Spawn Point Zero

by Nancy Osa

  “Uuuuhh . . . ooohhh! ”

  Glass shattered, and a mottled green arm thrust its way into the shelter. Turner, Frida, and Kim all lunged at it, blades clashing in their haste to sever the limb. Three more rotting arms poked through the opening, and this time the warriors took turns hacking them from the would-be intruders. The rising maggoty-meat stench made Rob gag.

  Minus an arm, one of the zombies managed to crawl through the open block. Turner claimed the target, slashing at both of its legs. “Bet you always wanted to travel!” he growled, knocking the monster across the room, onto the table. The others drew back to let him work. “I’ma take you on a nice trip . . . to the Nether,” he shouted as he cut off the zombie’s head and swiped the remaining mess onto the floor. He sheathed his weapon and dusted off his hands. Then he pulled a toothpick from behind his ear and casually worked at something between his teeth.

  “I told De Vries, no windows!” Frida griped, chopping a dirt block from the floor and sealing off the gap in the wall.

  Kim removed her cap and used it to gather the rotten flesh that had accumulated at their feet.

  “Now, what were you saying, Stormie?” Frida asked, settling back down at the conference table as though nothing had happened.

  Stormie picked some glass shards out of her long, curly black ponytail. “I think we can handle all threats from humans and hostiles. Avalanches are possible, but unlikely. Weather shouldn’t be a problem at the altitude we’ve chosen for the city site.”

  “That just leaves the planning as a possible issue,” Judge Tome concluded.

  “I should say not!” Jools was offended. “I’m prepared to run through the blueprints, scheduling, and supply list with a fine-toothed comb. By the time I’m done, our construction program will be foolproof.”

  “If we’re foolish enough to go through with it,” Turner said, sitting back and lacing his fingers behind his dark buzz cut.

  “Which brings us to our final matter.” The judge stabbed a finger at the agenda, flashing his UBO ring. “Section 3. We agree that the concept has value and could hypothetically work. Are we willing to go through with it? We’ve come to the yea or nay vote.”

  Rob swallowed hard. It seemed that the interested parties could survive the building and running of a capital city. But will they commit? Battalion Zero’s captain had faith in his troopers’ individual strengths. However, he knew that getting these free spirits to unite as a group was like pulling mule teeth—tough, painful, and sometimes bloody.

  “Let me summarize,” boomed Colonel M in staccato bass tones. “Yea is yes to strengthening what remains of the United Biomes of the Overworld. Forming a capital city will give us one area to defend rather than worrying about multiple biome boundaries. A local police and standing army would augment the battalion’s defense efforts. Having a physical seat of government will give villagers a concrete place to put their allegiance.”

  His expression grew more somber. “A nay vote disperses this committee and returns Overworld defense solely to the six of you.”

  Rob stood up and smoothed his leather vest and chaps. “It’s a big job, folks. I won’t lie about that. But banding the Overworld together’ll let us go back to our normal lives, sooner or later. Letting it split further apart will only make life more difficult for everyone.” He hoped this would sway his cavalry mates, each of whom had solid reasons for voting either way.

  Judge Tome raised his eyeglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “If I might add . . . voting yes may revive democratic UBO governance. Voting no may kill it forever.” He paused. “All in favor . . . ?”

  Rob settled back in his chair, put up a hand, then held his breath. He knew Kim and Stormie wanted to return to their professions. Jools and Turner could surely make more money working for the GIA. And Frida—well, she’d called herself a lone wolf, shortly after they’d met. She might fade into the jungle and never be seen again.

  First Kim’s hand shot up. Then Stormie and Jools each raised a finger.

  Rob looked at Frida. She nudged Turner, and then raised a hand.

  Judge Tome hesitated, then asked, “All opposed . . . ?”

  “Hold on.” Turner leaned forward and caught Rob’s eye. “Pay’s once a month?”

  Rob found his voice. “Yes, yes!”

  Turner raised two fingers. “I’m in, then.”

  The colonel and judge had already agreed to abide by the cavalry’s decision, so the deal was done.

