Battalion Banished Page 6

  “Count ’em! Ten!” Stormie said. “We each get our own room, plus a kitchen room for crafting.”

  “De Vries again?”

  “He’s thought of everything,” Stormie marveled.

  They peeked into the many rooms that were furnished with chairs and desks, and the common area that held a furnace and crafting table.

  “Everything’s here but beds,” Frida noted.

  “That’s because I don’t sleep,” came De Vries’s voice from behind them. “I forget that other players do.”

  “Well, it’s a nice way to end the day. . . .” Stormie said.

  Frida never slept in a bed. She had no wish to change her original spawn point and wouldn’t discuss that secret jungle location with anyone. “I love what you’ve done with the entryway,” Frida mentioned to De Vries as they strolled back out.

  Two circles had been hollowed out of the rock high above the doorway, and blue glass panes set into them. The sunlight passing through made two large, blue dots on the opposite wall that shifted as clouds floated past.

  “Thanks,” said De Vries. “I figure, if you’re going to spend the night, spend the night.” He sat down on a couch he had crafted and put his feet up on a carpet topped ottoman.

  “Leave for ten minutes and see what happens,” Frida joked to Stormie on their way outside.

  “Vanguard! Artilleryman! I’ve been looking for you,” Captain Rob said.

  “We can see you’ve been super busy while we were off bodyguarding,” Stormie teased, causing the cowboy’s cheeks to color.

  “Let’s sit down and debrief.” He headed back toward the stadium seats, calling the quartermaster, who also acted as war strategist, to confer. Jools joined them.

  “Turner says you were successful,” Rob said, addressing the two women. “Can you confirm that he turned over the payment to Jools in total?”

  They compared notes. There was the handful of diamonds . . . and Frida recalled Bluedog throwing seven chunks to the sergeant major afterward.

  “Was one of them a chunk of dirt?” Jools scratched his head as he studied the spreadsheet opened on his computer.

  “No.” Frida scowled. Her friend tended to line his pockets whenever he got a chance.

  Rob sighed. “And Bluedog? He fulfilled his end of the bargain?”

  “It was half in advance, and half when the job was done, sir,” Stormie verified.

  “Any sense of his reliability?” Rob asked Frida.

  She thought it over. “Based on what we heard from the minecart driver, the loot comes through the same channels regularly. So the job seems like a sure thing. This Bluedog, though . . . I’m not sure which side he’s playing. What I do know is, he’s dangerous.”

  “Second that,” Stormie said.

  “Well, that’s why the job pays,” Rob reminded everyone. “Okay, we’ll accept the offer for the next gig. Turner says it’s going to be every seven days.” Rob paused. “Unfortunately, that won’t keep us in pork chops. We’ve got a battalion to feed. Working once a week won’t cut it and still let us build up our war chest.”

  Again, Frida lamented the group dynamic that consumed so many resources. If it were just herself in the jungle . . .

  “Vanguard, talk to your brother and see what else he can rustle up. You’ll have to pay him his cut from yesterday, too. Why don’t you two deal with that in Spike City while we ride south? We’ll meet at our old stone shelter and move on together from there.”

  Frida saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  Jools tapped his computer screen. “About this dirt clod, Captain . . .”

  Rob sighed again and called, “Turner!” He surveyed the camp but did not locate the sergeant at arms. “Has anyone seen Turner?”

  Nobody had.

  *

  They checked among the horses. Duff had been fed and watered, and his rider was not nearby. Stormie used the hunt as an excuse to tour their rock dwelling again, but Turner was not in any of its ten well-designed rooms. They asked Crash, who was idly harvesting and storing red sand, if she had seen the sergeant major; she had not.

  Fearing that Bluedog or one of Precious’s gang had something to do with the disappearance, Rob finally called the rest of the battalion together to walk the area perimeter. In a short time, they heard splashing. They marched around a corner to find the AWOL sergeant seated on a riverbank, fishing.

  “I got one!” Turner cried as he spied the search party. He unhooked a piece of rotten flesh and added it to the pile of junk he had scored with his fishing pole.

