‘Well, I’d hate to disappoint the ladies,’ he said and knocked Chix Verbil from his chair.
Mulch expertly rifled 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 this was not part of the deal. Mulch crossed the room in two strides, jamming a chair under the door handle. That should buy him a couple of seconds. He wrapped one arm around the water dispenser, 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 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 in. 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 shuttle bay was on the lower level, closest to the chute itself. Mulch angled himself downwards, guided by his infallible dwarf’s internal compass. He had been in this terminal before, and the layout was burned into his memory, as was the layout of every building 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 shuttle bay; the dwarf could even feel the vibration of the engines through his beard hair.
Generally, he would burn through the duct’s metal panelling 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. Two left turns later, his face was pressed to the grille overlooking the shuttle bay itself. Red alarm lights were revolving over every door, and a harsh klaxon made sure that everyone knew there was some sort of emergency. The shuttle-bay 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, creeping 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 over 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 tonnes 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 towards 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 better come back here right now. I’m not kidding! In twenty seconds I personally am going to press the self-destruct.’
Mulch spat a wad of dwarf spittle on to the speaker, muffling the irate voice. He gargled up another wad in his throat, then 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 towards the rendezvous point.
Butler parked the Bentley fifteen miles north-east of Tara, near a cluster of rocks shaped like a clenched fist. The rock forming the index finger was hollow, just as Mulch had told him it would be. The dwarf had, however, neglected to mention that the opening would be cluttered with 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 that they could sneak some cigarettes. Butler did not like smoking.
The boys looked up at the enormous figure looming over them, 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 afterwards, but you might not want to do that.’
Butler jabbed four rigid fingers at the centre of the mud wall where cracks were beginning to spread and, sure enough, the wall was only a few centimetres 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, below ground in Ireland. Still, suits were the least of his worries. If Mulch were right, then Artemis was running around the Lower Elements right now with a group of bloodthirsty trolls on his trail. Butler had 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 metres, 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 room for him to stand up, never mind pace. Butler 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 heartbeat 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 is on my tail.’
On Mulch Diggums’s tail, thought Butler, shuddering. Not a nice place to be.
