Spawn Point Zero

by Nancy Osa

  “You’re telling me something ate the ground floor?”

  “Apparently so.”

  Baffled, Rob asked, “How the heck does something eat a whole floor of an apartment building?”

  De Vries blinked at him. “In this case, I’d have to say, sir: one bite at a time.”

  *

  The shaken captain interrupted the judge and colonel’s trivia marathon for an impromptu meeting. Stormie summoned Crash from the mines and the rest of Battalion Zero from camp. When they all assembled, De Vries relayed the shocking news.

  The judge tried to wrap his mind around the possible causes. “Were there valuables stored on that floor?”

  “Nothing yet,” De Vries said. “It was mostly wood—wood walls, wood furniture; heck, wood in the fireplace, since we’re not yet using lava.”

  Now Turner spoke up. “Wood, you say. . . . Anything else made of wood go missing? ’Cause I noticed my poker chips are gone.”

  Crash tapped her pickaxe on the stone conference table.

  “There used to be a wooden table here,” Kim recalled. The network computers it had held sat in a jumble on the floor, lights winking.

  Stormie snapped her fingers. “We had to give the loggers iron axes because we ran out of wood ones awful fast. I didn’t think they could all’ve broken.”

  Colonel M furrowed his massive brow. “I believe Sergeant Turner may be on to something.”

  Poor Judge Tome still couldn’t get a handle on the strange predicament. “What—or who—consumes wood so voraciously and clandestinely?”

  In answer, a long-ago vision flashed through Rob’s mind, and he nearly blurted out what he was thinking. But he remembered the previous day’s threat. He couldn’t involve the others. He would have to remain silent until he could produce results—on his own.

  Just then, Jools put up a hand. “Captain! Word from Aswan.” He pushed his laptop computer to the center of the big table so the others could see.

  The tradesman had no time for pleasantries. “I’ll be brief. I don’t know who might be listening,” he said furtively. “I intercepted an encoded message from a man named Volt. I know of him. He’s a small-time griefer who branched out when Bluedog left the area.” Aswan checked over his shoulder. A commotion could be heard in another room.

  “What did the message say?” Rob asked.

  “It’s not what but where that is important,” Aswan corrected him.

  “Why?”

  The tradesman’s voice sank to a whisper. “It was coming from your ten-forty.”

  Rob looked at Jools to interpret.

  “That’s cop for ‘your location’!”

  With a quick hail to Kim, Aswan signed off.

  “Volt is the name the farmer gave us,” Kim reminded everyone. “Remember? The griefer who was after ‘donations’?”

  Rob shivered. Was this the scoundrel he’d met the day before?

  Judge Tome removed his eyeglasses and sat back in his chair. “So. Fama volat. Rumor travels fast, comrades. We now know that the Beta project does have a mole, probably going by the name of Volt. This person—or thing, in the absence of human evidence—may be linked to the disappearance of gold and wood from the site. He, she, or it may have access to monster eggs, knowledge of subterranean lava and water sources, and friends in the countryside from whom resources are being extorted.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “None of this is adding up.”

  But it was, to Rob. All the captain could say to warn his friends, though, was, “Better safe than sorry, people. Judge. Colonel. I think we should all participate in drill tonight. Without a clear motive or target, any one of us could be next.”

  No one disagreed.

  Jools got their attention again. “It’s Gaia! Incoming message.”

  The Spike City church director’s face filled the computer screen. “My friends. I hope you are well, for I’ve heard disturbing news from travelers through the village. Talk of unification has been met with . . . skepticism from outsiders, to put it lightly.”

  “Someone bad-mouthing the union?” Turner asked.

  “We’ve heard from folks coming through the eastern biomes that the vote isn’t going your way. They’ve received . . . threats.”

  Rob tensed. “What kind of threats?”

  Gaia hesitated, then said, “Vague threats.”

  “Vague,” Turner whispered through tight lips. “Them’s the worst kind.”

  “Threats—coming from who?” Rob asked.

  “From whom,” Jools corrected in a whisper.

