The Seventh Dwarf

  With the last vestiges of her strength, Holly batted aside sheets of clinging fake fog, remote activating the shuttle door. She collapsed inside, lying prone on the bay doors for a brief moment, drawing in huge breaths. Then she clambered to her feet and slapped the emergency button on the dash, activating the emergency beam.

  The beam icon winked on, followed by a huge anti-climax. All Holly could do was sit there watching failure messages flash on to the plasma screen. Here she was, sitting on millions of ingots' worth of technology, and her orders were to do nothing.

  Captain Kelp and Commander Root were in mortal danger, and her orders were to twiddle her thumbs. If she flew the shuttle she would be in breach of a direct order, and her career in Recon was over before it began. But if she didn't fly it, then her comrades were dead. Which was more important, career or comrades?

  Holly stuffed the starter chip into the ignition slot, and strapped herself in.

  Turnball Root was enjoying himself immensely. Finally the moment he had dreamed about for so many decades had arrived. His baby brother was at his mercy.

  'I thought I might keep you here for the next twenty-four hours until your magic is completely gone. Then we will become true brothers again. A real team. Perhaps you will decide to join me. If not, you certainly won't be leading the chase. The LEP do not employ personnel without magic'

  Root was curled up in a ball on the floor, his face greener than a sprite's behind. 'Dream on,' he grunted. 'You're no brother of mine.'

  Turnball pinched his cheek. 'You'll warm to me, little brother. It's amazing who a fairy turns to in times of desperation. Believe me, I know.'

  'In your dreams.'

  Turnball sighed. 'Still obstinate. You are probably entertaining notions of escape. Or perhaps you believe that in the end, I could never hurt my baby brother. Is that it? You believe that I have a heart? Perhaps a small demonstration ...'

  Turnball lifted Captain Kelp's head from his chest. Trouble was barely conscious. He had been in the house for too long. He would never run at a hundred per cent of his magical potential again. Not without an infusion from a team of warlocks. And soon.

  Turnball held a small cage up to Trouble's face. Inside, a Tunnel Blue spider scratched at the mesh.

  'I like these creatures,' said Turnball gently. 'They will go through anything to survive. They remind me of myself. This little one will make short work of the captain here.'

  Root tried to raise a hand. 'Turnball, don't.'

  ‘I must,' said Turnball. 'Think of it as already done. There is nothing you can do.'

  'Turnball. It's murder.'

  'Murder is a word. Just another word.'

  Turnball Root began wiggling the tiny bolt. Barely an inch of metal was left to hold the hatch, when a spearlike communications spike punctured the roof, embedding itself in the floorboards. Holly's amplified voice boomed from the speaker in the shaft, shaking the entire house.

  'Turnball Root,' said the voice. 'Release your prisoners and surrender.'

  Turnball reset the bolt, pocketing the cage. 'The girl is dead, eh? When are you going to stop lying to me, Julius?'

  Julius was too weak to respond. The world had become a bad dream. He was breathing treacle.

  Turnball turned his attention to the com spike. He knew that the instrument would broadcast his words to the shuttle above.

  'The pretty corporal, alive and well. Ah well, no matter. You cannot come in, and I will not go out. If you do enter, I will go free. Not only that, but I will have gained a shuttle. If you try to detain me when I am ready to leave, then my arrest will be illegal and my lawyer will carve you up like a whale in a human boat.'

  'I will blast that house to kingdom come,' warned Holly, through the com spike.

  Turnball spread his arms. 'Blast away. You will put me out of my misery. But when the first bolt hits, I will feed my spider to the commander. The Root brothers will not be surviving this assault. Face it, Corporal. You cannot win as long as this house stands.'

  Overhead in the shuttle, Hollv realized that Turnball had all the angles covered. He knew the LEP rulebook better than she did. Even though she was the one with the aircraft, Turnball was the one with the upper hand. If she broke the rules, then he simply walked away and took off in his own shuttle, which was no doubt concealed somewhere close by.

  You cannot win as long as this house stands.

  He was right. She couldn't win as long as a human dwelling surrounded her fellow LEP officers. But what if there were no dwelling?

  Holly quickly checked the shuttle's specs. It had the standard docking clamps prow and aft. The clamps allowed the shuttle to be reeled in for landing on uneven terrain, but could also be used to tow vehicles, or possibly for other more unconventional operations.

