Chix frowned. “Go back to the ‘knock me out’ part again.”
Mulch slammed one palm down on the table. “Listen, Verbil, Holly is in mortal danger right now. She may already be dead.”
“That’s what I heard,” interjected Chix.
“Well, she will definitely be dead if I don’t get down there right now.”
“Why don’t I just call this in?”
Mulch sighed dramatically. “Because, moron, by the time Police Plaza Retrieval team gets here, it will be too late. You know the rules: no LEP officer can act on the information of a convicted felon unless the information has been verified by another source.”
“No one pays any attention to that rule, and calling me moron isn’t helping.”
Mulch rose to his feet. “You are a sprite, for heaven’s sake. You are supposed to have this ancient code of chivalry. A female saved your life and now hers is in danger. You are honor bound, as a sprite, to do whatever it takes.”
Chix held Mulch’s gaze. “Is all of this true? Tell me, Mulch, because this will have repercussions. This isn’t some little jewelry heist.”
“It’s true,” said Mulch. “You have my word.”
Chix almost laughed. “Oh, whoopee. Mulch Diggums’s word. I can take that to the bank.” He took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. “The chip is in my pocket. The code is written on the tab. Try not to break anything.”
“Don’t worry, I’m an excellent driver.”
Chix winced in anticipation. “I don’t mean the shuttle, stupid. I mean my face. The ladies like me the way I am.”
Mulch drew back one gnarled fist. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint the ladies,” he said, and knocked Chix Verbil from his chair.
Mulch expertly rifled through Chix’s pockets. The sprite was not actually unconscious, but he was pretending.
A wise move. In seconds, Mulch had removed the starter chip and stuffed it into his beard. A clump of beard hair wrapped itself tightly around the chip, forming a waterproof cocoon. He also relieved Verbil of his Neutrino, though that was not part of the deal. Mulch crossed the room in two strides and jammed a chair under the door handle. That should buy me a couple of seconds, he thought. He wrapped an arm around the water dispenser while simultaneously unbuttoning his bum-flap. Speed was vital now because whoever had been watching the interview through the two-way mirror was already hammering on the door. Mulch saw a black burn dot appear on the door; they were burning their way in.
He ripped the dispenser from the wall, allowing several gallons of cooled water to flood the interview room.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” moaned Chix from the floor. “It takes forever to dry these wings.”
“Shut up. You’re supposed to be unconscious.”
As soon as the water had drained from the supply pipe, Mulch dived into the pipe. He followed it to the first joint, then kicked it loose. Clumps of clay fell through, blocking the pipe. Mulch unhinged his jaw. He was back in the earth. No one could catch him now.
The shuttlebay was on the lower level, closest to the chute itself. Mulch angled himself downward, guided by his infallible dwarf internal compass. He had been in this terminal before, and the layout was burned into his memory, as was the layout of every building that he’d ever been in. Sixty seconds of chewing earth, stripping it of minerals, and ejecting waste at the other end brought Mulch face-to-face with an air duct. This particular duct led straight to the shuttlebay; the dwarf could even feel the vibration of the engines through his beard hair.
Generally he would burn through the duct’s metal paneling with a few drops of dwarf rock polish, but prison guards tended to confiscate items like that, so instead Mulch blasted a panel with a concentrated burst from the stolen handgun. The panel melted like a sheet of ice in front of a bar heater. He gave the molten metal a minute to solidify and cool, then slithered into the duct itself. Two left turns later, his face was pressed to the grille overlooking the shuttlebay itself. Red alarm lights were revolving over every door, and a harsh Klaxon made sure that everyone knew that there was some sort of emergency. The shuttlebay workers were gathered in front of the intranet screen, waiting for news.
Mulch dropped to the ground with more grace than his frame suggested was possible and creeped across to the LEP shuttle. The shuttle was suspended nose-up over a vertical supply tunnel. Mulch crept aboard, opening the passenger door with Chix Verbil’s chip. The controls were hugely complicated, but Mulch had a theory about vehicle controls: Ignore everything except the wheel and the pedals, and you’ll be fine. So far in his career, he had stolen more than fifty types of transportation, and his theory hadn’t let him down yet.