  Rob made a pretend touchdown in the air and repeated, “Yes!”

  “Way to go, Bat Zero!” cried Kim, raising a pink fist.

  “Nothing like a vote for world peace,” murmured Stormie. “Take that, Lady Craven.” The deadly artillery expert had most recently struck a blow against the global security threat by the griefer alliance—and the sorcerer who commanded it.

  Rob released a sigh, relieved that the vote had gone his way. “It’ll be much easier to fend off Lady Craven and her legions from one citadel instead of chasing after them whenever and wherever they decide to strike.”

  “If they come back from Creative mode at all,” Frida added. She’d been the one to change Lady Craven’s game plan when the griefer queen’s hordes had tried to enslave villagers in the Overworld’s southern hemisphere.

  Jools folded his arms. “If not them, it’ll be some similar slimes.”

  “I like your faith in human nature,” Rob said.

  Turner grunted. “Some players always want more than they’ve got, and don’t want to work for it.”

  Frida grinned at her old friend. “Unlike you. Right, Meat?”

  Turner scowled. “Man’s gotta make a livin’.”

  Judge Tome whacked the table with his axe again. “This is not the proper venue in which to discuss Sergeant Turner’s moral conduct. Alea iacta est. The decision has been made.” He smacked the table with his axe. “Meeting adjourned.”

  Rob got up and stretched, flooding with satisfaction as well as unease. The difficult debate was over. Now the real work of constructing a city and attracting residents and allies would begin. Then the players would have to stay alive long enough to institute a lawful government—all while keeping zombies, skeletons, creepers, and other assorted mobsters from interfering with the job. That was where Rob came in; the construction-phase defense would fall to his troopers. That task would be an easy sell to the militant group. The real wild card would be how long he could count on their services.

  But another tall order awaited them. The captain hadn’t yet mentioned one more thing he’d require of his troops, and he wasn’t quite sure how to bring it up. Faced with a tough decision, Turner and Frida could be volatile, and the others headstrong.

  Rob would have to wait for his moment.

  *

  So, ground had been broken and the building begun. The cavalry set to crafting a horse camp and training ground—in between guarding workers and loot and taking out hostile mobs. As the days went by, though, Rob wondered about his ability to maintain his troops’ commitment. Yes, they’d agreed to put their personal agendas on hold a while longer for the good of the Overworld. But for how long?

  Once the first residents moved in, the city would be a prime target. Rob would need unquestioning loyalty from every member of Battalion Zero. Would he have it? As Rob let Stormie correct the spelling in his ad, he mused again about confronting his troops. He thought he’d come up with a way to ensure their unity . . . but they might not like it.

  The situation reminded him of his first night in the Overworld, after falling from the airplane into the ocean. His unexpected swim had left him with next to nothing: no food, no weapons, and barely the clothes on his back. His cowboy hat had been lost in the surf. When Rob finally washed up on the beach, all he’d had for protection was a pillar of sand—and he didn’t know whether it would hold together, or disintegrate into a billion tiny pieces.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE CLOSER THE DATE CAME TO WELCOMING NEW residents to Beta,
the more misgivings Captain Rob had about the battalion’s ability to safeguard the city. He’d already called for daily training and confined the troopers to the area 24/7. But since his “moment” had never come, he still hadn’t mentioned his final service requirement.

  “That does it! Today’s the day,” he said to himself. He’d learned from the disastrous events leading up to the Battle of Zombie Hill that action—however unrehearsed—must ultimately trump caution. But preparation, he recalled the judge saying, might help keep him and his troops alive.

  Rob walked across the valley compound to where the others were fortifying the stable area. Their horses were fit and fleet—except for slow-moving Beckett, who had other virtues. The mounts would be targets for griefers and malcontents, not to mention creepers and wolves.

