off in twos and threes to discuss logistics. Pioneer children ran around inside a fenced play enclosure, safely removed from the booby-trapped pasture moat. On the other side of the pit trap the battalion’s horses grazed happily.

  Kim caught sight of the idle captain and waved him over. “Come to town with me. We’re going to start picking the first crops in the garden!” The bone meal fertilizer had done its job. Night torches and redstone lamps placed along the field’s edges had allowed fruits and vegetables to grow around the clock.

  Rob would’ve preferred a nice juicy, rare steak, but any variety would do. “I’m sick of mushroom stew,” he confided, falling into step with the horse master.

  “I’m a little tired of farming and babysitting,” Kim admitted. “I’d much rather be picking out hooves and currying coats. It’ll be great to get these folks self-sufficient and go back to our own work.”

  “That’s for sure.” Feeling he’d lost his chance with Frida, Rob had refocused on his command. “I’d rather play defense than referee. I feel like a glorified housekeeper.” He picked up a shovel left on the ground by some resident and leaned it against a fence post.

  Rob and Kim approached the chainmail-draped construction site and donned yellow leather caps at the entrance. Crash insisted on head protection, especially now that there was more activity from less-experienced crew members.

  WHUMP! Rob jumped. A bucket of heavy pistons clattered to the ground from an overhead scaffold as if to prove the need for Crash’s safety measures.

  “Swale suggested we pick one quadrant at a time, letting the rest of the crops grow until they’re needed,” Kim said as they walked toward the center of Beta. “Today, it’s melons. We’ll be spitting out seeds by nightfall.”

  Rob could practically taste the sweet fruit. But as he and Kim approached the garden, a settler woman ran toward them waving her arms.

  “Captain! Corporal! It’s the irrigation. Something’s gone bad-wrong!”

  Rob and Kim looked at each other, and then ran, following the woman back toward the vegetable patch. An unnatural glow lit the area, and black smoke filled the air.

  The farm covered a nine-by-nine–block area of rich soil brought in from the valley delta. De Vries had designed an ingenious canal irrigation system to encircle it, using water from an underground spring and strategically placed flood gates. All the farmers had to do was release the pooled water periodically.

  But when the cavalry mates arrived at the garden plot, there was no water—or crops, for that matter—to be seen. Instead, the canals bubbled with reddish-orange lava . . . and only a few blackened stems of the ripening plants floated on top. The bountiful harvest had been reduced to thin wisps of sooty smoke.

  Rob and Kim stood as though paralyzed, unable to take their eyes off the grisly sight. De Vries came running, yelling, “I found the source!”

  Shaken, the builder described the underground scene he’d discovered. The cavern’s spring had been diverted, and a subterranean lava stream was connected to the canal. It had happened sometime between the night watch and dawn. The fledgling garden crops had withered and died when they came in contact with the molten liquid.

  “Who could have done this?” Rob asked, voicing everyone’s question.

  De Vries scowled. “I knew we should never have let unscreened workers on the property.”

  “Frida did screen them,” Rob replied defensively. “Besides, who would’ve had that kind of underground access?”

  “Or the tools or know-how to switch lava for spring water?” Kim added.

  De Vries confessed that one of his original crew had been on night watch duty at the excavation sites. The man had been keeping tabs on the hillside’s ore deposits and stone quarries, not the farm or its water supply. It seemed unlikely that he would want to sabotage his own job.

  A quick survey above ground revealed no evidence of tampering with the gates or canal system, or any break-in through the chainmail fencing. The iron golems were still standing out front, and nothing else seemed amiss.

  “We’ve about exhausted the stock of mushrooms,” Kim reminded the captain. “What’ll we do?”

  Rob pulled off his yellow cap and ran a hand through his flattened hair. “Finding the culprits will have to wait. We’ll have to import food—and spend our precious gems. Let’s get Jools on it.”

  Meanwhile, De Vries would have to figure out how to restore fresh water to the canals. “I’ve never done that before,” he admitted, scratching his head. “Bubbling lava has a mind of its own. It doesn’t always go where you want it to.”

  Rob had every confidence that the brilliant engineer would solve the problem, so he and Kim set off to find Jools and tell him the bad news. As they reached the admin offices, however, the quartermaster intercepted them.

  “There you are! Quick! The conference room. We’ve got a call waiting from Aswan. He told me to fetch you, sir, and Turner.”

  “Turner?”

  “Maybe Aswan has some more leather goods for him.”

  “I’ll just head back to the cavern for the last of the mushrooms, then.” Kim excused herself.

  Turner was handling the blocks on the site model when Jools and Rob entered the room.

  “Put those down!” Rob scolded and heade
d for the computer screen.