  Frida tightened her fists. She and Stormie had completed their part of the mission without a bonus of any sort. But an extra diamond or lapis block wasn’t enough for the mercenary.

  She got a running start, locked her arms in front of her, and shoved Turner into the blue water. Down he went, out of sight. Then his head popped up, and he flailed his arms, yelling, “I c-can’t swim!”

  Rob threw Frida a bewildered glance. After letting Turner flounder a bit, the survivalist hopped into the water and swam for the drowning man. He coughed and gagged as she held his head above water in the crook of one arm, his dark buzz cut wet and shining. She scissor-kicked her way back to shore, heaving her human load up onto the red sand and then pulling herself out of the water.

  Turner lay gasping next to his catch, his tattooed arms gritty with sand. “What’s the big deal!” he puffed.

  “Stealing from company stores again, eh, Meat?” Jools said, crossing his arms and staring at the disgraced officer.

  “It weren’t stealing,” Turner argued, breathing heavily. He got to his feet and faced the quartermaster. “And you don’t get to call me Meat.”

  Jools was livid. “Meat. Ham. Chicken. Pork Chop. I’ll call you whatever I please.”

  “. . . and subtract a lapis lazuli out of his pay when it comes due,” Rob added. He shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ve earned a court-martial, Sergeant Major.”

  Surprise, shame, and then justification flowed through Turner’s eyes. “I was just taking my advance. Mebbe shouldn’t have. . . . Don’t you military types have to call a trial to bust a man?”

  Judge Tome walked up. “You are correct, sir. I’ll be happy to preside,” he said with a smile, and Rob shook his hand.

  The battalion milled around the riverbank, each of the officers struck once more by Turner’s greed. De Vries, his brow wrinkled with worry, put up a hand. “I’d like to know how we can trust this man, Captain.”

  Rob pressed his lips together. “So would I.” He faced Turner. “You’ll spend some time as a private. Frida will command your squadron. I’m upgrading her to corporal.”

  Frida could scarcely appreciate this honor when faced with disappointment in her old friend and adversary.

  Rob waved a hand at the loot Turner had reeled in. “Somebody put this stuff away.”

  Crash laid a hand on her brother’s arm and pointed at the rotten flesh that had been dredged up from the water.

  “Anybody going to eat that?” De Vries interpreted in his sing-song voice.

  Everyone stared dumbly.

  “I’ll pass,” said Turner.

  Rob blew up. “It’s not for you to say!” He looked at De Vries. “Don’t think so. That stuff’ll make you sick.”

  Crash raised her eyebrows at her brother.

  “But it won’t make a wolf sick,” he said, grinning. Then he and Crash morphed into their alternate skins and devoured the piece of meat.

  *

  Frida and Stormie returned to Spike City to conduct company business while the rest of Battalion Zero recycled De Vries’s building materials and rode south. Ocelot and Armor walked amiably side by side into another snow flurry, carrying the survivalist and the adventurer toward the ice plains city. Rafe needed to be compensated and queried about more work.

  Trades would be made for essentials. Jools had asked for some glass bottles and fermented spider eye for his brewing kit, and Kim wanted a new leather halter for Rat, si
nce leading him had worn out his old one. De Vries and Crash asked for some redstone, and Rob and Judge Tome requested some fresh produce from the town’s covered garden. Only Turner’s bid for arrow crafting materials from the fletcher was denied. They would soon be able to gather feathers from chickens in the milder climes themselves, and Crash’s nonstop mining had yielded a nice supply of flint. Rob reminded the troopers that in order to build their wealth, they had to limit their spending.

  “He’s so danged practical,” Stormie said to Frida, mixing her complaint with admiration.

  Ocelot carefully stepped over a wayward ice chunk. “Practical is what kept Newbie alive for his first few days in the Overworld,” Frida replied. “But sometimes it limits what he can do.” Like have a girlfriend.

  They reached the north gate of town and waved at the snow golem, who let them pass. Then they split up—Stormie going to make trades and Frida off to speak to her brother . . . alone.

