by Eoin Colfer
Vishby sat at the controls and ran a brisk prelaunch, whistling softly through his gills to shut out K-Max’s jibes.
This K-Max fellow doesn’t realize how much trouble he’s in, thought Turnball, the idea pleasing him tremendously. He felt empowered.
“Excuse me, Mr. K-Max, is it?”
K-Max squinted in what he thought was a threatening fashion, but the actual effect was to make him seem shortsighted and perhaps constipated. “That’s right, prisoner. K to the Max. The king of maximum security.”
“Oh, I see. A sobriquet. How romantic of you.”
K-Max twirled his buzz baton. “There ain’t nothing romantic about me, Root. You ask my three ex-wives. I am here to cause discomfort and that is all.”
“Oops,” said Turnball playfully. “Sorry I spoke.”
This little exchange gave Vishby a chance to get the shuttle out of the dock and one of the shuttle’s other occupants a moment to orientate himself and realize that his old leader was about to make his move. In fact, of the twelve rough-and-ready specimens locked down behind the shuttle’s security bars, ten had served under Turnball at one time or another, and most had done very nicely by it, until their capture. Once Vishby had been reactivated, he had easily ensured that these prisoners were allocated seats.
It will be nice for the captain to have friends around him in a time of crisis, he reasoned.
The most important friend was the sprite Unix B’lob, who sat directly across the vulcanized walkway from Turnball. Unix was a grounded sprite with cauterized nubs where his wings should be. Turnball had dragged Unix out of a troll pit, and the sprite had served as his right-hand fairy ever since. He was the best kind of lieutenant, as he never questioned orders. Unix did not justify or prioritize: he was equally prepared to die fetching Turnball a coffee as he was stealing a nuclear warhead.
Turnball winked at his subordinate to let him know that today was the day. Unix did not react, but then he rarely did, icy indifference being his attitude toward pretty much everything.
Cheer up, Unix, old man, Turnball longed to call. Death and mayhem will shortly follow.
But he had to content himself with the wink for the moment.
Vishby was nervous, and it showed. The shuttle sputtered forward in lurchy hops, scraping a fender along the docking jetty.
“Nice going, Vishby,” snarled K-Max. “Are you trying to crush us before the probe does it?”
Vishby flushed, and gripped the rudder stick so tightly his knuckles glowed green.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it now. No problems.”
The shuttle edged from the shelter of the massive curved fins that funneled the worst of the underwater currents away from the dome, and Turnball enjoyed the receding view of new Atlantis. The cityscape was a murky jumble of traditional spires and minarets alongside more modern glass-and-steel pyramids. Hundreds of slatted filter pods sat at the corners of the giant polymer pentagons that slotted together to form the protective dome over Atlantis.
If the probe hit a filter pod, the dome could go, thought Turnball; and then, Oh, look, they used schoolchildren’s designs to decorate the fins. How fun.
Out they went, past the water cannons, which were erect in their cradles, just waiting for coordinates.
Farewell, my probe, thought Turnball. You have served me well and I shall miss you.
A flotilla fled the threatened city: pleasure craft and city shuttles, troop carriers and prisoner transporters, all flitting toward the ten-mile marker where the brainiacs assured them the shock wave would dissipate to the merest ripple. And though the flight seemed chaotic, it was not. Each and every craft had a marker to dock with at the ten-mile circle.
Vishby was growing in confidence and quickly navigated the gloomy depths toward their marker, only to find that a giant squid had latched on to the pulsing buoy, pecking at its glowing beacon.
The water elf turned the shuttle’s exhaust on the creature, and it scooted off in a flurry of rippling tentacles. Vishby let the auto-dock take over, lowering the shuttle onto its magnetic docking buoy.
K-Max laughed scornfully. “You shouldn’t shoot at your cousins, Fishboy. You won’t get invited to family functions.”
Vishby pounded the dash. “I have had enough of you!”
“Me too,” said Turnball, and reached out, casually pinching K-Max’s buzz baton from his belt. He could have shocked the jumbo sprite immediately, but he wanted him to realize what was going on. It took a while.