  Jools clicked on something, and Aswan’s face appeared.

  “Greetings, Captain!”

  “What is it, Delegate?”

  Aswan looked over both shoulders, as though someone might be watching him. “I’ve got intel on the intel,” he whispered.

  Jools leaned into camera range. “Speak freely, Aswan. This connection’s guaranteed secure. Have you got news of griefers trying to undermine our operation?”

  The tradesman relaxed. “Well, I started poking around the indie riffraff, asking if anyone had heard about the syndicate or allied griefer army stirring up trouble in the extreme hills. I didn’t mention your city construction.”

  “Well played,” Jools murmured.

  “A couple of men—low types, to be sure—said they’d heard the syndicate had gone underground but was still doing Lady Craven’s bidding. I’ll wager their stories stick since I asked them separately and they both told the same tale.”

  “Classic interrogation technique,” Rob said, admiring Aswan’s work.

  “So, I put out feelers to find the location of either the syndicate’s base camp or where Lady Craven and her griefers are holing up.”

  “Did you get the sense they were even in this game mode?” Jools asked. He wondered if his effort in shifting the griefer queen from Survival to Creative mode had produced lasting consequences.

  Aswan shrugged. “Wherever she is, she’s still controlling Overworld filth who mean to prevent any unification of the biomes. That much seems clear.”

  “How so?” asked Rob.

  “I managed to intercept a sonic transmission sent to your area. It was scrambled, but all signs point to a Griefer Imperial Army source. No other group would want to face off with a resurrected UBO government.”

  “Where was it coming from?”

  “I couldn’t get a send point, but the receiver was definitely in local skip range. Considering the extreme hills summit is the highest point in this hemisphere, it would be the most probable spot to pick up airwave communications that someone didn’t want traced.”

  “Yes, yes. But what did the message say?” Jools wanted to know.

  “As I mention, it was scrambled. But I did make out the words plans and caverns. And a name of some sort. It was cut off, but it sounded like –ermite. Could it be endermite?”

  Jools nodded. “Could well be.”

  “What’s an endermite?” Rob asked. He thought he’d encountered every inhabitant of the Overworld. “Are they baby endermen?”

  “Hardly,” Jools said. “No relation. They’re nasty little bugs, like silverfish.”

  “But harmless?” A mite didn’t sound dangerous to Rob.

  Aswan shook his head. “They’re tiny, but if they get in enough hits, they kill just as big as any other hostile.”

  “Seems like a strange threat to send our way.”

  “But one we wouldn’t expect,” Jools said.

  Rob thought this over. “Aswan, keep searching for a send point. And for any news of Lady Craven and her gang. We need to know where they are so we can get between them and these . . . enderboys. Break up their little club.”

  Jools nodded. “Divide and conquer.”

  Aswan accepted the task. “I’ll see what else I can find out as soon as possible.” He made to end the transmission, then asked one more question. “Is Sergeant Turner there? I have someone who wants to speak with him.”

  Rob motioned for Turner to join the call.

  “Hello, my knight in shining armor.” A sturdy woman with ruddy skin filled the screen. Her red-dyed hair was pinned up with a couple of horseshoe nails.

  “Sundra!” Surprise mixed with guilt in Turner’s tone and expression. “I, er, how’s it goin’, sweets?” Turner flashed an imploring glance at Rob and Jools, as though they might save him. “It’s my old lady!” he stage-whispered to them.

  “I missed you last time you were in town, hon,” the blacksmith said. “Just hope you and the cavalry are safe and well fed.”

  “Oh, we are that. Fat and happy,” Turner lied.

  “When are you coming to see me?” Sundra asked.

  Turner fidgeted. “Ya know, I’d like to. It’s just, I’ve been—well, busy. Real busy lately.” He pretended that someone was hailing him off screen. “What’s that, General—? Oh, sorry, Sundra. I’ve gotta go. Duty calls. . . .” He cut her reply short and clicked off. Then he sat back in his chair, obviously perplexed.

  “Sundra? I thought Rose was your old lady now,” Jools needled him.

  “Yeah, well. Sundra’s my old old lady.” Turner got up. “Still carry a torch for her, and all. . . .”

  Rob grimaced. “Yeah, a guy can’t have too many flames, can he?”

  A grin split Jools’s face. “Unless they find out about each other.”

  This brought Turner up short. “Don’t you dare—”

  “Oh, I would never interfere in another man’s relationships,” Jools said innocently, stressing the plural. “It’s just that, Sundra might need some decorating done on her blacksmith shop. Or Rose might need some specialty armor crafted or a horse shod. You never know.”

  Turner threw Jools a desperate look, paused, and then dashed out the door.