  It seemed awfully improbable to have met him after all these years, out here on the world fringe, well connected with small-time riffraff yet in a position of relative trading authority. As he had said, his cleric’s robe lent him leeway, allowing him to make less-than-scrupulous deals. Funny that our battalion would need that, and here he is. Frida had often wondered over the years what had become of her brothers and male cousins. She may well have met them before and not recognized them as clan members, but this time. . . She wanted to get to the bottom of Rafe’s tattoo history.

  She knocked on the ice chapel door, and her brother opened it. His hair was pulled back in a greasy ponytail that hung like a limp serpent against his worn purple robe. They feinted a few punches in greeting.

  “So, sister of mine,” Rafe said, ushering her into the main hall. “You’ve brought my commission?” She handed him two emeralds. “One for the first haul, one in advance for the second. Bluedog gave us a nod, so our captain has agreed to hire on regular for as long as it works out. We could use a few side jobs, though.”

  “Your gang is headed south?” Rafe said. “The syndicate is looking for a pickup team from farmers in the plains, savanna, and nearby forests.”

  Frida frowned. “Syndicate . . . are they allied with the griefer army?”

  Rafe shook his head. “They’re offering protection to farmers and villagers from the griefers. While skimming some of their wares off the top, of course.”

  Collecting strong-arm protection money was hardly an honest way to make a living. Frida was sad to think the battalion had come to such dire straits, but it would all be conducted in the name of Overworld peace, she reminded herself.

  “Who’s our contact?”

  “The same.”

  “Bluedog, again?” She shivered, remembering the extortionist’s captive silverfish.

  Rafe regarded her with amusement. “Frida. This is Spike City. The area is hardly awash in gainful employment.” He rose and went to a side table for a bottle of blue liquid. “Flower water?” he said, offering her some refreshment.

  She tried not to appear suspicious. Poison or a potion of weakness could easily be dyed an identical shade. She accepted the drink, wetting her lips. “Get us the pickup coordinates and drop point,” Frida said. “We’ll appreciate the steady work.”

  He returned the bottle to the table, and she could see the tattoo of the arrow-impaled apple on the back of his neck once more, peeking out from his ponytail. “Brotherman,” she said casually, “how’d you get your family mark? I was under the impression that only girls got them, and only after passing the freedom test.”

  He turned toward her with an illicit smile and wagged the end of his ponytail. “Comes in handy as a disguise.” He fingered the folds of his robe. “I’ve already got the dress.”

  His meaning dawned on her. “Are you saying you crashed Apple Corps?” That was the name of the family rally so secret that its location was only divulged on the day of the event.

  Rafe looked at her evenly.

  “And you passed a freedom test? As a girl?”

  This was impossible! How could a child who was sent away from the clan have acquired the necessary level of survival skills?

  “But how?” she demanded.

  “It’s called acting,” he said condescendingly.

  She had no choice but to buy his explanation. The preposterous story increased her desire to return to her jungle family to see for herself that they were okay.

  Rafe went to his computer to contact Bluedog and nail down the job for Frida’s battalion. He returned and handed her a card imprinted with the likeness of a blue hunting dog. Much more handsome than the actual guy, she thought. They were to display the card as proof of their representation in demanding the required protection payments. Once gathered, the goods should be brought to their next rendezvous at the extreme foothills. Frida had Rafe forward the pickup locations to Jools electronically and then promised to see him in a week.

  As she waited at the town well for Stormie, Frida mulled over the meeting. It had only provoked more questions. How had Rafe known her unit was riding south? She hadn’t mentioned it. What was Rafe’s relationship with Bluedog, and how far did the extortionist’s reach extend? And—most perplexing—how did Rafe really get that tattoo?

  CHAPTER 7

  FRIDA AND STORMIE CROSSED THE FROZEN RIVER and tracked across the cold taiga, riding south. “I hope we don’t run into any more wolves,” Frida said. “You’re lucky Armor is so steadfast. Ocelot about blew a gasket last time.”

