Spawn Point Zero

by Nancy Osa

  Stormie’s concerns were not completely eased. “But, sir, how do we guess where lightning’ll strike next?”

  Rob had already asked himself that question.

  “We listen for the thunder.”

  *

  As the three friends spoke, Frida and Crash were seeking out signs of wrongdoing belowground. Thus far, that was where all the trouble had begun. Earlier that day, Rob had appealed to the colonel and judge for their insights. He told them what he’d learned from Aswan and his suspicion that endermites might become a plague.

  Colonel M considered this improbable. “I’ve witnessed the creatures in the Nether, Captain, but not in Overworld caverns.”

  Judge Tome had argued that slimes would be more likely to spawn or be loosed underground, where the Beta workers were laying foundations or mining for resources. “Although, I don’t see how even Lady Craven could enchant slimes to attack the project. There’s not much substance to them.”

  Rob turned other possibilities over in his mind. Whoever—or whatever—had caused the tunnel collapses and irrigation switch could be working alone. He, she, or it might be a player with the syndicate—the loose organization of petty thieves, extortionists, and all-around bad guys looking to gain from others’ misfortune. Or the guilty party could be a griefer master of disguise sent by Lady Craven to undo the work of unification. If that were the case, then foiling the crook would involve finding weak links in the job’s supply chain.

  Rob ordered the vanguard and miner to scout out the next ore pockets planned for use. De Vries had called for crafting hundreds of gold pickaxes in order to gather cobblestone quickly, to satisfy the urgent need for high-rise housing. There was no telling how—or whether—the criminal element was getting inside information on the project, but if it was, then gold mines might be the next target.

  Frida and Crash brought Rob news that only heightened the mystery. De Vries joined them in the bunkhouse’s common room to discuss what should be done.

  “We were too late, Captain,” Frida reported darkly.

  Crash swung her diamond pickaxe at a half dozen points in the air and then shrugged her shoulders.

  “Every documented gold deposit had been mined clean.”

  This took Rob by surprise. “How?” He turned to De Vries. “Why?”

  De Vries looked baffled. “Your guess is as good as mine. Whoever did this left veins of diamond and emerald untouched in the same cave system.”

  “So . . . it’s not trade value he’s after,” Frida surmised.

  “Another setback!” Rob muttered. “Now what?”

  “A detour,” De Vries answered. “We can chop enough wood for the shelters in the oak grove up the hill. We do have plenty of iron axes in our inventory.”

  “Wooden shelters . . .”

  “Not the best material,” De Vries admitted. “But it’ll do until we’re able to upgrade.”

  “Will we make our deadline?”

  The group had revised the date for the city’s inauguration. A formal ceremony would feature dignitaries speaking and dedicating the city to Overworld unity. Also, a huge public celebration was planned—but the pioneers would hardly feel like celebrating if their needs were not met.

  “I’ll move mountains to do it,” De Vries vowed. “But what about your end?”

  Besides the physical work of constructing the capital city, more biome allies would have to sign on, in order to legitimize a worldwide union.

  “We’re still working on it,” said Frida, who had ridden out with the invitations months ago. They’d received some interest, but still had to finalize terms and select delegates. Rob had planned another outreach mission to the villages in the surrounding jungle, desert, mesa, and plateau biomes, to get firm commitments. However, the construction site and tent city crises had put that important task on hold.

  “At least we can point to Sunflower and Spike City as standing with us,” Rob said. “Bringing them together with Beta will lay a strong foundation for the UBO. Let’s hope it’s enough to attract other biomes. When folks see the transit system in place, they’ll know we’re serious. And Jools tells us that’ll be done soon.”

  A high-pitched whining noise rose in the distance—a sound too unbroken to be part of the chopping or stacking going on in town.

  “What the heck is that?” Frida asked.

  The noise came closer, growing louder and louder, and more annoying. Then it suddenly stopped.

  With a flash of recognition, Rob sensed that Jools’s prediction was about to come true.