  You cannot win as long as this house stands.

  Holly felt sweat break out in the nape of her neck. Was she crazy? Could what she had planned ever stand up in court? It didn't matter, she decided. Lives were at stake.

  She flipped the safety covers from the prow clamps, angling the shuttle so that the nose was pointing at the fisherman's cottage.

  'Final warning,Turnball,' Holly said into the com spike. 'Are you coming out?'

  'Not just yet, my dear,' came the cheerful reply. 'But do feel free to come in and join us.'

  Holly did not bother with more conversation. She deployed the prow clamps with the flick of a switch. The clamps on this particular model were operated by opposing magnetic fields, and there was a slight pulse in the readouts as the two cylindrical clamps rocketed from the belly of the shuttle and straight through the roof of the cottage.

  Holly set the cable for twenty metres so the clamps would not reach head height. Gripper claws extended from the clamps, grasping wooden joists, floorboards and plaster. Holly retracted the clamps, discarding the detritus. Most of the roof was gone, and the south wall teetered dangerously. Holly took a quick photo and ran it through the computer for analysis.

  'Computer,' she said. 'Verbal query.'

  'Proceed,' said the computer in the tones of Foaly, the LEP's technical wizard.

  'Locate load-bearing points.'

  'Locating.'

  In seconds the computer had reduced the photograph to a 3D line representation. Four red dots pulsed gently on the drawing. If she could hit any one, the entire house would collapse. Holly looked closer. Demolition had been one of her favourite classes at the Academy, and she could see that if she took out the first-floor crossbeam on the gable end, then what was left of the house would collapse outwards.

  Turnball was ranting into the com spike. 'What are you playing at?' he roared. 'You can't do this. It's against regulations. Even if you tear off the roof, you can't come into this house.'

  'What house?' said Holly, and fired the third clamp.

  The clamp grabbed the beam and ripped it right out of the brickwork. The house groaned like a mortally wounded giant, then shuddered and collapsed. It was almost comical in its suddenness, and barely a brick fell inwards. Turnball Root was left with nowhere to hide.

  Holly put a laser dot on Turnball's chest. 'Take one step,' she said, 'and I will blast you into the ocean.'

  'You can't shoot me,' Turnball retorted. 'You're not certified for combat.'

  'No,' said a voice beside him. 'But I am.'

  Trouble Kelp was on his feet, dragging the enormous chair behind him. He launched himself at Turnball Root, and they went down in a tangle of wooden and flesh-and-bone legs.

  Overhead in the shuttle, Holly slapped the dash. She had been quite prepared to knock out Turnball Root with a laser sting; after all, it was a little late to start worrying about regulations. She piloted the shuttle to a safe distance, and swooped in for landing.

  In the cottage ruins, Commander Root's strength was slowly returning. Now that the human dwelling was effectively destroyed, the magic sickness was receding fast. He coughed, shook his head and climbed to his knees.

  Trouble was fighting with
Turnball in the rubble. Fighting and losing. Turnball may be older, but he was possessed and lucid. He smashed blow after blow into the captain's face.

  Julius picked up a rifle from the floor. 'Give it up,Turnball,' he said tiredly. 'It's over.'

  Turnball's shoulders sagged, and he turned slowly. 'Ah, Julius. Little brother. It's come to this, once more. Brother against brother.'

  'Stop talking, please. Lie flat on the ground with your hands behind your head. You know the position.'

  Turnball did not lie down, instead he stood slowly, talking seductively all the time. 'This doesn't have to be the end. Just let me go. I'll be out of your life forever. You'll never hear from me again, I swear it. This whole thing was a mistake, I see that now. I regret it, sincerely.'

  Root's energy was returning, bolstering his resolve. 'Shut up, Turnball, or so help me I will blast you where you stand.'

  Turnball smiled easily. 'You can't kill me: we're family.'

  'I don't have to kill you, just knock you out. Now look into my eyes and tell me I wouldn't do that.'

  Turnball searched his brother's eyes and found the truth there.

  'I can't go to prison, brother. I'm not a common criminal. Prison would make me run of the mill.'