  Turner gouged Jools with an elbow. “You swallow a dictionary?”

  Rob ignored them. “Was the source clear?” he asked Gaia.

  “Sorry to disappoint. It could be a rogue, someone working for the syndicate, or worse.”

  “Worse? Meaning the GIA?”

  “They didn’t say. . . . But the imperials are said to be holding a mushroom island in the eastern ocean. I don’t know if there’s any truth to that.”

  “But it’s a clue,” Rob said appreciatively. “You were right to let us know.” This did add weight to yesterday’s incident. Perhaps whoever had detained him had been threatening leaders in other biomes that were considering unification. “Thank you, Delegate. We’ll be in touch.”

  “And if I might—” she put in. “How are my Thunder Boys doing?”

  Jools answered, “Capital. There seems to be nothing they can’t do. On the fifth try,” he added under his breath.

  “They’re good boys,” Gaia said and signed off.

  This latest development left the group speechless for a few moments. Then Frida rose from the table. “I think it’s time someone questioned our friend the pumpkin farmer. She claimed to have spoken to Volt directly.”

  “The job’s yours,” Rob said. “Take Turner with you. You can leave right after drill.” He turned to Kim. “Corporal, buddy up with Stormie for your ride to Swale’s place on the double. Bring those horses back here before dark.” He got to his feet. “The rest of you, prep the weaponry and horses for training tonight. Attendance is mandatory. For you, too, Judge. Colonel, I hope you’ll observe. I’ll see you there. I’ve got something to take care of.” He motioned for Crash to follow him outside.

  *

  The cowboy and the miner made their way to the hillside caverns. Rob told Crash he wanted to inspect the ore deposits, storage chests, and mining tunnels to see what he could find out.

  As they entered the main mine cave, Crash stopped and looked around the stone room. Then she went and got a worker and pantomimed a question, pointing to the torches on the wall. She came back and let Rob know that redstone-powered lamps had been replaced with regular coal torches, and that she hadn’t sanctioned the switch. Could Volt be targeting the redstone supplies? That’d make sense, Rob thought.

  He asked Crash to lead him in the direction of the farm and the apartment complex, and she took off down a narrow corridor, swinging her pickaxe and leaving a trail of cobblestone and ore behind her. In one spot, she pointed upward and then acted out picking crops.

  “The farm?” Rob guessed.

  They stopped, and he saluted the alert settler who was guarding an aquifer in the rock that burbled out spring water. A stone canal zigzagged off, presumably toward the surface where it fed the farm irrigation system. Not far off lay a stagnant-looking lava pond. Someone who spent time underground might get the bright idea to tap into the water table from below and contaminate it with red-hot lava.

  Rob nudged Crash. “Could this creek bed be excavated any further?”

  She allowed that it could, since the artesian spring couldn’t exist atop bedrock. The pair moved on.

  “Let me know when we reach the apartment houses overhead,” Rob said.

  When Crash halted again and pointed upward, Rob noticed a honeycomb network split off from the main tunnel they were in. A person couldn’t fit into the small holes in the rock . . . but a tinier creature could. Say, an arthropod.

 
“That’s all I needed to see, Private,” Rob told the miner. “Thanks.” He paused a moment, listening, but heard nothing out of the ordinary. Still, someone—or something—had been here, and up to no good, Rob was sure of it.

  He made up his mind to return later, alone.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE CAVALRY COMMANDER MET THE MINECART train at the roundhouse. Passenger and stock cars were sandwiched between two of the modified carts, with one Steve acting as conductor and another serving as lookout in the caboose. The contraption slowly pulled into the terminus. Above the platform where Rob stood, Jools leaned out of a six-block-high control tower, overseeing the other Steves. They busied themselves throwing switches and placing ramps for offloading the commuters and horses.

  Before anyone could disembark, Rob entered the passenger car and spoke quietly to Kim. He gave her something from his inventory, then sat down on a bench to wait while the others unloaded.