  CHAPTER 7

  IF ANY GROUP COULD TURN LEMONS INTO LEMON-ade, Rob thought, it must be Battalion Zero. In the past, Frida, Jools, Stormie, Turner, and Kim had come back from defeat time and again to mount new attacks on evil. De Vries, Crash, and Judge Tome—who had been sworn in as privates during the cavalry’s previous campaign—had thrown themselves into the creation of a new Overworld union. Now the troopers met each new disaster as though turning bitter fruit into Kool-Aid.

  Jools redoubled his attempts to provide the food they’d promised the new immigrants. De Vries worked out the farm irrigation problem. And Frida and Crash began to poke around for clues as to whoever was trying to disrupt the building of the new UBO capital city, hoping to avoid another catastrophe.

  Action was welcome. The natives were restless.

  Once word reached camp about the failed harvest, panic spread among the residents. Rob talked the situation over for an hour with the judge and colonel. He returned to camp to find a settler standing on an upturned box, addressing a knot of disgruntled refugees.

  “They say there’s nothing left to eat! I say we take what we need from them in charge.”

  Grumbles ran through the crowd.

  The man continued, “They say there’s plenty of work. But it ain’t worth risking our lives. Today it’s lava. What’ll it be tomorrow?”

  “Spider jockeys!” shouted someone.

  “Silverfish!” cried another.

  The man on the box raised a fist. “Let’s act together. We could just as easily tear this city down as risk our necks building it.”

  Now Stormie, who had been listening with Jools and Kim nearby, stepped in, jostling the settler off his makeshift stage. “Friends! Don’t stir things up before you get the chance at a better life,” she counseled.

  “But what he said is true!” a settler bellowed.

  “Yes.” Stormie spread her hands. “The city is half-formed. That means it can go either way: down the drain, or toward a stronger, unified biome capital.”

  This roused some supportive cheers.

  “You folks have the power,” Stormie conceded. “That’s what the United Biomes of the Overworld stands for: power to the people. Now, give us just a little while longer to secure it for you. For everyone!” She glanced over her shoulder at a man who approached her with a request. She nodded and made way for him on the riser.

  It was Gratiano, who pulled his guitar from his back and began a folk song—one about the little people overcoming an evil golem.

  “Sounds like bloody Gulliver and the Lilliputians,” Jools muttered.

  “Sounds like he’s soothing the savage beasts,” Stormie said pointedly, as the upstarts in the crowd settled onto the ground and began swaying and clapping.
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  Gratiano switched to a love song as Turner strolled up with Rose in tow.

  “Why can’t you sing to me like that?” she demanded.

  “I’m more a fighter than a lover, really,” he said. “But I can be romantic.” He flexed an arm muscle. “How’s this for poetry?” A sandstorm appeared to ripple on the desert biome depicted on his biceps.

  Now Rob spoke up. “Sergeant, hit the horse corral, on the double. You and Kim will ride out to trade for food from friendlies.” Jools had learned that pumpkins could be had from a farmer they knew in the flower forest, and wheat from the fellow Swale had sold his land to when he took over Kim’s farm management. “It’ll mean a couple days’ ride. Whatever you bring back will have to hold us over until the minecart route is completed and we can trade with the villages.”

  Stormie still looked worried. “What happens be-tween now and then, sir?”

  Rob grinned. “Zombie hunt!” Jools had calculated that a sweep for drops could generate enough potatoes and carrots to last a few days.

  “Ah, why don’t I get to have any of the fun?” Turner groused.

  “Kim might need some muscle,” Rob reminded him.

  “Rose might need some muscle,” he countered, and then, seeing Rob’s stern look, gave up and saluted. “Be back soon,” he said, trying to placate his pouting girlfriend.

  He left for the horse pasture, and Rose drifted over to listen to Gratiano’s performance.

  Rob was relieved to have broken up the duo, for now. He remained nearby, keeping an eye on the popular guitarist . . . and the battalion’s vanguard.

  “What’s to be done about the city’s burnt-up farm?” Stormie asked him.

  “Jools?” Rob said, deferring to the quartermaster.

  “When one takes a hit, one rebuilds with a vengeance,” he said with determination. “This time, we’ll add a second farm level and a waterfall. We can plant the wheat and pumpkin seeds left over from the food trade.”

  “But, what about the boiling lava?” Stormie demanded.

  “That won’t happen again,” Rob assured her. “De Vries used a redstone wire to send the lava flow downhill. The spring water and canals will get covers to keep the H2O in and everything else out, plus a permanent guard.” He surveyed the crowd warily. “Colonel M says that if we put some of the settlers on watch, they’ll have every incentive to keep the resources safe.”