  “I’m pretty sure the two of us could outrun any wolves. But remember, if we don’t bother them, we should be safe.”

  Poor Jools. He’d never forget that slip-up. Neither will Turner, Frida thought, wondering how the deposed sergeant was taking his probation.

  They found out upon meeting the battalion at their old mega taiga shelter. De Vries had crafted three wooden stands and a bench to accommodate the court-martial proceedings. As soon as witnesses Frida and Stormie arrived, they began.

  Kim seated a sullen Turner on one of the stands, and Judge Tome, in his cloak, took his place up front. Then Kim read the charges: “Sergeant Major Turner is accused of one count failure to release valuables to quartermaster, one count theft, and one count absent without leave. How plead you?”

  “Innocent,” Turner grunted, folding his decorated arms.

  Jools strode forward. He asked Frida to take the stand and describe the exchange of gems between Bluedog and Turner. She repeated what she had told the captain the day before, and Jools dismissed her. He put Stormie through the same routine.

  Then Jools smoothed the lapels of his tweed jacket and addressed Turner. “How is it that a block of dirt came to be placed in communal inventory among the payment accounted for? Did you put it there?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Answer yes or no,” Judge Tome directed.

  “Not that I know of. Er, no. That is, I coulda picked up some dirt along with what I handed over.”

  “And did you not count the gems you released?” Jools pressed, knowing that Turner continually counted his riches.

  “Mebbe.”

  “Yes or no,” the judge insisted.

  “Yes,” Turner mumbled. “Coulda miscounted.”

  “Permission to approach the bench.”

  The judge nodded, and Jools stepped up with a block of lapis. “Exhibit A,” he said. “This was found in Sergeant Major Turner’s helmet. It is the exact amount missing from the train job fee.”

  The questioning repeated the pattern, with Jools suggesting obvious guilt and Turner denying it or, at least, refusing to accept responsibility for it.

  Finally, Judge Tome gathered up some paperwork and placed it in his briefcase, saying, “I have no alternative but to issue a court-martial. As suggested by your commanding officer, you will be relieved of your station and act as a private until such time as you have redeemed yourself.”

  “Do I get to stay in camp and crochet doilies, then?” Turner groused.


  Rob could contain himself no longer. He jumped to his feet and said, “No, you do not! Theft or no theft, Turner, you’re still our strongest weapons man. This battalion needs your skill in crafting and in fighting, and you know darn well that you can’t do either of those things halfway. Now: Will we have your cooperation?”

  The question hung in the air. Frida knew that, like herself, Turner had survived prior to the griefer war by not cooperating with others—by going it alone and living by his wits. She felt a little bit sorry for him, knowing how hard it was to devote his allegiance, let alone his loot, to the group. But she had done it. He could step up to the plate and do it, too. She caught his eye and let him know as much, silently.

  “Yessir,” Turner mumbled. As uncharacteristic as cavalry life was for him, he knew that the existence of the United Biomes might well depend on his participation.

  Judge Tome whacked the table before him with a wooden axe. “Court-martial adjourned,” he said.

  As they dispersed, Stormie tried to cheer Turner up. “It’s not so bad, Meat. Frida will handle the squadron. Now you can just cruise and let a woman tell you what to do.”

  He grimaced. “We ain’t married, ya know.” Then he gave Stormie a playful pop on the shoulder. “And that’s Private Meat, to you.”

  Whatever the mercenary’s shortcomings were, he knew when he was beat.

  *

  It was late afternoon by the time the battalion had crossed the mega taiga boundary and selected a suitable spot to bivouac for a few days. The mountain savanna unfolded dramatically, with thick grass growing shoulder-high and the tree line strung out above them. Rocky towers seemed to erupt from the ground, forming cliffsides that stretched all the way to the low-flying clouds. They could use the temporary camp for several things—as a base between money pickups, a place to drill with the new recruits, and a source of free grazing for the horses.

  Rob pointed De Vries and Crash toward a sheer cliff, the interior of which might yield any number of ores and stones, and double as another cave dwelling. “Go nuts,” he said.