  The trackside activity shielded the arrival of an extra passenger, whom Kim escorted to the bunkhouse without notice. She returned to the train as Rob had asked, handing him his jack-o’-lantern mask. He put it on and wore it to the horse pasture, making a show of removing it so he wouldn’t frighten the new animals that Kim and Frida had collected. They all joined Stormie and Turner to welcome the horses to their new home.

  “Redstone!” Rob called, recognizing Josie’s youngster. “You’ve grown.”

  Kim walked the filly in a circle to show her off.

  “She’s going to be big—” Rob predicted, “taller than her mama, I’ll bet.”

  Kim started to lead her across the drawbridge, but the young horse broke away, eyed the moat, and then leapt it handily.

  “She’s already a good jumper,” Kim said, stating the obvious.

  “And not afraid of water,” Rob put in.

  “Or super-sharp Punji sticks,” Jools added. “She might be my kind of horse, once she’s trained.”

  Beckett raised his head from the pasture grass and gave an indignant whinny. Then he walked over to Redstone and nuzzled her a bit.

  “Maybe she’ll rub off on him,” Rob said to Jools. He ordered Kim to prep the horses for night drill and Turner to distribute weapons. “Call me when the others get here. I’ll be in my bunk until dark.”

  Far from hiding out, Rob kept tabs on the scene using his in-room periscope, which he’d asked De Vries to modify. Now it let him rotate the mirror system so he could see a short way in every direction. The hollow tubing also drew outdoor sound in. Spying on the troops, Rob thought, is sometimes a necessary evil. And one that paid off.

  Rob heard guitar notes and a woman’s voice and saw Gratiano stroll into view. He was with Rose, though, not Frida.

  “Are you sure they’ll all be at the cavalry training?” Rose asked.

  The musician continued to pluck strings as he answered. “Attendance is mandatory. Er, compulsory. Definitely not optional. That is to say: they’ll all be there.”

  Rob squinted into the periscope viewing window. His own words! Plus a few extra ones. Had Gratiano been eavesdropping on their meeting? Or had he found out about the order from Frida? And why would Rose want to know?

  Just then, Frida and Turner appeared in range, and paired off with the other two. Gratiano plagued Frida with his flowery speech, while Rose rattled off a list of things that she wanted Turner to trade for.

  The captain listened to the musician flatter Frida a moment, then turned his attention to the other partners. Rose’s demands seemed in keeping with her job as interior designer: quartz and prismarine for tiles, glass for mirrors—and lots and lots of purple dye. When Rob thought it over, though, he realized that those materials could be crafting ingredients for more sophisticated items: redstone comparators, blast shields, beacons . . . and purple stuff.

  “But, honey—it’ll all have to wait till I get paid,” Turner was saying to Rose.

  “Well, when will that be?”

  The sergeant hemmed and hawed. “Dunno. Seems I’m on probation just now. Why can’t you just requisition those things from De Vries?”

  Rose mentioned something about budget cuts and changed the subject.

  Rob saw a party come in from the direction of town—one tall guy, one medium-built man in a cloak, one short woman swinging a pickaxe, and one giant head floating along. De Vries, Judge Tome, Crash, and Colonel M had arrived for drill practice. Turner took the opportunity to break away from Rose and sidle out of view. Rob could hear him handing out weapons and trying to get up another card game for later. Frida moved off to help Turner, and Rob saw Rose whisper something to Gratiano but couldn’t make out her words.

  A settler walked through periscope range placing night torches. Dusk was falling. Rob took off his vest and chaps, and exchanged them for a skin he’d grabbed from the Lost and Found. Then he left his watch post.

  Time for action.

  *

  Rob picked his way along the vacant path to the city site. Settlers and workers had all gathered in the stands crafted next to the horse pasture to watch the troopers’ mounted exercise. The south end of camp remained empty until a baby zombie spawned and wobbled toward the disguised captain. The rotting tot drew a wooden sword and faked a couple of lunges.

  Unimpressed, Rob pulled a diamond pickaxe and lopped its oversized skull off with one stroke. “I don’t have time for this,” he growled, leaving the drops and hustling along. Instead of heading for the main gate, though, he stopped at the edge of the chainmail fence closest to camp. Then he cast a glance over his shoulder and hung a left, hurrying toward the rising cliffside.