  In a flash, Turnball reached into his pocket for the tiny mesh cage. He released the bolt and swallowed the spider. 'There was an old man who swallowed a spider,' he said, and then: 'Goodbye, brother.'

  Root crossed the ruined kitchen in three paces. He ripped open a fallen cupboard searching among the foodstuffs. He grabbed a jar of instant coffee and spun the lid off. In two more paces he was kneeling beside his fallen brother, forcing handfuls of coffee grains down his throat.

  'It's not going to be that easy,Turnball. You are a common criminal, and you will go to jail like one.'

  After a moment Turnball stopped jerking. The spider was dead. The old elf was hurt, but alive. Root quickly zipped him up in a pair of cuffs, then hurried to Trouble's side.

  The captain was already sitting up. 'No offence, Commander, but your brother hits like a pixie.'

  Root nearly smiled. 'Lucky for you, Captain.'

  Holly rushed down the garden path, through what had once been a parlour, and into the kitchen.

  'Is everything alright?'

  Root had had an unusually stressful day, and unfortunately Holly caught some of the overspill.

  'No, Short, everything is not alright,' he barked, brushing dust from his lapels. 'My exercise has been hijacked by a notorious criminal, my captain has allowed himself to be tied up like a prize pig, and you have disobeyed a direct order and flown a shuttle. This means that our entire case is blown.'

  'Just this case,' said Trouble. 'He still has several lifetimes to serve for past crimes.'

  'That is beside the point,' continued Root, unrelenting. 'I cannot trust you, Short. You saved us, it's true, but Recon is all about stealth, and you are not a stealthy person. It might seem unreasonable after all you've done, but I'm afraid there is no place for you in my squad.'

  'Commander,' objected Trouble. 'You can't flunk the girl after all this. If it wasn't for her I'd be biodegrading right now.'

  'This is not your decision, Captain. Nor is it your fight. This squadron is all about trust, and Corporal Short did not earn mine.'

  Trouble was flabbergasted. 'Pardon me, sir, but you haven't given her a fair chance.'

  Root glanced sharply at his officer. Trouble was one of his best fairies, and he was putting his neck on the block for this girl.

  'Very well, Short. If you can do anything to change my mind, now is your chance. Your only chance. Well, can you do anything?'

  Holly looked at Trouble, and she could have sworn that he winked at her. This gave her the courage to do something unthinkable, ridiculously impertinent and insubordinate given the circumstances.

  'Just this, Commander,' she said.

  Holly drew her paintball pistol and shot Commander Julius Root three times in the chest. The impact knocked him back a step.

  'You tag me before I tag you, and you're in,' mumbled Holly. 'No questions asked.'

  Trouble laughed until he threw up. Literally. The magic sickness had left him nauseous. 'Oh gods,' he panted. 'She got you there, Julius. That's what you said. That's what you've been saying for the past hundred years.'

  Root ran a finger through the congealing paint on his chest plate.

  Holly stared at her toes, convinced that she was about to be slung out of the force altogether. To the left, Turnball was calling for his lawyer. Flocks of protected birds were whirling overhead, and out in the fields Unix and Bobb would be wondering what had hit them.

  Holly finally risked an upward glance. The commander's features were twisted with conflicting emotions. Anger was in there, and disbelief too. And maybe, just maybe, a touch of admiration.

  'You did tag me,' he said finally.

  'That's right,' agreed Trouble. 'She did.'

  'And I did say ...'

  'You certainly did.'

  Root rounded on Trouble. 'What are you? A parrot? Will you shut your trap, I'm trying to swallow my pride here.'

  Trouble locked his lips, throwing away the imaginary key.

  'This is going to cost the department a fortune, Short. We're going to have to rebuild here, or generate a localized tidal wave to cover the damage. That's six months of my budget right there.'

  'I know, sir,' said Holly humbly. 'Sorry, sir.'

  Root drew out his wallet, taking a set of silver acorns from a compartment. He tossed them to Holly, who almost missed the catch in her surprise.

  'Put them on. Welcome to Recon.'

  'Thank you, sir,' said Holly, clipping the insignia to her lapel. It caught the rising sun and flashed like a satellite.

  'The first female in Recon,' groaned the commander.

  Holly lowered her face to hide a grin that she couldn't contain.

