Eoin Colfer - Artemis Fowl. The Opal Deception

Artemis had recorded a message to himself. A way to return the memories that the LEP had taken from him.

As soon as he had been transported to the Deeps maximum-security prison outside Atlantis, Mulch had put in a request for a counsel call. When his state-appointed attorney had grudgingly turned up, Mulch advised him to check the dates on the search warrant leading to his original arrest. Somehow, amazingly, the dates were wrong.

According to the LEP computer, Julius Root had searched his cave before obtaining a search warrant. This nullified both this and all later arrests. All that remained was a lengthy processing period and one last interview with the arresting officer, and Mulch would be a free dwarf.

Finally, the day had come. Mulch was being shuttled to Police Plaza for his meeting with Julius Root. Fairy law allowed Root one thirty-minute interview to squeeze some kind of confession from Mulch. All the dwarf had to do was stay quiet, and he would be eating vole curry in his favourite dwarf chop house by dinnertime.

Mulch closed his fist round the medallion. He had no doubt who was pulling the strings here. Somehow Artemis had hacked into the LEP computer and changed his records. The Mud Boy was setting him free.

One of the marshals, a slight elf with Atlantean gills, sucked a slobbery breath in through his neck, letting it out through his mouth.

‘Hey, Mulch,’ he wheezed. ‘What are you going to do when your appeal is turned down? Are you gonna crack up like a little girl? Or are you gonna take it real stoic, like a dwarf should?’

Mulch smiled, exposing his unfeasibly large number of teeth. ‘Don’t worry about me, fishboy. I’ll be eating one of your cousins by tonight.’

Generally the sight of Mulch’s tombstone teeth was enough to freeze any smart alec comments, but the marshal was not used to backchat from an inmate.

‘Keep at it with the big mouth, dwarf. I have plenty of rocks for you to chew, back in the Deeps.’

‘In your dreams, fishboy,’ retorted Mulch, enjoying the banter after months of kowtowing.

The officer rose to his feet. ‘It’s Vishby, the name is Vishby.’

‘Yes, fishboy, that’s what I said.’

The second officer, a water sprite with batlike wings folded behind his back, chuckled. ‘Leave him alone, Vishby. Don’t you know who you’re talking to? This here is Mulch Diggums. The most famous thief under the world.’

Mulch smiled, though fame is not a good thing when you’re a thief.

‘This guy has a whole list of genius moves to his credit.’

Mulch’s smile faded as he realized that he was about to be the butt of more jokes.

‘Yeah, so first he steals the Jules Rimet trophy from the humans and tries to sell it to an undercover LEP fairy.’

Vishby sat, rubbing his hands in glee. ‘You don’t say? What a brain! How does it fit inside that itty-bitty head?’

The sprite strutted along the shuttle’s aisle, delivering his lines like an actor. ‘So then he lifts some of the Artemis Fowl gold, and he lies low in Los Angeles. And do you want to know how he lies low?’

Mulch groaned.

‘Tell me,’ wheezed Vishby, his gills unable to suck in air fast enough.

‘He buys hisself a penthouse apartment, and starts building a collection of stolen Academy Awards.’

Vishby laughed until his gills flapped.

Mulch could take it no longer. He shouldn’t have to put up with this, he was virtually a free fairy, for goodness’ sake. ‘Hisself? Hisself? I think you’ve spent a bit too long underwater. The pressure is squashing your brain.’

‘My brain is squashed?’ said the sprite. ‘I’m not the one who spent a couple of centuries in prison. I’m not the one wearing manacles and a mouth ring.’

It was true. Mulch’s criminal career had not exactly been an unqualified success.

He had been caught more often than he’d escaped. The LEP were just too technologically advanced to evade. Maybe it was time to go straight, while he still had his looks.

Mulch shook the manacles that shackled him to a rail in the holding area. ‘I won’t be wearing these for long.’

Vishby opened his mouth to respond, then he paused. A plasma screen was flashing red on a wall panel. Red was urgent. There was an important message coming through. Vishby hooked an earphone over his ear, turning the screen away from Mulch.

As the message was delivered, his face lost every trace of levity.

Several moments later he tossed the headphones on to the console. ‘It looks like you’ll be wearing those chains for a bit longer than you thought.’

Mulch’s jaw strained against the steel mouth ring. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

Vishby scratched a strip of gill-rot on his neck. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, convict, but Commander Root has been murdered.’

Mulch couldn’t have been more shocked if they had connected him to the underworld grid.

‘Murdered? How?’

‘Explosion,’ said Vishby. ‘Another LEP officer is the prime suspect. Captain Holly Short. She’s missing, presumed dead, on the surface, but that hasn’t been confirmed.’

‘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 inside 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 round 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 was crying 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 mini suction 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 methanobre-vibacter smithь that prevented decompression sickness in deep-sea divers.

In fairness, dwarfs didn’t know this either. All they knew was that on the rare occasions when 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 sub-shuttle 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 cellmate?’

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, spreading it around the crown of his head, reaching as far back as the manacles would allow. He could feel it hardening, clamping on to 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 behaviour, 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 were dimmed, it would glow 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 differential grew.

The 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?’

‘OK, 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 anxious undertone that was unmistakable. ‘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. Come through the airlock, 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.

‘OK, OK. 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 three thousand crushing metres 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.’