by Nancy Osa
So, the battalion crossed into the less hilly mesa biome the following day with barely any conversation to pass the time. Crash chopped sullenly at the brown grass at Roadrunner’s feet. Turner mumbled to himself. And Frida worried. This job had better go as planned, she thought.
But with the captain preoccupied and Jools irritated in general, there was no plan.
*
Rob perked up when he heard the lowing of cattle and saw a haze of dust in the air. Red and white cows clumped together in threes and fours in a pasture dotted with cacti and split by a blue river. The handoff went better than before, as the captain had a bit more practice demanding payment and was now in a good mood, to boot. The rancher had no beef with the cowboy, since they wore the same style of clothing and spoke the same lingo.
In no time, they had exchanged pleasantries along with nine hundred ninety-nine head of cattle.
“Why nine hundred ninety-nine?” Rob asked.
“Maybe he’s superstitious?” Stormie offered.
Frida snorted. “Maybe that’s as high as he can count.”
Rob and Kim demonstrated how to move the beasts along by placing their horses in front or behind them. Frida had to admit that the captain was in his element, urging Saber to and fro, chasing down errant calves, and yelling, “Git up, cow!” to encourage the hesitant ones.
The other troopers followed suit, with varying degrees of success. None of their mounts had moved cattle before, but with a little encouragement, all of them, including the judge’s mule, Norma Jean, got the hang of it.
“Jolly good, Judge!” Jools called as the pair drove a cow through a shallow creek. “I’d say she’s found her niche.”
Judge Tome was grinning ear to ear. “What’s best is, these cows make Norma Jean smell like a perfume factory!”
Even Crash had to smile.
The battalion had no alternative but to act together to keep the easily distracted cattle on the straight and narrow. Most of the animals gave in to the herd mentality and kept moving forward. One little steer with a freckled nose, however, insisted on playing the renegade and going the opposite way whenever an obstacle gave him an excuse.
Turner gritted his teeth and sent Duff at the steer’s shoulder—left, right, and left again, to no avail.
“Must have some mule in him,” the judge observed.
“Allow me!” De Vries called, signaling to his sister.
They ground-tied their horses and shifted into wolf shape. As canines, they were more agile than the horses. As a team, they quickly convinced the unruly steer to buddy up with the rest of the herd and move on. The performance particularly impressed Kim, who filed their technique away for future reference.
The absorbing work gradually unraveled the tension that had built over the previous days. When the cavalry stopped on the mesa prior to nightfall, the atmosphere around the campfire was almost civil.
Rob sighed and licked the chicken grease off his fingers. No one wanted to reduce the herd size or to offend their charges by eating one of their kind. “Grub always tastes better after a day of moving beeves,” he said.
“Plural of beef,” Jools translated for a confused Turner. “And plural is defined as more than one.”
Turner scowled and held up a fist. “Define this, pal.”
Still, everyone could tell he was pleased to be verbally sparring with Jools again.
They prepared to sleep in a simple pit shelter hollowed out of the ground and encircled with fencing so the cattle wouldn’t fall in. The captain ordered Crash to guard the troopers on the first evening shift. “I’ll play nighthawk and watch over the cattle,” Rob said. “It’s what I do best. Who wants to cover me against possible mobs?”
Stormie raised a hand. “I will.”
The others settled in to rest for a few hours.
Frida had to admit the day had been exhilarating. Ocelot was well suited to anticipating the cattle’s darting, turning, and stopping, and was pronounced the most “cowy” of all their horses. Frida had also derived satisfaction from Rob’s obvious delight at the familiar exercise, which she watched from afar. At least he could touch that bit of his old life. She knew what it was like to miss home.
A rising moon low on the horizon shone brightly into the shelter. Frida couldn’t sleep, so she crawled up the ladder De Vries had placed and climbed out of the pit. She waved at Crash and walked toward the passive herd, thinking to go chat with the cowboy a bit and—perhaps—make up for what she’d said to him back on the cold beach.
