Spawn Point Zero

by Nancy Osa

  Turner fumbled for words. “W-we was just . . .”

  “I can see what you ‘was just’ doing. Slacking off while on duty.” Rob shook his head grimly. “Sergeant, are you taking money from these men? Aren’t you supposed to be screening them for employment? And who, may I ask, is this woman?”

  Turner stared at his commander dumbly for a moment. Then excuses spilled out of him: “My pay’s been frozen, if you’ll recollect. And I am doin’ my job. These here folks’re interested in gainful work. A fella can learn a lot about a man’s character by playin’ cards with him.”

  Rob raised a cowboy boot and sent it crashing against the tabletop, upsetting the cards and shooting chips into the air. They rained onto the floor like hail. “Game over!” he shouted. “Sergeant, get these people down to cavalry camp with the rest of the settlers.” Rob regained his manners, and turned to address the woman. “Begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  She gave a watered-down giggle, which trickled away to nothing.

  Turner reached over and retrieved his cap, jamming it on his head backwards. The redstone lamp shone in Rob’s face, making him flinch.

  “Cap’n,” Turner said over his shoulder, in a conciliatory voice, “let me introduce you two.” He slung an arm around the woman’s neck. “This here’s Rose.”

  “Rose?” an incredulous Rob repeated. “This is no time for socializing.”

  Turner let go of the woman and got up to face him. “We ain’t. At least, that ain’t all we’re doin’. I’ma get her a job.” Seeing Rob’s skeptical look, he explained, “She’s an interior decorator. Loads of experience. Which we’re bound to need. What with all these buildings and stuff.”

  Rose turned dramatically toward the captain, her pleading eyes and clasped hands enhanced by oversized, modified purple eyelashes and fingernails. “I want to do my part. The UBO should have a well-appointed capitol building. Turnie says you’re hiring.” She exchanged an intimate smile with the sergeant, then sent one in Rob’s direction.

  “Well, I—could put in a word for you with De Vries. He’s the lead architect. It’d be his decision.”

  Rose pooched out her purple-varnished lips at him. “Pretty please.”

  Rob colored. “Well, I . . . I’ll see what I can do. Sergeant, we need a security detail. Top priority. Enlist these men as military police,” he ordered Turner. Then he waved at the game board and chips that littered the floor. “And clean this mess up!”

  *

  The more work he gave the mercenary to do, Rob had noticed, the less opportunity Turner had to cause trouble. Rob stepped outside the trailer and made his way to the main gate, where the crowd had begun to disperse. He slipped through and joined the exodus headed for cavalry camp.

  Never a dull moment, he thought, actually longing for a string of dull moments. But night was coming on, and it wouldn’t do to have dozens of unprotected citizens milling about as mob bait. The battalion needed to get the immigrants fed and sheltered, and signed up for work detail. Idle hands make the Nether’s work, he reminded himself.

  Rob was pleased to see that Quartermaster Jools had already divided the crowd into manageable groups. Some gathered around Kim to receive housekeeping and foraging duties, while a team directed by Crash erected large bunk tents. Many were still complaining loudly and demanding something to eat. Rob hoped the activity would calm them down. He approached Frida and De Vries, who were busy processing a line of experienced workers being considered for Beta project employment.

  “How goes it, De Vries?”

  The architect motioned one of the chosen applicants over to a pile of protective suits and caps and then gave Rob a big grin. “Toppie! Couldn’t have asked for a better boost to our crew. This will cut build time in half.”

  Frida spoke up. “In a way, it’s good we were forced to hire on more people. De Vries always wants to do it all himself.”

  “Well, when you’re the best . . .” the builder said.

  Someone pushed through the line, causing grumbling among those waiting their turn.

  Rob heard a familiar persuasive voice: “Move aside, coming through.”

  “Ow!” said one worker in line as Rose dug her fingernails into his shoulder and marched past.

  She linked arms with Rob so he couldn’t escape. “Did you tell him?” she demanded. “Did I get the job?” She fixed her eyes on him like he was the only man in the Overworld.

