Julius dead. It couldnt 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 Books 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 smith prevented decompression sickness in deep-sea divers. In fairness, dwarfs didnt 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 Ill 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 Vishbys gills noticed even if he didnt. 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.
Vishbys 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 cant keep my wings up.
Vishby touched his gills; they were flapping like bunting in the wind. Wow. My gills are going crazy. Whats 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. Were losing pressure in the holding area. Im 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 dont know, said Vishby. Were not supposed to untie the prisoner. Hes a slippery one.
The slippery one took another breath. And this time a stern plate actually buckled with a crack like thunder.
OK, OK. Were coming.
Mulch held out his hands. Hurry up, fishboy. We dont all have gills.
Vishby swiped his security card along the magnetic strip on Mulchs 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?