“Hey,” said K-Max. “What are you—? You just took my . . .” And then the lightbulb moment. “You aren’t cuffed.”
“What a bright boy,” said Turnball, and thrust the buzz baton into K-Max’s gut, sending ten thousand volts crackling through the pixie’s body. The guard jittered on point like a possessed classical dancer, then collapsed in a boneless-looking heap.
“You shocked my fellow officer,” said Vishby dully, “which should upset me, but I am okay with it, more than okay, actually, even though you can’t tell by my tone of voice.”
Turnball shot Unix another wink that said, Watch your genius boss at work.
“You don’t need to feel anything, Mr. Vishby. All you need to do is release bars three and six.”
“Just three and six? Don’t you want to release all your friends? You have been lonely for so long, Turnball.”
Bars three and six popped up, and Turnball rose, luxuriously stretching his legs, as though he had been seated for an age.
“Not just yet, Mr. Vishby. Some of my friends may have forgotten me.”
Unix was also freed, and went immediately to work, stripping K-Max of his boots and belt. He shrugged off the top half of his own jumpsuit and tied it off at his waist, so the scar tissue of his wing nubs could get a little air.
Turnball felt a twinge of unease. Unix was a disturbing fellow, loyal unto death, but strange beyond strange. He could have had those wing nubs carved down by a plastidoc, but he preferred to wear them like trophies.
If he ever shows the smallest sign of disloyalty, I will have to put him down like a dog. No hesitation.
“Everything all right, Unix?”
The pale sprite nodded curtly, then continued to frisk K-Max’s person.
“Very well,” said Turnball, taking center stage for his big speech. “Gentlemen, we are on the brink of what the press often refers to as an audacious prison break. Some of us will survive and, unfortunately, some won’t. The good news is that the choice is yours.”
“I choose to survive,” said Ching Mayle, a gruff goblin with bite marks on his skull, and muscles up to his ears.
“Not so fast, Mayle. A leap of faith is involved.”
“You can count on me, Captain.”
This from Bobb Ragby, a dwarf fitted with an extra restraint in the form of a mouth ring. He had fought at Turnball’s behest in many a skirmish, including the fateful one on the Tern Islands, where Julius Root and Holly Short had finally arrested Turnball.
Turnball flicked Bobb’s mouth ring, making it ping.
“Can I, Mr. Ragby, or has prison made you soft? Do you still have the gumption?”
“Just take this ring off and find out. I will swallow that guard whole.”
“Which guard?” asked Vishby, nervous in spite of the thrall rune that pulsed at his throat.
“Not you, Vishby,” said Turnball soothingly. “Mr. Ragby didn’t mean you, did you, Mr. Ragby?”
“I did, actually.”
Turnball’s fingers flew to his mouth. “How troubling. I am conflicted, Mr. Vishby. You have done me no little service, but Bobb Ragby there wants to eat you, and that would be entertaining, plus he gets grumpy if we don’t feed him.”
Vishby wanted to be terrified, to take some radical action, but the rune on his neck forbade any emotion stronger than mild anxiety. “Please, Turnball, Captain. I thought we were friends.”
Turnball Root considered this. “You are a traitor to your people, Vishby. How can I take a traitor for a fri
end?”
Even a magic-doped Vishby could see the irony in this. After all, had not Turnball Root betrayed his kind on numerous occasions, even sacrificing members of the criminal fraternity for creature comforts in his cell?
“But your model parts,” he objected weakly. “And the computer. You gave the names of—”
Turnball did not like how this conversation was going and so took two quick steps and buzzed Vishby in the gills. The water elf fell sideways on the pilot seat and hung in his harness, arms dangling, gills rippling.
“Jabber jabber jabber,” said Turnball brightly. “All these guards are the same. Always sticking it to the cons, eh, my boyos?”
Unix spun Vishby’s chair around and began a thorough search, taking anything of potential use, even a small pack of indigestion tablets, because you never knew.
“Here’s the choice, gentlemen,” said Turnball to his captive audience. “Step outside with me now, or stay and wait for an assault charge to be added to your sentence.”