  Everyone who could break away from what they were doing hurried out to where the minecart tracks reached Beta from their precarious summit descent. Turner had once speculated about who had laid the gravity-defying rails up and over the extreme hills. Now the question was, who was crazy enough to ride speeding minecarts on such a trip?

  “It’s the Thunder Boys,” Rob informed Frida and De Vries, who jogged after him to the junction where the tracks split off from Beta toward the sunflower plains.

  Stormie, Judge Tome, and Jools met Rob and the others there. Stormie stared in wonder, and the judge nodded in recognition. Jools smiled like an ocelot who’d swallowed a whole chicken.

  “They’re here!” he cried.

  The drivers he and Rob had encountered on the outskirts of Spike City emerged from six customized minecarts. While the young men were dressed identically in black leather jumpsuits and reflective sunglasses, their vehicles each had distinct personalities. Colored redstone lights and dye jobs decorated minecarts that had been jacked up, lowered down, or extended until their original designs were barely recognizable. Even the noise they made over typically silent rails was a mod.

  Stormie put her hands on her hips. “They sure ain’t vanilla.”

  “I believe I’ve met those boys in my courtroom a time or two,” the judge murmured.

  Jools waved the strangers over and attempted to make introductions. The six drivers all began talking at once.

  Jools couldn’t understand them, and they weren’t listening to him. Finally, he asked, exasperated, “But, what are your names? I’ll need them if you’re to get paid.”

  Again came a flood of speech, none of it intelligible to the quartermaster, who spoke no languages other than his mother tongue.

  “All right! Never mind,” Jools said. “I’ll call you all ‘Steve.’”

  This seemed to satisfy them, for their sharp chatter dwindled to a buzz.

  Frida had come across Gratiano in the gathering crowd, and they approached the welcoming party. “Captain. Gratiano knows what they’re saying. He can translate.”

  “I’ve spoken that dialect before,” Frida’s suitor said. “I’ll be happy to act as an interpreter. That is, a liaison. Er, a go-between.”

  Rob blocked the path. He wanted no help from the musician, who might then expect something in return. “I don’t think—”

  “For gold’s sake, Captain. Let him through!” Jools pleaded.

  Jools realized an interview would be a waste of time. He instructed Gratiano to get the drivers’ signatures on the computer forms that would seal their employment. Then he motioned the minecart gang to the city gate. The musician accompanied them inside to the job office to discuss their duties, obligations, and compensation—and the penalties for any recklessness.

  Rob watched them go, feeling a twisting in his gut. “Six more mouths to feed,” he said to his remaining troopers. Worse than that, the captain did not feel up to the task of breaking in these new hires—or even watching Jools do so. He made a quick decision.

  “Artilleryman,” he said, addressing Stormie. “New plan. Frida and I will ride out to the farms with Turner and Kim and do some hunting along the way. No point in buying what we can chase down for free.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “You can oversee the folks rebuilding the garden. Direct the night guard to cut down some zombies for their drops. Is that clear?”

  “Crysta
l, sir.”

  Frida touched Rob’s shirt sleeve. “Let’s get mounted. I can hardly wait to hit the trail.”

  And he could hardly wait for her to hit it—and get far away from her musical friend. Rob knew that, like himself, the survivalist was more comfortable outside of society than in the thick of it. At least they had that much in common.

  CHAPTER 8

  ROB WITHDREW SOME GEMS AND ORE INGOTS from what was now the UBO treasury, and the squadron prepared the saddle and pack animals. Food from hunting or trading would be hauled back to camp by the battalion’s trusty packhorse, Rat, and not-so-trusty mule, Norma Jean. The small but sturdy buckskin horse and the chocolate-brown mule were each prepared to pull several pack wagons lashed together. They’d find forage en route. The troopers would also have to fend for themselves on the trail. Due to the supply shortage, their personal inventories contained more weapons than rations.

  Stormie waved to them as they left camp, with Frida taking the vanguard position on Ocelot and Turner riding Duff behind them. Kim and Rob, mounted on Nightwind and Saber, each led a pack train. Unfortunately, Rob rode downwind of Norma Jean, while little Rat and his carts brought up the rear. It was well after noon when “Operation Chow,” as Kim was calling the mission, got underway, leaving only a few hours’ daylight in which to ride safely. The squadron would be passing through the cold taiga on its way south, and dusk could fall earlier in the snowy biomes.