The dwarf thrust the starter chip into its socket, ignoring the computer’s advice that he run a systems’ check, and hit the release button. Eight tons of LEP shuttle dropped like a stone into the chute, spinning like an ice skater. The earth’s gravity grabbed hold of it, reeling it in toward the earth’s core.
Mulch’s foot jabbed the thruster pedal just enough to halt the drop.
The radio on the dash started talking to him. “You in the shuttle. You’d better come back here right now. I’m not kidding! In twenty seconds I personally am going to press the self-destruct button.”
Mulch spat a wad of dwarf spittle onto the speaker, muffling the irate voice. He gargled up another wad in his throat and deposited it on a circuit box below the radio. The circuits sparked and fizzled. So much for the self-destruct.
The controls were a bit heavier than Mulch was used to. Nevertheless, he managed to tame the machine after a few scrapes along the chute wall. If the LEP ever recovered the craft, it would need a fresh coat of paint, and perhaps a new starboard fender.
A bolt of sizzling laser energy flashed past the porthole.
That was his warning shot. One across the bows before they let the computer do the aiming. Time to be gone. Mulch kicked off his boots, wrapped his double-jointed toes around the pedals, and sped down the chute toward the rendezvous point.
Butler parked the Bentley fifteen miles northeast of Tara, near a cluster of rocks shaped like a clenched fist. The index finger rock was hollow, just as Mulch had told him it would be. However, the dwarf had neglected to mention that the opening would be cluttered with potato crisp bags and chewing-gum patties left over from a thousand teenagers’ picnics. Butler picked his way through the rubbish to discover two boys huddled at the rear, smoking secret cigarettes. A Labrador pup was asleep at their feet. Obviously these two had volunteered to walk the dog so they could sneak some cigarettes. Butler did not like smoking.
The boys looked up at the enormous figure looming above them, their jaded teenage expressions freezing on their faces.
Butler pointed at the cigarettes. “Those things will seriously damage your health,” he growled. “And if they don’t, I might.”
The teenagers stubbed out their cigarettes and scurried from the cave, which was exactly what Butler wanted them to do. He pushed aside a wizened scrub cluster at the rear of the cave to discover a mud wall.
“Punch right through the mud,” Mulch had told him. “Generally I eat through and patch it up afterward, but you might not want to do that.”
Butler jabbed four rigid fingers at the center of the mud wall, where cracks were beginning to spread, and sure enough the wall was only inches thick and crumbled easily under the pressure. The bodyguard pulled away chunks until there was sufficient space to squeeze through to the tunnel beyond.
To say there was sufficient space is perhaps a slight exaggeration; barely enough is probably more accurate. Butler’s bulky frame was compressed on all sides by uneven walls of black clay. Occasionally a jagged rock poked through, tearing a gash in his designer suit. That was two suits ruined in as many days. One in Munich, and now the second belowground in Ireland. Still, suits were the least of his worries. If Mulch was right, then Artemis was running around the Lower Elements right now with a group of bloodthirsty trolls on his trail. Butler ha
d fought a troll once, and the battle had very nearly killed him. He couldn’t even imagine fighting an entire group.
Butler dug his fingers into the earth, pulling himself forward through the tunnel. This particular tunnel, Mulch had informed him, was one of many illicit back doors into the Lower Elements chute system chewed out by fugitive dwarfs over the centuries. Mulch himself had excavated this one almost three hundred years ago, when he had needed to sneak back to Haven for his cousin’s birthday bash. Butler tried not to think about the dwarf’s recycling process as he went.
After several feet the tunnel widened into a bulb-shaped chamber. The walls glowed a gentle green. Mulch had explained that too. The walls were coated with dwarf spittle, which hardened on prolonged contact with air, and also glowed. Amazing. Drinking pores, living hairs, and now luminous saliva. What next? Explosive phlegm? He wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Who knew what secrets the dwarfs were hiding up their sleeves? Or in other places?