  A permanent barn shelter had yet to be built, so the horses were being watched closely outdoors. A wide, torch-lit pasture lay not far from the company bunkhouse, across a patch of ground that had been cleared and its dirt blocks swept clean. The captain’s approach was heralded with a long, low whinny from his warhorse, Saber, and a high-octave bray from Norma Jean, the talkative mule that belonged to Judge Tome. She punctuated her greeting by raising her tail and emitting three farts. Rob gave her a good-natured salute.

  Eight more rumps and tails were all that could be seen of the other animals, which did not lift their heads from the rich grass they dined on. Surrounding the herd was a typically fenced pasture ringed by an atypical ditch. It was several blocks deep and wide and—thus far—empty. A trip wire encircled the field, and the stream that naturally ran through it had been dammed. Water pooled in a small pond outside the fence. Rob was pleased with the way the accommodations were shaping up.

  “First part’s all done, Cap’n,” Turner said, rubbing his palms together. Sweat glued the mercenary’s ripped T-shirt to his torso and trickled across the mesa and desert biome tattoos on his biceps. His cargo pants and combat boots were crusted with dirt.

  “I’m glad to see you’re not above a little ditch digging, Sergeant.”

  “Oh, we did that with a modified power shovel. I was just lifting some weights.” Turner stepped back to reveal a massive iron barbell resting on a rack above a bench press he’d crafted. “Want to have a go? I’ll spot you.”

  “Er, no, thanks.” The sergeant’s muscles had muscles, while Rob’s physique was more . . . streamlined—better for jumping on and off a cowhorse in his world. Rob had made it a policy never to lift anything heavier than himself.

  Turner shook his head. “Strong get stronger and the weak get weaker,” he muttered.

  “What’s next for the ditch?” Rob asked, changing the subject. “It might trap a zombie, but a skeleton or a human could get in and out pretty easy.”

  Jools, sitting with the others nearby, heard him talking and came over. “Not to worry, Captain.” He motioned to Kim, Frida, and Stormie, who were sharpening the ends of stout saplings with iron axes. “We fill the trench with hundreds of these Punji sticks, like so—” He jumped down into the gully and pantomimed jamming a stake upright in the ground. He squinted up at Rob. “Then we open the irrigation gates and flood the thing. There’ll be a drawbridge for us to get in and out.”

  “A booby-trapped moat?”

  “Brilliant, if I say so, myself. First the bad guys fall, then they’re skewered, then they drown.” Jools reached for the ledge to pull himself back out again.

  Rob gave him a hand. “Sounds like overkill to me.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with that!” Turner praised.

  “Oh, I agree.” Rob stood back and admired the design. “The more work the traps do, the less work for us.”

  Turner considered this and then corrected him. “Fightin’ ain’t near work, Cap’n. More like a hobby than anything else.” He turned and dove at Frida, who dropped the stake she was sharpening just in time to deflect the full-body blow.

  They wrestled in the dirt for a bit, Turner raking at Frida’s short, dark hair, and Frida biting any extremity her teeth could get ahold of. Turner got up and began pelting her with rocks. Enraged, the survivalist tensed her muscles and then uncoiled, rolling toward the mercenary’s feet. His boots flew out from under him, and he fell heavily into the empty pit. Rob thought he felt the ground shake.

  After a slight pause, Turner crawled out of the dry moat and staggered over to Frida, grabbing her hand in a sideways clasp and releasing it. “You’re one up on me,” he complimented her.

  “Too bad I hadn’t placed those spikes yet,” murmured Jools.

  “All right, all right,” Rob said, to cover his admiration for Frida’s combat skill. There was something thrilling about a woman who could fight like that. “If you folks want to spar, let’s get mounted. You can finish the moat later.”

  Battalion Zero’s main advantage against hostiles and griefers was its ability to fight together as a cavalry unit. The captain made an effort to keep the troopers’ skills sharp. He had to admit that—what with the conferences and the guarding and the crafting—their horsemanship had slipped somewhat.

  Kim produced the horses’ inventory, and the group climbed over the trip wire, through the ditch, and into the pasture to tack up. Rob recognized an opportunity for a teaching moment. “Troops! Once we’re mounted, I want us all to jump this moat once in each direction.” Who knew if some griefer might succeed in disabling the drawbridge? Planning an alternate means of escape now could save lives.

