The Arctic Incident

“Go, go, go!”


They went, straight through the white heart of the flame. Trouble heard the filaments in his suit pop as they tried to cope with the heat. Boiling tar sucked at his boots, melting the rubber soles.

Then they were through, stumbling toward the double doors. Trouble scrubbed the soot from his visor. His men were waiting, huddled behind riot shields. Two paramedic warlocks had their gloves off, ready to lay on hands. Ten yards to go.

The goblins found range. A hail of charges sang through the air around them, pulverizing what was left of the emporium’s shop front. Trouble’s crown lurched forward as a slug flattened itself against his helmet.

More charges. Lower down. A tight grouping, between his shoulder blades. The sandwich board held.

The impact lifted the captain like a kite, slapping him into his brother, and carrying them both through the decimated double doors. They were instantly hauled behind a wall of riot shields.

“Grub,” gasped Captain Kelp. Through the pain and noise and soot. “Is he okay?”

“Fine,” answered the senior warlock paramedic, rolling Trouble onto his stomach. “Your back, on the other hand, is going to have some lovely bruises in the morning.”

Captain Kelp waved the warlock away.

“Any word from the Commander?”

The warlock shook his head. “Nothing. Root is missing in action and Cudgeon has been reinstated as commander. Even worse, now they’re saying Foaly is behind this whole thing.”

Trouble paled, and it wasn’t from the pain in his back.

“Foaly! It can’t be true.”

Trouble ground his teeth in frustration. Foaly and the commander. He had no choice, he would have to do it. The one thing he had had nightmares about.

Captain Kelp struggled up onto one elbow. The air above their heads was alive with the buzz of softnose bursts. It was only a matter of time before they were completely overrun. It had to be done.

Trouble took a breath. “Okay, people. Listen up. Retreat to Police Plaza.”

The troops froze. Even Grub caught himself in midsob. Retreat?

“You heard me!” snarled Trouble. “Retreat. We can’t hold the streets without arms. Now move it out.”

The LEP shuffled to the service entrance, unaccustomed to losing. Call it retreat, call it a tactical maneuver. It was still running away. And who would have thought that order would ever come out of Trouble Kelp’s mouth.





Arctic Shuttleport


Artemis and his fellow travelers took shelter in the shuttleport. Holly made the journey slung over Butler’s shoulder. She protested loudly for several minutes, until the commander ordered her to shut up.

“You’ve just had major magical surgery,” he pointed out. “So just stay quiet and do your exercises.” It was vital that Holly manipulate her finger constantly for the next hour or so, to ensure the right tendons got reconnected. It’s very important to move the index finger the way you intend to move it, especially if you’re firing a weapon.

They huddled around a glow cube in the deserted departures lounge.

“Any water?” asked Holly. “I feel dehydrated after that healing.”

Root winked, something that didn’t happen very often. “Here’s a little trick I learned in the field.” He popped a flat-nosed shell from a clip in his belt. It was transparent and filled with clear liquid.

“You won’t get much of a drink from that,” commented Butler.

“More than you’d think. This is a hydrosion shell. A miniature fire extinguisher. The water is compressed into a tiny space. You fire it into the heart of a fire and the impact reverses the compressor. Half a gallon of water is blasted at the flames. More effective than a hundred gallons poured. We call them fizzers.”

“Very good,” said Artemis dryly. “If you could use your weapons.”

“Don’t need ’em,” said Root, drawing a large knife. “Manual works just as well.”

He pointed the shell’s flat tip at the mouth of a canteen, and popped the lid. A fizzing spray jetted into the container.

“There you are, Captain. Never let it be said that I don’t look after my officers.”

“Clever,” admitted Artemis.

“And the best thing is,” said the commander, pocketing the empty fizzer, “these things are completely reusable: all I have to do is stick it in a pile of snow and the compressor will do the rest, so I won’t even have Foaly on my case for wasting equipment.”

Holly took a long drink, and soon the color surged back to her cheeks. “So we were ambushed by a B’wa Kell hit team,” she mused. “What does that mean?”

“It means you have a leak,” said Artemis holding his hands close to the cube’s warmth. “It was my impression that this mission was top secret. Not even your Council was informed. The only person who isn’t here is that centaur.”

Holly jumped to her feet. “Foaly? It can’t be.”