  Rob was both attracted and repulsed, but found himself unable to look away. Frida and De Vries stared at Rose, and then at Rob.

  “This is . . . Rose,” the captive captain mumbled. “She’s come in search of work—”

  She dropped a sheet of scented stationery on Frida’s folding table. “My résumé.” Releasing and immediately ignoring Rob, she turned her attention to the vanguard.

  Frida sized her up, then quickly scanned the sheet of paper. “Interior designer, you say.” She swept the paper into a rubbish container. “Nonessential. Sorry. Our man De Vries does all his own interior work. Kind of a control freak that way.”

  Rose turned the full force of her enhanced beauty on the building engineer, bowling him over. Without saying a word, she reduced the normally steadfast man to the consistency of a slime block.

  De Vries gave Frida a shaky glance. “Now, let’s not be hasty,” he said, moving around to the front of the table and taking Rose by the elbow. “Why don’t you tell me more about your experience . . .?”

  “No need fer that,” came a hurried interjection from Turner, who was hustling up to the pair. “Lady’s already showed me her . . . portfolio.” He gave De Vries an absent pat on the back and ushered Rose away. “I’ll vouch for her.”

  Frida frowned. “I’m not so sure I will. . . .”

  The next fellow in line stepped up and leaned his elbows on the table, interrupting.

  “Can I help you?”

  A player with olive-green skin coloring, similar to Frida’s, and long, thick, curly dark hair perched there. A guitar hung casually from a strap over one shoulder. “It’s me can help you,” he said in a voice that was rich and deep and promising. “That is, I. It is I who has come—no, have come—to offer my services in a way that could be most assist-ful.”

  The others stopped what they were doing. Rose shifted her attention to the young gentleman.

  “What I mean to say is, I can help.” He pushed back his locks and shook even more volume into them.

  Frida regarded him with awe. “How . . . so?”

  “Allow me to play you a song. A ditty. A lullaby. A soothing tune,” the man said, reaching for his guitar.

  Frida swooned as the musician favored them with a sweet, sultry ballad. When he finished, she sat there, mesmerized.

  “Bra-vo!” said Rose, clapping appreciatively until Turner shushed her.

  Frida remained captivated.

  Rob narrowed his eyes. He had never seen the normally outspoken vanguard tongue tied. “We’ve no call for musicians,” Rob said, as though turning away a snake-oil salesman.

  “Oh, I think you do, friend. I saw how you handled those people at the gate. It wasn’t exactly effective. Fruitful. Productive. That is to say: it didn’t work.”

  Rob needed no reminder of that. “It’s captain. And I’m not your friend.”

  The man grinned. “I will be, once I’ve sung them all to sleep.” He cocked his head at the camp full of tired, hungry people.

  Frida snapped out of it and shuffled some papers on the table. “We . . . might be able to find a place for you. What did you say your name was?”

  The man offered her a card. “Gratiano, at your service. Your wish is my command. I’m your man—”

  Rob reached out and snatched the card. Frida leaned over to read along with him:

  GRATIANO782

  Guitarist

  Weddings – Parties – Bar Mitzvahs

  The captain caught Frida’s gaze and shook his head ever so slightly.

  She shot him an I’ve got this l
ook and took the card from him. She smiled at Gratiano. “Of course, the UBO capital city will welcome the arts. There’ll be state functions, parades, and the like. Meanwhile, you can help keep the peace in camp.” She held a hand out for him to shake.

  He took it and kissed it. “My”—he searched for the right word, or string of words—“pleasure.”

  *

  Gratiano played more tunes, serenading workers as they went about their tasks. To Rob’s annoyance, his singing did seem to improve the settlers’ moods.

  At Crash’s command, her crews placed stacks of wooden fencing in squares as tent walls, and spread wool and planks overhead to roof the structures. Dozens of residents were issued shovels and put to work hollowing out a rough ditch around the camp. This wouldn’t prevent mobsters from getting at the inhabitants, but it would give the guards an advantage in picking enemies off. Jools had vetoed using Beta’s power tools or anything else of value from the project’s inventory stores, but the number of helpers—and a willing attitude—made the work go quickly.