“Just step outside?” said Bobb Ragby, half chuckling.
Turnball smiled easily, charming as a devil. “That’s it, lads. We step outside into the water.”
“I read something about there being pressure underwater.”
“I heard that too,” said Ching Mayle, licking an eyeball. “Won’t we be crushed?”
Turnball shrugged, milking his moment. “Trust me, lads. It’s all about trust. If you don’t trust me, stay here and rot. I need men with me I can rely on, especially with what I’ve got planned. Think of this as a test.”
There were several groans. Captain Root had always had a thing for tests. It wasn’t enough to be a murderous marauder—a person had to pass all these tests. Once he had made the entire group eat raw stink worms just to prove that they were prepared to obey any order, however ludicrous. The hideaway’s plumbing had taken quite a battering that weekend.
Ching Mayle scratched the bite marks on his crown. “Those are our choices? Stay here or step outside?”
“Succinctly put, Mr. Mayle. Sometimes a limited vocabulary can be an advantage.”
“Can we think about it?”
“Of course, take all the time you need,” said Turnball magnanimously. “So long as your cogitations do not take more than two minutes.”
Ching frowned. “My cogitations can take hours, especially if I have red meat.”
Most fairies found animal flesh disgusting, but every enclave had its omnivorous faction.
“Two minutes? Seriously, Captain?”
“No.”
Bobb Ragby would have wiped his brow if he could have reached it. “Thank goodness.”
“One hundred seconds now. Come on, gents. Ticktock.”
Unix rose from his search and stood wordlessly at Turnball’s side.
“That’s one. Who else is willing to place their lives in my hands?”
Ching nodded. “I reckon, yes. You did good by me,
Captain. I never even smelled fresh air till I cast my lot with you.”
“Count me in,” said Bobb Ragby, rattling his bar. “I’m scared, Captain. I won’t deny it, but I would rather die a pirate than go back to the Deeps.”
Turnball raised an eyebrow. “And?”
Ragby’s voice was guttural with fear. “And what, Captain? I said I’d step outside.”
“It’s your motivation, Mr. Ragby. I need more than a reluctance to go back to prison.”
Ragby banged his head on the restraining bar. “More? I want to go with you, Captain. Honest I do. I swear it. I never met a leader like you.”
“Really? I don’t know. You seem reluctant.”
Ragby was not the sharpest spine on the hedgehog, but his gut told him that going with the captain was a lot safer than staying here. Turnball Root was famous for dealing with evidence and witnesses in a severe fashion. There was a legend going around the fairy fugitive bars that the captain had once burned down an entire shopping complex just to get rid of a thumbprint that he may have left behind in a booth at Falafel Fabulosity.
“I ain’t reluctant, Captain. Take me, please. I’m your faithful Ragby. Who was it that shot that fairy on Tern Mór? It were me. Good old Bobb.”
Turnball wiped an imaginary tear from one eye. “Your pathetic pleadings move me, dear Bobby. Very well, Unix, release Misters Ragby and Ching.”
The mutilated sprite did so, then popped Vishby’s harness and hoisted him upright.
“The turncoat?” said Unix.
Turnball started at the sound of Unix’s reptilian voice. He realized that in all their time together he probably hadn’t heard the sprite speak more than a hundred words.
“No. Leave him. Rice wine turns my stomach.”
Other lieutenants might have requested an explanation on this point, but not Unix, who never wanted to know stuff he didn’t need to know and even that information was ejected from his brain as soon as it outlived its usefulness. The sprite simply nodded, then tossed Vishby aside like a sack of refuse.
Ragby and Ching stood quickly, as though repulsed by their seats.
“I feel funny,” said the goblin, worming his little finger into one of the tooth marks on his bald skull. “Good ’cos I’m free, but a little bad too ’cos I might be about to die.”
“You never did have much of a filter between your brain and mouth, Mr. Mayle,” moaned Turnball. “Never mind, I’m the one paid to think.” He faced the remaining prisoners. “Anybody else? Twenty seconds left.”
Four hands went up. Two belonging to the same person, who was desperate not to be left behind.
