The Arctic Incident (Artemis Fowl 2)

Cudgeon stared raptly at the plasma screen. “This is even better than I’d planned. Now, my old friend, Julius— it’s my turn to humiliate you.”

Artemis was meditating. This was a time for concentration. He sat cross-legged on a rock, visualizing the various rescue strategies that could be used when they returned to the Arctic. If the Mafiya managed to set up the drop before Artemis could reach them, then there was only one plan that could work. And it was a high-risk plan. Artemis searched deeper inside his brain. There must be another way.

He was disturbed by an orchestral noise emanating from the titanium column. It sounded like a sustained note on a bassoon. Dwarf gas, he reasoned. The column had reasonably good acoustics.

What he needed was a brainwave. One crystal thought that would slice through this mire he had become embroiled in, and save the day.

After eight minutes, he was interrupted again. Not gas this time. A cry for help. Mulch was in trouble, and in pain.

Artemis was about to suggest that Butler deal with it when he realized that his bodyguard wasn’t there. Off on his mission to save the lower elements. It was up to him.

Artemis poked his head into the column. It was black as the inside of an old boot, and twice as pungent. Artemis decided that an LEP helmet was his first requirement. He quickly retrieved a spare from the shuttle, and after a moment’s experimentation activated the lights and seals.

“Mulch? Are you up there?”

No reply. Could this be a trap? Was it possible that he, Artemis Fowl, was about to fall for the oldest ruse in the book? Entirely possible, he decided. But in spite of that, he couldn’t really afford to take chances with that hairy little creature’s life. Somewhere since Los Angeles, and against his better judgment, he had bonded with Mister Diggums. Artemis shuddered. This propensity for humane impulses was happening more and more since his mother’s return to sanity.

Artemis climbed into the tube, beginning his journey to the disk of light above. The smell was horrendous. His shoes were ruined, and no amount of dry cleaning could redeem the Saint Bartleby’s blazer. Mulch had better be in a lot of pain.

When he reached the entrance, he found Mulch writhing on the floor, face contorted in genuine agony.

“What is it?” he asked, peeling off the helmet and kneeling by the dwarf’s side.

“Blockage in my gut,” grunted the dwarf, beads of sweat sliding down his beard hairs. “Something hard. Can’t break it down.”

“What can I do?” Artemis asked, though he dreaded the possible replies.

“My left boot. Take it off.”

“Your boot? Did you say boot?”

“Yes,” howled the dwarf, pain stiffening his entire torso. “Get it off!”

Artemis couldn’t stifle a relieved sigh. He’d been fearing much worse. He hefted the dwarf’s leg into his lap, pulling at the climbing boots.

“Nice boots,” he commented.

“Rodeo Drive,” gasped Mulch. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sorry.”

The boot slid off, revealing a not-quite-so-designer sock, complete with toe holes and darned patches.

“Little toe,” said Mulch, eyes closed with pain.

“Little toe what?”

“Squeeze the joint. Hard.”

Squeeze the joint. Must be a reflexology thing. Every part of the body corresponds to an area of the foot. The body’s keyboard so to speak. Practiced in the Orient for centuries.

“Very well. If you insist.”

Artemis placed his finger and thumb around Mulch’s hairy toe. It could have been his imagination, but it seemed that the hairs parted to allow him access.

“Squeeze,” gasped the dwarf. “Why aren’t you squeezing?”

Artemis wasn’t squeezing because his eyes were crossed, looking up at the end of the laser barrel stuck in the middle of his forehead.

Lieutenant Nyle, who was holding the weapon, couldn’t believe his luck. He’d single-handedly captured two intruders, plus he’d discovered their bolt hole. Who said hanging back to avoid the fighting didn’t have advantages? This was turning out to be an exceptional revolution for him. He’d be colonel before shedding his third skin.

“On your feet,” he ordered, panting blue flames. Even through the translator it sounded reptilian.

Artemis stood slowly, lifting Mulch’s leg with him. The dwarf’s back flap flopped open.

“What’s wrong with him anyway?” asked Nyle, bending in for a closer look.

“Something he ate,” said Artemis, and squeezed the joint.

The resulting explosion knocked the goblin off his feet, sending him tumbling down the corridor. There was something you didn’t see every day.

Mulch hopped to his feet.

“Thanks, kid. I thought I was a goner, there. Must’ve been something hard. Granite maybe, or diamond.”

Artemis nodded. Not ready for words.

“Those goblins are dumb. Did you see the look on his face?”

Artemis shook his head. Still not ready.

“Do you want to go look?”

The tactless humor snapped Artemis out of his daze.

“That goblin. I doubt he was on his own.”

Mulch buttoned up his back flap. “Nope. A whole squadron of ’em just went past. This guy must have been trying to avoid the action. Typical goblin.”

Artemis rubbed his temples. There must be something he could do to help his friend. He had the highest tested IQ in Europe, for heaven’s sake.

“Mulch, I have an important question for you.”

“I suppose I owe you one, for saving my hide.”

Artemis draped an arm around the dwarf’s shoulder.

“I know how you got into Koboi Labs. But you couldn’t go back that way, the flare would have gotten you. So, how did you get out?”

Mulch grinned. “Simple, I activated the alarm, then left in the LEP uniform I came in.”

Artemis scowled. “No, there must be another way. There has to be.”

The DNA cannons were obviously out of commission. Root was just starting to feel optimistic when he heard the thunder of approaching boots.

“D’Arvit. You two keep going. I’ll hold them here as long as I can.”

“No, Commander,” said Butler. “With respect, we only have one weapon, and I can hit a lot more with it than you.

I’ll take them coming around the corner. You try to get the door open.”

Holly opened her mouth to argue. But who was going to argue with a man that size?

&nbs

p; “Okay. Good luck. If you’re wounded, lie as still as you can until I get back. Four minutes, remember.”

Butler nodded. “I remember.”

“And, Butler?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“That little misunderstanding last year. When you and Artemis kidnapped me.”

Butler gazed at the ceiling. He would have stared at his shoes, but Holly was in the way.

“Yes, that. I’ve been meaning to talk to . . .”

“Just forget it. After this, all square.”

“Holly, move it out,” ordered Root. “Butler, don’t let them get too close.”

Butler wrapped his fingers around the gun’s molded grip. He looked like an armed bear.

“They better not. For their sake.”

Artemis climbed up on a hover trolley, tapping one of the overhead conduits that ran the length of the corridor.

“This pipe appears to run along the entire ceiling struc-ture. What is it, a ventilation system?”

Mulch snorted. “I wish. It’s the plasma supply for the DNA cannons.”

“So why didn’t you come in this way?”

“Oh, a little matter of there being enough charge in every drop of plasma to fry a troll.”

Artemis placed his palm against the metal.

“What if the cannons weren’t operational?”

“Once the cannons are deactivated, the plasma is just so much radioactive slop.”

“Radioactive?”

Mulch tugged at his beard thoughtfully. “Actually, Julius reckons the cannons have been turned off.”

“Any way to be certain?”

“We could open this unopenable panel.” Mulch ran his fingers along the curved surface. “Ahh, see here. A micro keyhole. To service the cannons. Even plasma needs recharging.”

He pointed to a tiny hole in the metal, which could have been a speck of dirt, it was so small.

“Now, observe a master at work.”

The dwarf fed one of his chin hairs into the hole. When the tip reappeared, Mulch plucked the hair out by the root. The hair died as soon as Mulch plucked it, stiffening in rigor mortis, and retaining the precise shape of the lock’s interior.

Mulch held his breath, twisting the makeshift key. The hatch dropped open.