The Opal Deception (Artemis Fowl 4)

“I’m not a bit surprised,” said the water sprite. “Females are too temperamental for police work. They couldn’t even handle a simple transport job like this.”

Mulch was in shock. He felt as though his brain had snapped its moorings and was spinning in his head. Holly murdered Julius? How could that be possible? It wasn’t possible, simple as that. There must be a mistake. And now Holly was missing, presumed dead. How could this be happening?

“Anyways,” continued Vishby. “We gotta turn this crate around and head back to Atlantis. Obviously your little hearing is being postponed indefinitely, until this entire mess gets sorted out.”

The water sprite slapped Mulch playfully on the cheek. “Tough break, dwarf. Maybe they’ll get the red tape untangled in a couple of years.”

Mulch barely felt the slap, though the words penetrated. A couple of years. Could he take a couple of years in the Deeps? Already his soul cried out for the tunnels. He needed to feel soft earth between his fingers. His insides needed real roughage to clear them out. And of course, there was a chance that Holly was still alive and needed help. A friend. He had no option but to escape.

Julius dead. It couldn’t be true.

Mulch mentally leafed through his dwarf abilities to select the best tool for this escape. He had long since forfeited his magic by breaking most of the Fairy Book’s commandments, but dwarfs had extraordinary gifts granted them by evolution. Some of these were common knowledge among the People, but dwarfs were a notoriously secretive race who believed that their survival depended on concealing these talents. It was well known that dwarfs excavated tunnels by ingesting the earth through their unhinged jaws, then ejecting the recycled dirt and air through the other end. Most fairies were aware that dwarfs could drink through their pores, and if they stopped drinking for a while, then these pores were transformed into minisuction cups. Fewer People knew that dwarf spit was luminous, and hardened when layered. And no one knew that a by-product of dwarf flatulence was a methane-producing bacterium called Methanobrevibacter smithii, which prevented decompression sickness in deep-sea divers. In fairness, dwarfs didn’t know this either; all they knew was that on the rare occasion they found themselves accidentally burrowing into the open sea, the bends did not seem to affect them.

Mulch thought about it for a moment and realized that there was a way to combine all of his talents and get out of here. He had to put his on-the-hoof plan into effect immediately, before they went into the deep Atlantic trenches. Once the subshuttle went too deep, he would never make it.

The craft swung in a long arc until it was heading back the way it had come. The pilot would punch the engines as soon as they were outside Irish fishing waters. Mulch began to lick his palms, smoothing the spittle through his halo of wild hair.

Vishby laughed. “What are you doing, Diggums? Cleaning up for your cell mate?”

Mulch would have dearly loved to unhinge his jaw and take a bite out of Vishby, but the mouth ring prevented him from opening his mouth far enough to unhinge. He had to content himself with an insult.

“I may be a prisoner, fishboy, but in ten years I’ll be free. You, on the other hand, will be an ugly bottom-feeder for the rest of your life.”

Vishby scratched his gill rot furiously. “You just bought yourself six weeks in solitary, mister.”

Mulch slathered his fingers with spittle and spread it around the crown of his head, reaching as far back as the manacles would allow. He could feel his hair hardening, clamping onto his head like a helmet. Exactly like a helmet. As he licked, Mulch drew great breaths of air through his nose, storing the air in his intestines. Each breath sucked air out of the pressurized space faster than the pumps could push it back in.

The marshals did not notice this unusual behavior, and even if they had, the pair would doubtless have put it down to nerves. Deep breathing and grooming. Classic nervous traits. Who could blame Mulch for being nervous; after all, he was heading back to the very place criminals had nightmares about.

Mulch licked and breathed, his chest blowing up like a bellows. He felt the pressure fluttering down below, anxious to be released.

Hold on, he told himself. You will need every bubble of that air.

The shell on his head crackled audibly now, and if the lights had been dimmed, it would have glowed brightly. The air was growing thin, and Vishby’s gills noticed, even if he didn’t. They rippled and flapped, boosting their oxygen intake. Mulch sucked again, a huge gulp of air. A bow plate clanged as the pressure grew.

The sea sprite noticed the change first. “Hey, fishboy.”

Vishby’s pained expression spoke of years enduring this nickname. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Okay, Vishby, keep your scales on. Is it getting hard to breathe in here? I can’t keep my wings up.”