“Too late,” said Turnball, and gestured for his three chosen acolytes to stand by him. “Come closer; we need a group hug.”
Hugging was not a habit anyone who knew Turnball Root would ever associate with him. The captain had once shot an elf for suggesting a high five, and so it was an effort for Bobb and Ching to keep the shock from their faces. Even Unix raised a jagged eyebrow.
“Oh, come now, gentlemen, am I as scary as all that?”
Yes, Bobb wanted to scream. You are scarier than a dwarf mom with a long-handled spoon. But instead he twisted his mouth into something approximating a smile and stepped into Turnball’s embrace. Unix drew close too, as did Ching.
“Aren’t we the strange bunch?” said Turnball cheerily. “Honestly, Unix. It’s like hugging a plank. And you, Mr. Ragby, you really smell very bad. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Ragby mumbled an admittance. “A few. Me dad, all those who were my mates.”
“I’m not the first, then, thank goodness. I don’t mind confirming bad news, but I hate to break it.”
Bobb Ragby wanted to cry: for some reason this inane chatter was terrifying.
A rumble rolled through the metal skin of the shuttle. The noise grew rapidly louder until it filled the small space. From nothing to everything in five seconds.
“Two minutes are up,” shouted Turnball. “Time for the faithful to go outside.”
The hull above the small group’s heads glowed red suddenly, as something melted it from the outside. Several alarms pulsed into life on the view screen’s heads-up display.
“Wow,” shouted Turnball. “Total chaos all of a sudden. What could be going on?”
The section overhead was molten now, and it should have dripped down on the group, searing their flesh, but somehow it was siphoned off. Blob by white-hot blob, a large circle of the roof was sucked away until there was nothing holding the sea out except some kind of gel.
“Should we hold our breath?” asked Bobb Ragby, trying not to sob.
“Not much point, really,” answered Turnball, who loved toying with people.
It’s nice to know more than everybody else, he thought. Then four amorphobots, who had merged into one large gelatinous blob, dropped a fat tentacle into the shuttle’s interior and sucked up Captain Root and his gang, clean as a dwarf sucking a snail from its shell. One second they were there, and the next, nothing remained but a slig
ht smear on the deck and the echo of slobbering slurp.
“I am so glad I stayed where I am,” said one of the remaining prisoners, who had never served with Turnball. He had, in fact, earned his six-year sentence for making clever copies of collectable cartoon-character spoons. “That blobby thing looked creepy.”
None of the others spoke, as they had immediately realized what catastrophe would result from the blobby thing breaking its seal around the large hole in the hull.
As it happened, the expected catastrophe never got a chance to occur, because as soon as the amorphobots vacated the space, the hole was filled by the rogue probe, which had deviated suddenly from its course to plow through the shuttle, burying it deep into the bedrock of the ocean floor, mashing it completely. As for the people inside the shuttle, they were mostly liquefied. It would be months before any remains were found, and even longer before those remains could be identified. The impact crater was more than fifty feet deep and at least the same across. The whiplash shock rippled across the seabed, decimating the local ecology and stacking half a dozen rescue crafts on top of each other like building blocks.
The giant amorpho-blob bore Turnball and his cohorts swiftly from the impact site, perfectly mimicking the motion of a giant squid, even sprouting gel-tacles, which funneled the water in a tight cone behind it. Inside the main body of gel, two fairies were perfectly calm: Turnball could fairly be called serene, and Unix was as unperturbed by this latest marvel as he was by anything that he had seen in his long life. Bobb Ragby, on the other hand, could in truth be called terrified out of his tiny mind. While Turnball had summoned the amorphobots and had a fair idea of what to expect, as far as Ragby was concerned, they had been swallowed by a jelly monster and were being carried off to its lair to be consumed during the long cold winter. All Ching Mayle could think was one sentence over and over again: I’m sorry I stole the candy cane, which more than likely referred to an incident that was significant to him and to whomever he’d stolen the candy cane from.
Turnball reached into the jumble of electronics in the amorphobots’ belly and pulled out a small cordless mask, which he slipped over his face. It was possible to speak through the gel, but the mask made it infinitely easier.