Through the muted sounds of contented cattle came the low murmur of voices. Stormie and Rob talked softly from their watch post. Frida was about to call to them when she made out their silhouettes against the butter-yellow moon. Stormie whispered something, and the captain leaned in close to hear. Then they embraced and shared a kiss, fully illuminated by the vibrant moonlight.
Frida’s heart stopped. She balled up a fist, backed away, and scuttled off across the mesa before bursting into tears.
CHAPTER 12
FRIDA WAS USED TO SOLITUDE AND THOUGHT SHE was immune to loneliness. But she hadn’t realized how feeling apart from a group could enhance that sentiment. The next day, as the nine troopers and nine hundred ninety-nine cows got moving again, Frida learned the true meaning of the term alone in a crowd.
She gave Ocelot the initiative in checking wayward cattle and rode along in a blue funk. Days and nights blended into one, until—to Frida’s surprise—they had retraced their steps to the old mesa plateau encampment. Everyone, save Frida, looked forward to a relaxing evening there. The drive was just a morning’s ride away from the squadron’s engagement with Bluedog.
After a dinner of rabbit stew, social hour began around the campfire. Frida had signed up for nighthawk duty and told Kim, who was stacking arrows, to relax for a spell. “Don’t worry. I can take care of my back,” she promised the horse master.
Turner’s lewd patter and the occasional peal of laughter from a distance hit the solitary vanguard like acid rain. For the first time in her life, Frida was not in top form alone at night. A zombie managed to lurch through the cattle, all the way up to her grass block, and swipe a rotten arm at her. Frida fell hard from Ocelot’s saddle and could not reach her sword.
“Uuuuhh . . .” the zombie wailed, its reflexes too slow to move in on her right away, due to her sudden location change.
Through the sea of cattle, horse, and zombie legs, the vanguard noticed movement at the herd’s edge. Then she heard shouts.
A familiar voice cried, “Let’s get ’em, boys!”
A TNT charge blew, and instantly nine hundred ninety-nine cattle spooked. As Frida scrabbled on the ground, grabbing for Ocelot’s stirrup, their milling became jostling became flat-out running for the horizon.
“Stam-pede!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. The announcement was hardly necessary.
Now Frida could see the faces of a few night-riders who yipped and whooped to further stir up the frightened cows, shunting them away from the battalion’s camp. Rustlers!
The vanguard hauled herself up on Ocelot and made for the campfire. She could hear someone on horseback giving chase. When she reached the rest of the troopers, who were still running for the horse pen, another TNT charge brightened the night.
“Take that as a message from Precious McGee!” came the coarse voice as a woman rode into view. “Done told you I’d be back.” She dashed away after the herd, unleashing a long, disdainful cackle, which echoed off the hillside as she disappeared.
The enlisted troopers struggled to saddle their mounts and unsheathe weapons, while their captain just stood there, wooden, staring helplessly after the retreating cattle.
“Stand down, troops,” he finally said. “Give it up.”
“I’ma go after ’em!” Turner declared, spitting sparks.
“We’ll catch up with them, Captain!” Kim promised as she sprang up on Nightwind’s back.
“Stop,” Rob said dully. “It won’t
do any good. The last thing a stampede needs is more people running after it.” He sat down on the ground with a thud. “It’s over.”
Frida approached Turner. “What’ll we do, Meat?” They both knew this would enrage Bluedog beyond belief.
“Best thing to do is get the heck out of the Overworld.”
Stormie overheard them and interrupted. “That’d only put a bounty on our heads. I say we meet up with Bluedog and try to stall him.”
Jools broke in. “That ploy will never work. I believe now is the time to follow Captain Rob’s lead and tell Bluedog the truth. Swear to make amends. That’s the only thing that will save our skins.”
After some discussion, the members of Battalion Zero agreed that Jools was right. They would leave the new recruits to defend themselves here at the rock shelter and ride out the next day to deliver the bad news.
“Let me accompany you,” Judge Tome surprised them by saying. “My authority might hold some sway.”