  “I don’t mind riding at night, Captain,” Frida said. “We’re armed. Might as well keep moving, right? Better to finish this chore sooner than later.”

  Rob, already treated to the odor of Norma Jean’s gas passing, didn’t argue. “Let’s get it over with,” he agreed.

  The long ride would bring them closer to the plains, where they’d be trading for wheat. They took their time climbing the extreme hills to preserve the horses’ energy. The party followed the minecart tracks up and up. Gravel gradually replaced dirt blocks, and vegetation became scarcer the higher they climbed. Squares of white clouds floated lazily by, reminding Rob of the snowy ground that lay ahead. What a strange world it is where the sky in one place resembles the earth in another, he thought.

  They stopped to admire the dizzying view at the summit and let the pack animals rest. Plentiful, low-flying clouds limited visibility today, but Rob still counted at least ten biomes, plus the one in which they stood. He dismounted and dropped Saber’s reins.

  The others got down to stretch. While the animals nuzzled for nonexistent grass, Turner and Kim moved off to enjoy the southern vista. Frida approached the captain.

  Rob stared wistfully in the other direction, toward the ocean where he had entered the game. Now that he finally had a chance to observe the landscape, he didn’t know what to do about it. A person couldn’t see a place in time.

  “Thinking of home?” Frida asked quietly.

  Rob didn’t answer immediately. He kicked at some rocks and made a half circle in the dust with the toe of his boot. “Just . . . thinking,” he finally replied. “Seems like I’ve been here a lifetime already.”

  “Lifetime is relative, sir.”

  He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Reckon mine would’ve been lots shorter, if it weren’t for you.”

  “Reckon mine would’ve been a lot less interesting, if not for you. Newbie,” she added playfully, reminding them both that they’d been friends first, soldiers second.

  Now he met her gaze. “No.” He paused. “Really?”

  “Boundary guarding sure jazzed up my nights, anyway.” She smiled.

  “Mine, too,” Rob admitted. They’d spent many a hectic evening fighting side by side against Lady Craven’s enchanted mobs in an effort to stop the griefer queen from claiming biome boundaries. “That’s not to say I wouldn’t mind some peace and quiet.”

  “Is it really so different where you come from?” she asked.

  “Yes . . . and no.” The Overworld was like a fun-house mirror image of his world. How could he explain the totality of existence there? The pace of days and nights, the sense of right and wrong, the smell of the place? “It’s just . . . I wish I could take you there someday.”

  Frida walked away a couple of paces. “Well, you know, the jungle’s where I belong. Probably wouldn’t be much good to you out on the range.”

  This slammed a picture of home into his brain. “I think you’d love it,” he argued, the vision expanding and taking over his senses. “You should see it, Frida. In the West, even when it’s dry and dusty underfoot, the sky wants to unfurl forever. And when it gets hot out, nothin’ tastes so good as a cold drink from a high-country stream. Best of all, in summer, days don’t end till well into the night when the coyotes start singing.” Rob thought of Gratiano, who waited for Frida back in town. “Not that you’d be super impressed by that kind of music,” he mumbled.

  “No,” Frida said softly. “It sounds nice.”

  The others came their way. “Daylight’s burnin’ up like an old torch,” Turner pointed out. “Let’s cowboy outta here.”

  The spell broken, Rob ordered the squadron to collect their horses. Then they pushed on toward the southern hemisphere.

  On the descent, Frida called over her shoulder, “This route looks awfully familiar, doesn’t it?” They had reached the area where they’d performed a shady job to fund their Overworld defense a while back—escorting the griefer Bluedog’s loot.

  “At least this time we’re on the right side of the law,” Rob remarked.

  Turner twisted around in his saddle. “Don’t know as I like pullin’ this job for the white hats ’stead of the black. Makes me feel . . . dirty.”

  Just then, Norma Jean set to braying. She half-rose in the cart traces and crashed her hooves to earth, once, twice, three times.