  The emergency shelters were soon up, and the aroma of mushroom stew hung in the air as the sun sank.

  “You, men! Over here!” called Turner. Rob had forcibly removed his sergeant from Rose’s side and ordered him to assemble a protective detail. Turner had armed his poker buddies with wooden swords and axes, and instructed them to fan out along the trench.

  Jools asked the cavalry to perform double duty that evening. They could play decoy, luring skeletons that spawned away from camp. Then they could hunt them down and kill them for their bones. “We need as much bone meal as we can craft for the village garden,” he reminded Rob over dinner. “That way, all we have to do is irrigate, and we’ll be able to start supplying families with food.”

  Although the troopers were overworked and weary, the prospect of an armed fight energized them. It was, after all, why they had joined ranks in the first place. Rob eagerly awaited sunset.

  Turner left the card sharks to guard the camp while he and the rest of Battalion Zero met up in the horse pasture to ready for battle. As Rob saddled Saber, the prospect of danger made him think again of his directive to synchronize spawn points. So far, the only one who would return to safeguard the people and horses after an untimely death was Kim. Rob couldn’t leave her—or Saber—in the lurch. I’ve got to stay alive long enough to die safely, he thought, vowing to climb into bed the very next night.

  Jools opened the weapons inventory and moved down the line of battalion members, handing out bows and arrows. What a luxury it was to be arming for a hunt instead of a griefer-led onslaught. Rob had never thought he’d look forward to an evening with creepers and skeletons, but now he considered it a chance for some pleasant target practice. He had become pretty good with a bow—at least, compared to the first time he’d picked one up, in the heat of a melee.

  Dusk fell. The battalion mounted up and rode out of the pasture in file, via the drawbridge that Frida and Stormie had crafted. At Rob’s command, the band rode to the edge of the civilian camp and jumped the small ditch surrounding it—even Jools was able to cross the trench on Beckett.

  Rob praised Jools for working on his jumping. “And—what was it? ‘Ursula majesty optimum’—” The captain mangled the Latin. “Practice makes perfect, like the judge says.”

  *

  The sky became inky, splotched by moonlight and spattered with stars. Night sounds rose and fell as unseen hostiles spawned and approached the encampment or changed course. Battalion Zero rode forward to a grouping of rocks outlined on the hillside, beyond which the terrain dipped steeply.

  “Front into line, march!” the captain ordered. “. . . and halt.” The six horses stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the edge of the clearing, waiting for the mobs to show themselves. “No sense fighting on that slope.”

  “Let them come to us,” Turner agreed.

  Suddenly, an explosion rang out, farther down the hill; then another.

  “Creepers!” Stormie exclaimed. “Anybody gets a chance, take ’em for their gunpowder. Colonel M wants me to start beefing up the armory. Just think, y’all—Beta will have its own standing army before long, and we’ll be free to travel.”

  “We’ll be out of a job, you mean,” Turner grumbled.

  “This choice position?” Jools said sarcastically. “I get no time off, no health insurance, and no pay—at the moment, anyway. . . .” He trailed off, having touched on a sore subject.

  “You all know what you have to do to earn your wages,” Rob said stiffly.

  “Captain!” Frida called from Ocelot’s post, off his left shoulder. “Zombies over that way.”

  “Let ’em pass. Turner’s men are equipped for hand-to-hand combat.”

  The sergeant tilted his head. “Turner’s men. Has a nice ring to it—”

  Just then, an arrow stuck in his shoulder.

  “Son of a—” He pulled the arrow out, leaving an extra rip in his shirt, from which blood oozed.

  “Skellies!” Jools yelled, raising his bow.

  “Fire at will!” Rob called.

  A platoon of jittering assailants came at them over the rocks. They were armored with an assortment of somebody’s old inventory. Rob cursed his oversight. Without Lady Craven’s threat, he’d let his guard down—none of the troopers had bothered with armor tonight.

  Then my aim had better be right on, Rob thought, fitting an arrow to the short, reinforced bow that Turner had showed him how to craft. Th-ang! Ter-wang! Two shots skipped off of a skeleton’s chestplate. The third met bone with a deadened crunch.