Crash and De Vries consented to remain in camp by themselves.
“We won’t do you any good there,” De Vries said. “And we’ll be as safe here as anywhere.” He interpreted a hand sign from Crash. “We can use the time to add to our ore stores.”
“Our ore stores?” Rob repeated.
Crash caught her brother’s eye again and nodded.
“You know, community property.” De Vries grinned. “We’ve decided to officially join your cavalry.”
*
Of course, Frida thought. Now that the battalion had to wrap up its dealings with Bluedog as quickly as possible, the two would-be fugitives were eager to blend in as horse soldiers. They could have just left the unit, but too many people had seen them traversing the mesa. They would do better to stick with the human herd when it returned.
The ride to the Nether portal was grim. There was plenty of blame and hard feelings to go around and more people to share them.
“Nothin’ like two jobs for the price of none,” carped Turner. “Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, but you really dropped the ball on this one, Newbie.”
As usual, Stormie stepped in. “Take that back, Meat. Nobody could’ve known Precious was on our tail.”
This hit Frida in the gut. She should have known. She may have been the designated advance guard, but her training had taught her to check for danger in all directions. Always. She should never have let this . . . temporary setback with Rob cloud her judgment. She flooded with shame.
Stormie continued, “Listen up, y’all. We can point fingers all we want, but that won’t change a thing.”
Kim chimed in, “We got into this together, and we’ll work it out together. Come on, Bat Zero! All for one, right?”
“Somehow, I feel less like a musketeer than a chump right now,” Jools murmured.
“Long as you ain’t a dead chump, that’s the important thing,” Turner said. “I reckon we could all ’ave been a mite more . . . alert. I do take back what I said, Captain.”
“Apology accepted.” Rob turned to the judge, who rode between him and Turner. “Corporal, will you sign a legal affidavit to the effect that the sergeant actually said he was sorry for something?”
Judge Tome grinned.
“Hey, Captain. You made a joke,” Frida broke their standoff to point out. “I think we’ll need legal proof of that, too, Judge.”
And so the air was partially cleared, allowing the intrepid soldiers to focus on the matter at hand.
“Who’s gonna break the news to Bluedog?” Turner asked.
“I’ll do it,” Frida volunteered.
“I’ll do it,” Rob said. “It’s my duty. I’ll just tell him what happened and that we’ll pull the next job for free.”
Since no one could be trusted to be more candid than the castaway cowboy, they left the plan at that.
Despite their private imaginings, though, none of them predicted Bluedog’s true reaction. The players confronted the syndicate boss at the foot of the Nether portal, the extreme hills rising behind him as though part of his plunder. Rob laid out the details about the rustlers and the direction in which they had last been seen riding. Judge Tome corroborated his story, flashing his UBO ring. The extortionist was not impressed.
“There was nothing we could’ve done to stop them,” Rob told Bluedog. “A TNT charge will spook any herd, and it’d take a hundred players to stop that many cattle.”
Bluedog’s face was the deepest shade of violet it could get. “Then you must pay! Hand over nine hundred ninety-nine emeralds. Now.”
Rob spread his hands. “We haven’t got that kind of cash. What we will do is make the next collection free of charge.”
Bluedog simpered, “Well, isn’t that generous of you.” He squinted. “How do I know you’ll pull it off this time?”
Rob swallowed hard. “Y-you have my word.”
“Not good enough! You’ll leave something with me, like that packhorse you used as a deposit last time.” He eyed the group, then stomped over to Ocelot and grabbed the reins out of Frida’s hands. Caught off guard, she did not expect his straight arm in her side, and he knocked her cleanly from the saddle. He hooked an arm around her neck. “This one will stay with me until you make good on our deal.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Judge Tome asked. “That adds kidnapping to your already extensive rap sheet.”
“I’m only . . . detaining her. Bring me six cartloads of hot lava from the volcanic lake on the western taiga, and she’s yours. I suggest you get started.” He backed away with the horse and trooper, over to the covered silverfish cage. “And I suggest you run.”