  “No fair!” Jools complained. “You’ve got Pegasus. I’ve got a four-toed sloth.”

  A corner of Rob’s mouth turned up. It was well known that Saber loved to jump, while Beckett practically needed a potion of leaping to do so.

  “What is it Judge Tome says about practice making perfect, Quartermaster?”

  “Usus magister est optimus. But in this case, it only makes me a perfect prat.”

  Jools knew better than to argue with an order, though. He saddled his palomino stallion and took his position in file behind Duff, Turner’s blocky gray quarter horse.

  Stormie began the exercise on her brave black-and-white paint horse, Armor. Frida took advantage of Armor’s momentum by following closely on Ocelot, the black-and-brown spotted pony she rode. In and out they sprang, before Turner or Jools had encouraged Duff or Beckett to jump one way.

  Rob eyed Kim, who had mounted Nightwind, the huge bay stallion that Colonel M had bequeathed to her. She nodded.

  “Follow us!” Rob called, as he led the way on Saber. This example worked, and the others completed the drill, with Saber throwing in a pair of extra leaps for good measure. Rob patted the horse’s shiny black neck, thinking how lucky he was to have found an equal to Pistol, his versatile horse back on the ranch in his old life.

  Then it was time for the group to get down to business. “Troops, fall in!” Captain Rob ordered, and the riders arranged their mounts as usual: Armor first, then Ocelot, then Duff, Beckett, Nightwind, and Saber.

  The fenced pasture made an ideal arena for performing the mounted patterns that allowed the cavalry to function as a group when traveling or skirmishing. The six horse-and-rider pairs could move together in single file, by twos, or split into two separate lines. They practiced circling, turning, and moving at, and away from, each other at a walk, trot, and gallop. Not only were these maneuvers efficient ways to get where they were going or sidle up to the enemy—they also looked super cool. The normally safe workout, however, turned dangerous when the timing of any single rider was off. And the timing was off today.

  They were engaged in a simple, single-file trot when Frida let Ocelot get too close to Armor’s rump. Armor took this as an insult and kicked out at the mare’s face, barely missing it. This stopped up the line and created a multi-horse pileup that dealt iron-shod damage all around, as each animal retaliated with a kick.

  They took a short break so that Jools could distribute healing potions. Then they resumed . . . but their performance didn’t improve.

  When th
ey split into two groups and rode at each other, trying to thread through the oncoming file, glancing blows left three riders on the ground and three horses’ shoulders in need of a rubdown. And—although it was nobody’s fault—a bee sting transformed placid Beckett into an uncontrollable projectile that threatened to unseat the riders who hadn’t fallen off yet.

  “Say, Jools, maybe you’ve found Beckett’s incentive for jumping!” called Kim as the quartermaster screamed his way across the field atop the bucking Beckett.

  Rob reined Saber over to the agitated pair and edged the palomino into the fence, ending the show. Still, every mount jigged or pulled at the reins in an attempt to work off the tension, much to the chagrin of their riders. Trying to find a good note to end on might get someone seriously hurt. And Rob wasn’t about to start an armed drill in this atmosphere.

  “Is it too late to form a dismounted unit?” Jools asked.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll give it another shot tomorrow,” Rob announced. “Let’s walk up to the construction site. It might give us some ideas for improving defense.”

  *

  The contractor met them at the temporary city gate, where two of Colonel M’s iron golems were leashed.

  “S’up, Crash?” Stormie greeted the young woman who was overseeing the building.

  The short, stocky player was dressed in a protective leather suit and cap. Sandy hair framed her squarish face, and her fair skin looked as though sunlight rarely touched it. She waved her diamond pickaxe at the guards, and they let the foot soldiers pass through the makeshift chainmail fence.

  Once inside, Crash doled out a half dozen protective helmets just like her own—stiff, yellow leather with redstone-powered headlamps attached to the fronts.

  “Always wanted one o’ these,” Turner said enthusiastically, tugging his on.