My Big Goblin Space Program

Chapter 56 - Shocking Development

Before we could get the iron, we still had to grow our own shock sticks from eggs. Raiding a nest for larval tesla wasps meant finding a nest—and that’s where the trouble began.

Luckily, Chuck and I had found one on our first recon to the bog, and we knew that general location. From that jumping-off point, it was a matter of spotting one of the wasps and following it back to its hidden home in a mound of peat drifting on the surface of the bog. There weren’t any crocs in the area, and I had to assume it was because you could hear the faint hiss and pop of electricity in the nest from the dozens or hundreds of wasps hidden within.

Unfortunately, the crocs stayed away because the wasps seemed like the only thing in the bog grumpier than they were. The wasps were quick to attack the first goblin I sent out to verify the nest’s exact location, and he’d been stung a half-dozen times by the time the hobbies pulled him, half-paralyzed, out of the water. He recovered quick enough, but it would be easy for a goblin to drown if it was stung in a way that they couldn’t keep their head above the surface.

“How you want to approach this, boss?” asked Chuck. He crouched on the shore, lobber slung over his shoulder. He stroked his chin. “Poppers?”

“Risks destroying the larva,” I said. I considered. King Ringo had thought he was being much smarter than me when he’d bragged about how they collected the wasps. But really, he’d given away his secret sauce. “The boglins came at them from under the surface.”

“Well that’s all fine to say,” said Chuck, “but I don’t breathe mud.”

It was a fair point. The boglins were clearly a sub-species of goblin specifically adapted to semi-aquatic environments. I had to assume they either had primitive gills or at least the ability to stay underwater for longer than a forest goblin. I went back on the edge of the shore and rooted around until I found some reeds, pulling the stems out and shaking out the interior until I had a hollow tube. I handed it over. “Try this.”

Chuck looked down dubiously. “Done this in your old world, yeah?”

“No, but I saw it in a cartoon, once.”

My wrangler boss raised a fuzzy eyebrow. But he sighed and lowered himself into the water until he was fully submerged, except for the hollow reed just breaking the surface. It bobbed up and down, and I heard the subtle, hollow hiss of his breathing.

Thank you, clever fox. Insight flashed across the eyes of the rest of the goblins present, and in true goblin fashion, a few moments later they were all scrambling to find reeds of their own to try it out.

I had to imagine it was a similar situation back at the bog tower camp, and a wave of disappointment at Village Apollo, who were landlocked. I put a hand on Armstrong’s shoulder before he could rush off.

“We’re not going with them,” I said.

“We’re not?”

I shook my head. “I need to get used to exposing myself to dangerous situations less. The wranglers are animal handling experts. Let them do what they do best.”

The captain of my guard looked noticeably relieved. “Glad your ‘ead’s on right, King. Meanin’ no offense.”

“None taken,” I said. “Besides, I’ve seen how capable our goblins are without my direct hand controlling things. We’ll let them cook. This time."

I turned around at a pop and snap, and a thrashing splashing noise. It was just in time to see one of the hobbies cough into his tube, and the big, black bulbous form of a tesla wasp that had crawled down his snorkel erupting backwards out the other end. It arced through the air, prongs out, buzzing furiously, until it landed squarely in the backside of a goblin on the shore still getting his own reed sorted.

The unfortunate receiving goblin squawked, then went completely rigid as the electric sting from the wasp sent a jolt coursing through every muscle in his little, blue body. He fell over, fur smoking.

Every reed currently sticking out of the water stopped moving momentarily.

“That’s horrifying,” I said.

“Erm, King? Can we go?” asked Armstrong.

I looked at the hulking hobgoblin wringing his hands and staring in the direction of the tesla wasp nest.

“Armstrong,” I chided. “Are you afraid of bugs?”

“Just the ones what sting or bite,” the big goblin confided. “Can’t sneak attack a bug.”

Aww. I actually found that somewhat endearing. “Don’t worry, big guy. Let’s head back.”

“I’m still the strongest goblin in Tribe Apollo, you know,” he muttered.

“I know,” I said, patting his arm. “I saw you take on a javeline 5 levels higher by yourself.”

The hobgoblin walked a little straighter, at that—confidence restored. This king thing wasn’t so bad sometimes, even when it was closer to being a camp counselor for a rowdy group of pre-teens.