  “Captain!” Kim got his attention. “That rise!”

  In the moonlight, Rob saw the slight incline she pointed to. Shooting from it would provide an advantage against their opponents’ ragtag armor. “Battalion, right wheel! March!”

  They gained ground and turned to face the oncoming phalanx of skeletons.

  “Fire!”

  Th-th-thoop! Thoop! Thoop! Arrows showered in both directions. Rob’s riders knew they had to protect their mounts as well as themselves. They might not have been stronger than the skeletons, but they shot with greater fury and accuracy, giving more hits than they received.

  When the last skeleton had been reduced to a pile of bones, the members of Battalion Zero were damaged, but still standing. Frida and Jools jumped down from Ocelot and Beckett and scooped up the bones and arrows left scattered on the ground. When the battalion remounted, they all rode off toward the other end of camp to patrol the perimeter.

  Four more melees yielded full stacks of bones—as many as they could carry. It had been a long, but successful, night. Healing potion and the remnants of mushroom stew awaited the tired troopers. The battalion had retreated toward the civilian zone when another mob of skeletons materialized a few blocks away.

  “Have at them!” Jools cried, and motioned for the others to draw their bows.

  Through the skeleton ranks, Rob made out a trio of greenish creatures coming their way. More zombies? The combatants hesitated, waiting to see what would happen.

  P-oom! Th-wang! POOM!

  The smoke cleared and dawn light eliminated the remaining mobsters. Then what they’d heard became evident: an exploding creeper had blown up a skeleton, just as it shot another creeper.

  “It doesn’t get any better than this!” Turner said, swinging out of Duff’s saddle to fetch the gunpowder and bones. “Wait! It does!” He held up a skeleton skull and a music disc. “Party in my bunk!”

  *

  The following day, the residents widened the ditch surrounding civilian camp and increased their night guard so the battalion could get some rest. Once again, Rob had every intention of climbing into his bed, counting sheep, and waking up with a new spawn point. He turned in along with the others and went to his quarters.

  As the captain took off his vest and boots, though, he caught himself humming the little tune that he used to sing to Jip, his dog, before tucking him in beside the campfire at night. The
n Rob thought of Pistol, his favorite horse back on the ranch. He felt homesick—and that made him mad at himself. His determination wavered. The truth was, as long as he preserved his claim on the original place that had spawned him into this world, there was still a chance he could reverse the process.

  Yeah, a chance as slim as my shadow. But Kim had done it—revised her spawn point. And she probably wanted to respawn at her horse farm. Of course, half of her horses were here, now, not a world away on a ranch she might never see again.

  The argument ended with Rob stretching out on his bedroll on the floor, thinking, Just one more night.

  CHAPTER 6

  ROB WOKE FROM A TROUBLED SLEEP, WISHING he could go back in time. He got up and fussed around camp, polishing already gleaming swords and grooming a spotless Saber, who didn’t mind the extra attention. Meanwhile, his troops were sorting out the Beta details nicely.

  Kim designated a farming crew to plant Swale’s crops and irrigate and fertilize the new garden. Stormie pried Turner away from Rose and got him to help arm and train another rotation of camp guards, while Jools and Frida got the new hires started working with Crash on the city’s residence construction. Rob was glad to have employed all of his troopers, so they wouldn’t be . . . distracted by certain new residents. He wandered up to Beta to find something else to do.

  He was chatting with Judge Tome and Colonel M when Jools found the group and told them to expect six loud, weird-looking drivers in modified minecarts at the city gates anytime. Word had come from Gaia that she’d talked the Thunder Boys into throwing over their outlaw ways to test-drive a legit job on the rail system.

  The quartermaster approached Rob. “I’ll take my paycheck now.”

  For a moment, the captain wondered if he’d offered Jools a bonus for headhunting and forgotten about it. Then he realized what the request meant.

  “Well that’s—just swell,” Rob stammered. He went on, blustering, “I’ll hold you up as an example to the other troopers. It’s this sort of solidarity that’ll ensure our victory, and maybe even make the Overworld a better place.”