  'You're going to wash out in six months,' continued Root, 'and probably cost me a fortune.'

  He was wrong about the first, but right about the second.

  The Seventh Dwarf

  CHAPTER 1: Lady Fei Fei's Tiara

  Below the Fleursheim Plaza. Manhattan. New York City.

  Dwarfs dig tunnels. That's what they are born to do. Their bodies have adapted over millions of years to make them efficient tunnellers. A dwarf male's jaw can be unhinged so that he can unhook it at will in order to excavate a tunnel with his mouth. The waste is jettisoned at the rear end to make way for the next mouthful.

  The dwarf that concerns us is the notorious fairy felon Mulch Diggums. Mulch found burglary much more suited to his personality than mining. The hours were shorter, the risks were less severe, and the precious metals and stones that he took from the mud men were already processed, forged and polished.

  Tonight's target was the tiara of Lady Fei Fei, a legendary Chinese diplomat. The tiara was a masterpiece of intricate jade and diamond arrangements in a white gold setting. It was priceless, though Mulch would sell it for much less.

  The tiara was currently on tour as the centrepiece of an Oriental art exhibition. On the evening our story begins, it was overnighting in the Fleursheim Plaza on its way to the Classical Museum. For one night only, Fei Fei's tiara was vulnerable and Mulch did not intend to miss his chance.

  Incredibly, the original geological planning survey for the Fleursheim Plaza was freely available on the Internet, allowing Mulch to plot his route from the comfort of the East Village where he was holed up. The dwarf discovered, to his delight, that a narrow vein of compacted clay and loose shale ran right up to the basement wall. The basement where the Fei FeiTiara was being stored.

  At that moment, Mulch was closing his jaws around five kilos of earth per second as he burrowed ever closer to the Fleursheim basement. His hair and beard resembled an electrified halo as each sensitive fibre tested the surface for vibrations.

  It wasn't bad clay, Mulch mused as he swallowed, taking shallow breaths through his nostr
ils. Breathing and swallowing simultaneously is a skill lost by most creatures once they leave infancy, but for dwarfs it is essential for survival.

  Mulch's beard hair detected vibration close by. A steady thrumming that usually indicated air-conditioning units or a generator. That didn't necessarily mean he was nearing his target. But Mulch Diggums had the best internal compass in the business, plus he'd programmed the precise coordinates into the stolen Lower Elements Police helmet in his knapsack. Mulch paused long enough to check the 3D grid in the helmet's visor. The

  Fleursheim basement was forty-eight degrees north-east. Ten metres above his present position. A matter of seconds for a tunnel dwarf of his calibre.

  Mulch resumed his munching, scything through the clay like a fairy torpedo. He was careful only to expel clay at the lower end, and not air. The air may be needed if he encountered any obstacles. Seconds later he encountered the very barrier he had been saving up for. His skull collided with six inches of basement cement. Dwarf skulls may be tough, but they cannot crack half a foot of cement.

  'D'Arvit!' swore Mulch, blinking cement flakes from his eyes with long dwarf lashes. He reached up, rapping a knuckle against the flat surface.

  'Five or six inches, I reckon,' he said to no one, or so he thought. 'Should be no problem.'

  Mulch backed up, compacting the earth behind him. He was about to employ a manoeuvre known in dwarf culture as the cyclone. This move was generally used for emergency escapes or for impressing dwarf females. He jammed the unbreakable LEP helmet over his wild hair, drawing his knees to his chin.

  'I wish you could see this, ladies,' he muttered, allowing the gas in his insides to build. He had swallowed a lot of air in the past few minutes, and now individual bubbles were merging to form an increasingly difficult to contain, tube of pressure.

  'A few more seconds,' grunted Mulch, the pressure bringing a glow to his cheeks.

  Mulch crossed his arms over his chest, drew in his beard hair, and released the pent-up wind.

  The result was spectacular and would have earned Mulch the girlfriend of his choice, if anyone had been around to see it. If you imagine the tunnel to be the neck of a champagne bottle, then Mulch was the cork. He shot up that passageway at over a hundred miles per hour, spinning like a top. Ordinarily when bone meets cement, the cement wins, but Mulch's head was protected by a stolen fairy Lower Elements Police helmet. These helmets are made from a virtually indestructible polymer.