  “Look out, guys!” Kim dropped the mule’s lead rope and drew her sword. “A silverfish!”

  The horse master had to wait until Norma Jean paused in her thrashing and the hostile arthropod quit dodging her feet to get a clear shot. As Kim slashed at the tiny wriggling beast, though, her hand slipped, and she barely clipped it. Turner dropped out of his saddle, pulled one of the diamond axes from his dual shoulder holsters, and dispatched it.

  “There’ll be more!” Frida cried. “Get ready—and make your shots count!” Wounding the mobsters would only spawn more of them.

  “Here they come. Dismount to fight on foot!” ordered Rob, hoping the horses would recall their training and wouldn’t run off, despite their instincts. Turner pulled his second axe, and the rest of the troopers raised weapons.

  It was unnerving, waiting for the silverfish to get close enough to ensure a single clean hit from their blades. Frida especially hated the swarming mobsters for that very reason. Rob recalled that they could be lured out into the sunlight long enough to kill them, but on this steep grade, the pack animals would be goners in a race.

  Rob, Frida, Turner, and Kim stood with weapons drawn while countless silverfish homed in on their departed brother’s location and tracked the players. Rob felt his skin crawl at the same pace as the eight-legged creatures.

  “Get ’em each with one blow!” Turner reminded everyone. “That’ll end this.”

  Rob held his breath as he slashed and missed with his iron sword, wishing it were lighter wood. A clean miss is okay, he told himself. Just remember, kill—don’t stun.

  He got the hang of the silverfishes’ stop-and-start motion, and found better luck stabbing at them than slashing. When the tide of arthropods at his feet receded, he glanced up and saw that his friends had exterminated their attackers.

  “Rob!” yelled Frida. “One more!”

  All he saw was a flash before the chittering thing bit him.

  “Ow!” Rob stabbed at it so hard that his sword impaled the silverfish and stuck in the rocks.

  For a few moments no one moved.

  “Is that it?” Frida asked warily.

  “Think so,” replied Kim, reaching for poor Norma Je
an’s lead rope.

  “Mw-augh,” Frida exclaimed with a shudder. “I can’t stand silverfish.”

  “They shouldn’t be out here in the bright sun. Where d’you think they came from?” Kim asked.

  “They generally hatch out of monster eggs, don’t they?” said Rob.

  “Yeah, but down under,” Turner replied.

  As Frida took up Ocelot’s reins, she noticed something on the ground. “Hey, what’s this?” There sat a small cairn of stones, with an empty spawn egg lying next to it.

  “That don’t look natural,” Turner said.

  Kim squatted down for a closer view. “There’s no tunnel that the silverfish could’ve come out of. Somebody put this here!”

  “Then, let’s get out of here,” Frida said forcefully, thrusting a foot in the stirrup and swinging up into Ocelot’s saddle.

  “Glad you and me decided to come along, for backup, huh?” Rob said to her.

  Frida widened her eyes. “Speak for yourself, sir.”

  *

  The squadron reached the bottom of the extreme hills without further incident and veered southwest. The adjacent foothills were coated with a light dusting of snow. As they rode along, Rob welcomed the enveloping shade and quiet of the cold taiga. He listened to the crunch of cart wheels on the snowy ground and watched Saber puff out frosty breaths.

  The going was slow, with the pack train weaving in and around terrace blocks as the terrain continued to decline. A few skeletons spawned in the low light, but Frida’s and Rob’s sharp lookout at the front and rear gave the troopers plenty of time to react and defend themselves. At last, they came out of the mountain zone, onto a flat, snowy expanse as slick as a child’s slide, broken only by spruce trees. Fortunately, all of their animals were shod, and the cart wheels grabbed enough traction to spin.

  The white carpet also highlighted any movement along the darkening trail. Turner spied a clutch of rabbits that saw them and attempted to hop away. He drew his bow, ammo, flint, and steel. Three short whispers through air were all Rob heard before a trio of flaming arrows met their marks. Instantly, the smell of cooked meat met his nostrils.