Artemis Fowl_ The Opal Deception - Eoin Colfer [47]
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 gonna 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.