  At the spot where fence met cliff, Rob climbed a spruce tree, crawled his way to the edge of an overhanging limb, and swung down inside the compound. He paused a moment, listening, to make sure a guard hadn’t seen him. Then he crept toward the entrance to the cavern that he and Crash had visited earlier. His mind whirled with details, possibilities, and contingencies—but behind them all was the mirthless laugh of the individual who was plotting against him.

  Was it a man? Or was it some blend of human and animal with the power to destroy and move things, threaten and kill? Rob had been turning this idea over in his mind all day.

  His flash of insight at the conference had taken him back to a long-ago afternoon on the ranch when he’d made an unwelcome discovery. He had stayed home from riding fences to work on the old barn, which needed mending. One of the big swinging doors had rotted away from its hinges—or so it seemed.

  The cowboy had rounded up a hammer, nails, and an old board to use as a patch. But when he examined the door more closely, he found the wood degraded, not by moisture, but by a swarm of insects that had fed on the material. As he pushed the hinges aside, he heard a dull, rattling chirp—the sound a handful of jumping beans might make inside a paper bag. He peeled away a strip of paint that hung loose and, startled, recoiled.

  Termites! The busy bugs were chewing on the barn door as Rob watched. He drew closer, fascinated. The creatures could actually live on cellulose and the other compounds in wood. They couldn’t harm a medium-sized, relatively strong cowboy—but, left undisturbed, they could bring down an entire barn, eventually. Rob’s patch wouldn’t solve that problem.

  He couldn’t remember who had exterminated the pests, or how, and now he wished he could. While he’d never seen termites in this world, he had come across their cousins several times. It was likely that both types of insect had the same diet—and the same habit of unearthing gold deposits.

  Silverfish! Could the arthropod mob be responsible for some of the mishaps on the build site? Rob was banking on it. If so, he’d be that much closer to identifying the sworn enemy of Beta, the battalion, and a free Overworld. Once he knew who—or what—he was dealing with, he could finally safeguard the pioneer population or call on his friends to help him do so. In any case, the next move would be his alone.

  Rob lifted a wall torch and used it to light his way down the tunnel leading to the apartment comple
x. Soon he reached the honeycomb of holes that burrowed into the rock. I doubt that a bunch of silverfish are plotting to destroy the Overworld union, he reflected. It’s whoever is controlling them that I want to find.

  And whoever that was must have a base camp underground, or there would be a more obvious trail of evidence. What was it the crazed kidnapper had said? He was “perfectly comfortable” in Beta. So he must have somewhere to hide, and something to live on—resources of some kind.

  Then Rob noticed a lump in the rock wall, a raised area in a square pattern. He felt it with his fingertips. It appeared to be a seam of some kind. He pressed his weight against the center of the square . . . and the wall slid silently backward, opening up a hole deep in the hillside.

  “What the—?”

  Cautiously, Rob moved forward, holding his torch high. The cave offshoot should have been a normal hollow in which ore veins and deposits would have collected. Clearly, it had been inhabited—by a man, if not a monster. A crafting table and furnace stood in one corner, surrounded by half-finished redstone circuitry and components. Across the stone room stood a huge stone closet. As Rob got closer to it, he recognized it as the dungeon his troopers had found on the day that the sinkhole had nearly swallowed up Frida.

  Remembering what had happened to her, he carefully edged toward the door and peered inside, and saw the broken monster egg responsible for the silverfish. There were two chests. One of them lay open, and stacks of wheat and bread spilled from inside it. That’s what this griefer is living on! Rob had to know what was in the other chest. To avoid any hidden pressure plates, he reached for the clasp from the side and flung it open.

  The reflected light nearly blinded him, and he dropped his torch. He fell to his knees and groped for it, and then illuminated the contents of the chest again. It was full of gold! Gold ore, blocks, ingots, nuggets—even golden apples. Whoever this room belonged to had used the silverfish’s natural attraction to the heavy metal to collect the stash. But why?