We made our way back to the camp, where there was something of a commotion. It didn’t take long to figure out why, when I found the boglin advisor George and six boglin bodyguards held at spearpoint by two-dozen forest goblins.

I pushed my way through the crowd, angling spear points out of the way. “Stop, stop!” I shouted over the clamor. I spotted a couple singed spots of fur, I’m guessing where the boglins had been forced to employ the shock spears. Promo stood with his big hooked pole, ready to crack heads. Hadfield glared from around the noblin’s potbelly, a patch of blackened fur still sizzling. I moved up next to them.

“Woah, woah! Cool your jets, what’s going on?”

“Found ‘em sneakin’ up to the camp, boss,” said Hadfield, rubbing his singed spot. “Probably wot to steal more supplies.”

“Lies!” said the boglin advisor. “This is a diplomatic delegation, and attacking it is an act of war!” he pointed at me. “We’re here to see King Apollo!”

I crossed my arms. “What for?”

The advisor had a few singed spots himself from the debacle with the hydrocarbon spring. It was safe to say we were all a little burned out for the day. He broke eye contact and looked away. “The great King Ringo sent me. He recognizes the cunning of the claw-legged king, Apollo, and admits you are his near equal in intellect. Worthy of your crown of lame dry bones—”

That was the wrong thing to say, as a wave of fury rolled through the Apollo goblins present.

“Hey, hey, hey!” I shouted, regaining control of the situation before Ringo lost 7 members of his tribe. Once things calmed down, I stepped into the circle so that I was face to face with the advisor. “I recommend not trashing the crown. It was their first gift to me as their king. Get to the point.”

The advisor cleared his throat again—or at least I thought he did, until he hawked up a fishbone that had apparently been lodged in his throat. He fished it out of his mouth and discarded it. “The tribe has tasted cooked fish for the first time, and it resulted in a spawning bonus that greatly benefit Tribe Ringo. Ergo, the great King Ringo would like to officially open relations with Tribe Apollo and exchange more secrets of goblin technology, and hopefully some of whatever it is we’re smelling in that smoke stack.”

He leaned forward. “And just between you and me, cooked fish tastes waaay better.”

I didn’t need Ringo. I didn’t need his tribe, I didn’t need his tricks, and I didn’t need his suspicion. I’d gotten tesla wasp taming and liquid fuels from him, which would, in turn, give me internal combustion and the power to fly over his silly little swamp village.

But I was a scientist, not a monster. And ultimately, neither was Ringo. The boglins were just a less resourceful tribe with fewer cards dealt to them that they had the ability to utilize. He was right when he said this world was unkind to goblins. I didn’t want them to get wiped out if a group of humans or elves or whatever decided to cut through the swamp instead of going around to the west. More to the point, I wanted advance warning if such a group came gunning for my tribe from that direction. Besides, two goblin kings could progress faster than one by sharing branches of the goblin tech tree. Though, I had no doubt Ringo’s suspicious nature would scrutinize such exchanges for any hint of imagined betrayal. I just had to hope future exchanges were less caustic than the trade for shock sticks and oil fire had been.

“Very well,” I said. “Let it be known that Tribe Apollo recognizes Tribe Ringo as friends and allies under Raphina’s watchful eye,” I said, pointing up at the late afternoon moon just starting to illuminate from the sinking sun.

The gathered goblins of Tribe Apollo cheered and rushed to greet the boglins, who squawked in shock at suddenly being thrust into the air. I found myself caught up as well, thrust onto the top of the crowd and bounced across the hands of dozens of goblins.

“What is this? Betrayal!” shouted Ringo’s envoy. I just laughed. “I demand you return me to Daytona at once!”

I stopped, chill running down my spine. “What did you say?”

“I said unhand me!”

“No, about Daytona.”

The goblins let George down and he dusted himself off. “Daytona Island, the domain of King Ringo.”

Ringo…

I had thought it a funny coincidence that the swamp king had named himself after one of the Beatles. Hell, I thought myself clever by naming his advisor George. Great joke. Har har. But… what if the joke was actually on me? I never even stopped to consider the possibility…

“George… is King Ringo… from Earth?”

The advisor’s ear twitched. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, sniffing. “I’ve never even heard of a world called Earth. And if I had, my king would certainly not be from it.”

Huh. The whole time I’d interacted with him, I had thought Ringo was a brain-addled, paranoid swamp creature native to Rava. Could he just be from Florida?

It… actually made a disturbing amount of sense.