Vishby touched his gills; they were flapping like bunting in the wind. “Wow. My gills are going crazy. What’s happening here?” He pressed the cabin intercom panel. “Everything all right? Maybe we could boost the air pumps.”

The voice that came back was calm and professional, but with an unmistakably anxious undertone. “We’re losing pressure in the holding area. I’m trying to nail down the leak now.”

“Leak?” squeaked Vishby. “If we depressurize at this depth, the shuttle will crumple like a paper cup.”

Mulch took another huge breath.

“Get everyone into the cockpit,” the voice declared. “Come through the air lock, right now.”

“I don’t know,” said Vishby. “We’re not supposed to untie the prisoner. He’s a slippery one.”

The slippery one took another breath. And this time a stern plate actually buckled with a crack like thunder.

“Okay, okay. We’re coming.”

Mulch held out his hands. “Hurry up, fishboy. We don’t all have gills.”

Vishby swiped his security card along the magnetic strip on Mulch’s manacles. The manacles popped open. Mulch was free. As free as you can be in a prison sub with ten thousand crushing feet of water overhead. He stood, taking one last gulp of air.

Vishby noticed the act. “Hey, convict, what are you doing?” he asked. “Are you sucking in all the air?”

Mulch burped. “Who, me? That’s ridiculous.”

The sprite was equally suspicious. “He’s up to something. Look, his hair is all shiny. I bet this is one of those secret dwarf arts.”

Mulch tried to look skeptical. “What? Air-sucking and shiny hair? I’m not surprised we kept it a secret.”

Vishby squinted at him. His eyes were red rimmed, and his speech was slurred from oxygen deprivation. “You’re up to something. Put out your hands.”

Being shackled again was not part of the plan. Mulch feigned weakness. “I can’t breathe,” he said, leaning against the wall. “I hope I don’t die in your custody.”

This statement caused enough distraction for Mulch to heave one more mighty breath. The stern plate creased inwardly and a silver stress line cracked through the paint. Red pressure lights flared on all over the compartment.

The pilot’s voice blared through the speaker. “Get in here!” he shouted, all traces of composure gone. “She’s gon

na fold.”

Vishby grabbed Mulch by the lapels. “What did you do, dwarf?”

Mulch sank to his knees, flicking open the bum-flap at the rear of his prison overalls. He gathered his legs beneath him, ready to move.

“Listen, Vishby,” he said. “You’re a moron, but not a bad guy, so do like the pilot says and get in there.”

Vishby’s gills flapped weakly, searching for air. “You’ll be killed, Diggums.”

Mulch winked at him. “I’ve been dead before.”

Mulch could hold on to the gas no longer. His digestive tract was stretched like a magician’s animal balloon. He folded his arms across his chest, aimed the coated tip of his head at the weakened plate, and let the gas loose.

The resultant emission shook the subshuttle to its very rivets, sending Mulch rocketing across the hold. He slammed into the stern plate, smack in the center of the fault line, punching straight through. His speed popped him through into the ocean perhaps half a second before the sudden change in pressure flooded the sub’s chamber. Half a second later, the rear chamber was crushed like a ball of used tinfoil. Vishby and his partner had escaped to the pilot’s cockpit just in time.

Mulch sped toward the surface, a stream of released gas bubbles clipping him along at a rate of several knots. His dwarf lungs fed on the trapped air in his digestive tract, and the luminous helmet of spittle sent out a corona of greenish light to illuminate his way.

Of course they came after him. Vishby and the water sprite were both amphibious Atlantean dwellers. As soon as they jettisoned the wreckage of the rear compartment, the marshals cleared the air lock, finning after their fugitive. But they never had a prayer: Mulch was gas powered, they merely had wings and fins. Whatever pursuit equipment they’d had was at the bottom of the ocean, along with the rear compartment, and the cockpit’s backup engines could barely outrun a crab.

The Atlantis marshals could only watch as their captive jetted toward the surface, mocking them with every bubble from his behind.

Butler’s cell phone had been reduced to so much plastic chips and wiring by the jump from the hotel window. This meant that Artemis could not call him if he needed immediate assistance. The bodyguard double-parked the Hummer outside the first Phonetix store he saw, and purchased a tri-band phone and car kit. Butler activated the phone on the way to the airport and punched in Artemis’s number. No good. The phone was switched off. Butler hung up and tried Fowl Manor. Nobody home and no messages.