Bluedog ripped the sheet from the cage and flipped open the door. At least nine hundred ninety-nine angry arthropods shot out toward the mounted members of Battalion Zero, and the band turned tail and ran.
The last thing Frida saw was a cluster of silverfish inches from Saber’s rump when Bluedog pulled a wooden axe, grasped the butt end of it, and knocked her out cold.
*
YEARS EARLIER
Little Frida sat in the middle of a dozen young girls, all of them with olive-green skin and short, dark hair, awaiting instructions. One of the goals of Apple Corps was to instill patience in those training for freedom. After that, the girls would soon learn another lesson firsthand.
“Now, I want you all to choose a partner,” Frida’s Aunt Lea said. “Pair up, young ones with older ones.”
Frida chose a cousin who had always looked out for her at dusk when the mobs spawned. Then Aunt Lea described the drill meant to address trust: The older girl would stand still. Then the younger girl would stand in front of her, eyes closed, and fall backward.
It was simple enough. The trainees positioned themselves and waited to begin. Aunt Lea said, “Now, close your eyes, and . . . fall!”
The first few moments slid by in slow motion. Frida knew her cousin would catch her, so she let gravity take over. Then, as swift as an apple dropping from a tree, the younger girl fell, hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thud.
Cries erupted from the youngsters as not one of them was saved by a partner.
In a few moments, Aunt Lea called for quiet. “Why do you think we did this exercise. Anyone?”
Frida blurted out, “I thought we were supposed to be learning to trust!”
A few of the older girls giggled, and Aunt Lea silenced them. “Not quite. Now, think, Frida. What was the real lesson? The one that will allow you to survive, alone in the jungle?”
Slowly, she replied, “Trust is dangerous. Rely only on yourself.”
*
She awakened from the dream and opened her eyes in a large, dim room with an overhead trap door and no windows. The only light came from a small furnace in the corner. The ground was cold, so it was likely ice—packed ice, since the warmth from the furnace was not melting it. Frida’s hands and feet were free, but she had trouble moving them. They felt damp, and Frida noticed a small pool of liquid hardening on the ice next to her. Must’
ve hit me with a potion of weakness, she thought.
She surveyed her surroundings. Just a bed and whatever was in the smelter. There was no way she’d risk changing her spawn point to this hell hole by sleeping off the ground—or that she’d be sleeping at all. She summoned her strength and crawled over to the furnace. It was busy processing a full stack of stone into cobblestone . . . for what purpose? It could be used for half a dozen different crafting projects, from fortifications to redstone repeaters. Without knowing where she was or who was holding her, Frida couldn’t make an informed guess.
She listened. Through the trap door, she could hear a far-off, repetitive sound, like water dripping. She had heard that beat before recently. But where? Think! Weakness potions didn’t affect the brain.
Then she remembered: Rafe’s church! The fountain of melting ice. She was able to cock her head. The sound came from above. She was in the chapel basement.
Now she could make out footsteps and then conversation.
“. . . several of them are wanted by Lady Craven,” came a muffled male voice.
“I’m sure I can help. What are their names?”
It was Rafe!
The other man spoke more softly or through a filter of some sort. “. . . griefer by the name of Drift. Two outsiders, one Crash and one De Vries.”
Somebody was on to Frida and her buddies—or getting very close.
She couldn’t make out what was said next; the two men had moved away. Again, above the sound of the forge smelting stone, she heard the fountain upstairs: Drip! Drip! Drip!
Suddenly she recognized the approach of footsteps. She scrambled back to her original position as the muted voice said, “. . . Craven will reward you well . . . builders under her spell. . . .”
The trap door was thrown open, and the two men placed and descended a ladder. Frida peeked through the low light and recognized Rafe’s dirty, purple robe. The other man’s face showed surprise, then triumph.
“It’s the griefer! If Drift is her real name . . .” The three-legged man blew his large nose on his shirt-sleeve. “That is all I need to know. Keep me posted on the others, Rafe.” He shimmied back up the ladder.