Butler kicked aside a pile of rabbit bones, the remains of previous dwarf snacks, and sat down to wait.
He checked the luminous face of his Omega wristwatch. He had dropped Mulch at Tara almost thirty minutes ago; the little man should be here by now. The bodyguard would have paced the chamber, but there was barely enough space for him to stand up, never mind pace. The bodyguard crossed his legs, settling down for a power nap. He hadn’t slept since the missile attack in Germany, and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. His heart rate and breathing slowed until eventually his chest barely moved at all.
Eight minutes later, the small chamber began to shake violently. Chunks of brittle spittle cracked from the wall, shattering on the floor. The ground beneath his feet glowed red, and a stream of insects and worms flowed away from the hot spot. Butler stood to one side, calmly brushing himself down. Moments later a cylindrical section of earth dropped cleanly out of the floor, leaving a steaming hole.
Mulch’s voice drifted through the hole, borne on the waves of the stolen shuttle’s amplification system.
“Let’s go, Mud Man. Move yourself. We have people to save, and the LEP are on my tail.”
On Mulch Diggums’s tail, thought Butler, shuddering. Not a nice place to be.
Nevertheless, the bodyguard lowered himself into the hole and through the open roof hatch of the hovering LEP shuttle. Police shuttles were cramped, even for fairies, but Butler could not even sit up straight in a chair, even if there had been a chair wide enough for him. He had to content himself with kneeling behind the command seat.
“All set?” he inquired.
Mulch picked a beetle from Butler’s shoulder. He shoved it into his beard, where the unfortunate insect was immediately cocooned by hair.
“For later,” he explained. “Unless you want it?”
Butler smiled, but it was an effort. “Thanks. I already ate.”
“Oh, really? Well whatever you ate, hold on to it, because we are in a hurry, so I may have to break a few speed limits.”
The dwarf cracked every joint in his fingers and toes, then sent the craft into a steep spiraling dive. Butler slid to the rear of the craft, and had to hook three seat belts together to prevent further jostling.
“Is this really necessary?” he grunted through rippling cheeks.
“Look behind you,” replied Mulch.
Butler struggled to his knees, directing his gaze through the rear window. They were being pursued by a trio of what looked like fireflies, but what were actually smaller shuttles. The crafts matched their every spiral and jink exactly. One fired a small sparking torpedo that sent a shock wave sparking through the hull. Butler felt the pores in his shaven head tingle.
“LEP uni-pods,” explained Mulch. “They just took out our communications mast, in case we have accomplices in the chutes somewhere. Those pods have got a lock on our navigation’s system. Their own computers will follow us forever, unless.”
“Unless what?”
“Unless we can outrun them. Get out of their range.”
Butler tightened the belts across his torso. “And can we?”
Mulch flexed his fingers and toes. “Let’s find out,” he said, flicking the throttle wide.
The Eleven Wonders, Temple of Artemis Exhibit, The Lower Elements
Holly and Artemis huddled together on the small island of rotting carcasses, waiting for the trolls to finish their bridge. The creatures were frantic now, hurling rock after rock into the shallow water. Some even braved placing a toe in the currents, but quickly drew them out again with horrified howls.
Holly wiped water from her eyes. “Okay,” she said. “I have a plan. I stay here and fight them. You go back in the river.”
Artemis shook his head curtly. “I appreciate it. But no. It would be suicide for both of us. The trolls would devour you in a second, then simply wait for the current to sweep me right back here. There must be another way.”
Holly threw a troll skull at the nearest creature. The brute caught it deftly in his talons, crushing it to shards. “I’m listening, Artemis.”
Artemis rubbed a knuckle against his forehead, willing the memory block to dissolve. “If I could remember. Then maybe ...”
“Don’t you remember anything?”
“Images. Something. Nothing coherent. Just nightmare pictures. This could all be a hallucination. That is the most likely explanation. Perhaps I should just relax and wait to wake up.”
“Think of it as a challenge. If this were a role-playing game, how would the character escape?”
“If this were a war game, I would need to know the other side’s weaknesses. Water is one . . .”
