The Arctic Incident

Mulch shrugged. “Whatever, kid. It’s your skin. Now, in you go.”


The dwarf interlaced his fingers, and Artemis stepped into the makeshift stirrup. He was considering changing his mind when Mister Diggums heaved him into the plasma. The orange gel sucked him in, enveloping his body in a second.

The plasma coiled around him like a living being, popping bubbles of air trapped in his clothing. A residual spark brushed his leg, sending sharp pain through his body. A bit of a tingle?

Artemis gazed out through the orange gel. Mulch was there giving him the thumbs-up. Grinning like a loon. Artemis decided that if he made it through this lunacy, then he would have to place the dwarf on the payroll.

Artemis began to crawl blindly. One pull, two pulls . . . Sixty-three seemed a long way off.

Butler cocked his weapon. The footsteps were earsplitting now, bouncing off the metal walls. Shadows stretched around the corner, ahead of their owners. The manservant took approximate aim.

A head appeared. Froglike. Licking its own eyeballs. Butler pulled the trigger. The slug punched a melon-sized hole in the wall above the goblin’s head. The head was hurriedly withdrawn. Of course, Butler had missed on purpose. Scared was always better than dead. But it couldn’t last forever. Twelve more shots to be precise.

The goblins grew braver, sneaking out farther and farther. Eventually, Butler knew he would be forced to shoot one.

Butler decided that is was time to get to close quarters. He rose from his haunches, making slightly less noise than a panther, and hurtled down the corridor toward the enemy.

There were only two men on the planet better educated in the various martial arts than Butler, and he was related to one of them. The other lived on an island in the South China Sea, and spent his days meditating and beating up palm trees. You really had to feel sorry for the B’wa Kell.

The B’wa Kell had two guards on the sanctum door, both armed to the teeth and both thick as several short planks.

In spite of repeated warnings, they were both falling asleep inside their helmets when the elves came running around the corner.

“Look,” mumbled one. “Elves.”

“Huh?” said the other, the denser of the two.

“Don’t matter,” said number one. “LEP don’t got no guns.”

Number two gave his eyeballs a lick. “Yeah, but they sure are irritable.”

And that was when Holly’s boot connected with his chest, slamming him into the wall.

“Hey,” complained number one, bringing up his own gun. “No fair.”

Root didn’t bother with fancy spinning kicks, preferring instead to body slam the sentry against the titanium door.

“There,” panted Holly. “Two down. That wasn’t so hard.”

A premature statement, as it happened. Because that was when the rest of the two-hundred-strong B’wa Kell squadron thundered down the perpendicular corridor.

“That wasn’t so hard,” mimicked the commander, curling his fingers into fists.

Artemis’s concentration was failing him. There seemed to be more sparks now, and each shock disrupted his focus. He had lost count twice. He was at fifty-four now. Or fifty-six. The difference was life or death.

He crawled ahead, reaching out one arm and then the other, swimming through a turgid sea of gel. Vision was next to useless. Everything was orange. And the only confirmation he had that any progress was being made was when his knee sank into a recess, where the plasma diverted into a cannon.

Sixty-three. That was it. Artemis propelled himself one last time through the gel, filling his lungs with stale air. Soon the air purifiers in his helmet would be useless and he would be breathing carbon dioxide.

Artemis placed his fingertips against the pipe’s inner curve, searching for a keyhole. Again his eyes were no help. He couldn’t even activate the helmet lamps for fear of igniting a river of plasma.

Nothing. No indent. He was going to die here alone. He would never be great. Artemis felt his brain going, spiraling off into a black tunnel. Concentrate, he told himself. Focus. There was a spark approaching. A silver star in the sunset. It coiled lazily along the tube, illuminating each section it passed.

There! A hole. The hole, revealed for a moment by the passing spark. Artemis reached into his pocket like a drunken swimmer, pulling out the dwarf hair. Would it work? There was no reason this access port should have a different locking mechanism.

Artemis slid the hair into the keyhole. Gently. He squinted through the gel. Was it going in? He thought so. Perhaps sixty-percent sure. It would have to be enough.

Artemis twisted. The flap dropped open. He imagined Mulch’s grin. That, my boy, is talent.