“And light,” blurted Holly. “Trolls hate light. It burns their retinas.”
The creatures were venturing onto their makeshift bridge now, testing each step carefully. The stink of their unwashed fur and fetid breath drifted across to the little island.
“Light,” repeated Artemis. “That’s why they like it here. Hardly any light.”
“Yes. The Glo-Strips are on emergency power, and the fake sun is on minimum.”
Artemis glanced upward. Holographic clouds scudded across an imitation sky, and right in the center, poised dramatically above the temple’s roof, was a crystal sun, with barely a flicker of power in its belly.
An idea blossomed in his mind. “There is scaffolding on the near corner of the temple. If we could climb up and get to the sun, could you use the power cells from our cuffs to light up the sun?”
Holly frowned. “Yes, I suppose. But how do we get past the trolls?”
Artemis picked up the waterproof pod that had been playing Opal’s video message.
“We distract them with a little television.”
Holly fiddled with the pod’s on-screen controls until she found brightness. She flicked the setting to maximum. Opal’s image was whited out by a block of glaring light.
“Hurry,” advised Artemis, tugging Holly’s sleeve. The first troll was halfway across the bridge, followed by the rest of the precariously balanced bunch. The world’s shaggiest conga line.
Holly wrapped her arms around the tele-pod. “This is probably not going to work,” she said.
Artemis moved behind her. “I know, but there is no other option.”
“Okay. But if we don’t make it, I’m sorry you don’t remember. It’s good to be with a friend at a time like this.”
Artemis squeezed her shoulder. “If we make it through this, we will be friends. Bonded by trauma.”
Their little island was shaking now. Skulls were dislodged from their perches, rolling into the water. The trolls were almost upon them, picking their way across the precarious walkway, squealing at every drop of water that landed on their fur. Any trolls still on the shoreline were hammering the earth with their knuckles, long ropes of drool swinging from their jaws.
Holly waited until the last moment for maximum effect. The tele-pod’s screen was pressed into the rubbish heap, so the approaching animals would not have a clue as to what w
as coming.
“Holly?” said Artemis urgently.
“Wait,” whispered Holly. “Just a few seconds more.”
The first troll in the line reached their island. This was obviously the pack leader. He reared up to a height of almost ten feet, shaking his shaggy head and howling at the artificial sky. Then he appeared to notice that Artemis and Holly were not in fact female trolls, and a savage rage took hold of his tiny brain. Dribbles of venom dropped from his tusks, and he inverted his talons for an upward slash. Trolls’ preferred kill strike was under the ribs. This popped the heart quickly and did not give the meat time to toughen.
More trolls crowded onto the tiny island, eager for a share in the kill or a shot at a new mate. Holly chose that moment to act. She swung the tele-pod upward, pointing the buzzing screen directly at the nearest troll. The creature reared back, clawing at the hated light as though it were a solid enemy. The light blasted the troll’s retinas, sending him staggering backward into his companions. A group of the animals tumbled into the river. Panic spread back along the line like a virus. The creatures reacted to water as though it were acid dappling their fur and backpedaled furiously toward the shore. This was no orderly retreat. Anything in the way got scythed or bitten. Gouts of venom and blood flew through the air, and the water bubbled as though it were boiling. The troll’s howls of bloodlust changed to keening screams of pain and terror.
This can’t be real, thought a stunned Artemis Fowl. I must be hallucinating. Perhaps I am in a coma, following the fall from the hotel window. And because his brain provided this possible explanation, his memories stayed under lock and key.
“Grab my belt,” ordered Holly, advancing across the makeshift bridge. Artemis obeyed instantly. This was not the time to argue about leadership. In any case, if there were the slightest possibility that this was actually happening, then Captain Short was better qualified to handle these creatures.
Holly wielded the tele-pod like a portable laser cannon, advancing step-by-step across the makeshift bridge. Artemis tried to concentrate on keeping his balance on the treacherous ground. They stepped from rock to rock, wobbling like novice tightrope walkers. Holly swung the tele-pod in smooth arcs, blasting trolls from every angle.