Artemis- Tube of Plasma

Artemis climbed up on a hover trolley, tapping one of the overhead
conduits that ran the length of the corridor.
“This pipe appears to run along the entire ceiling structure. What is
it, a ventilation system?”
Mulch snorted. “I wish. It’s the plasma supply for the DNA cannons.”
“So why didn’t you come in this way?”
“Oh, a little matter of there being enough charge in every drop of
plasma to fry a troll.”
Artemis placed his palm against the metal.
“What if the cannons weren’t operational?”
“Once the cannons are deactivated, the plasma is just so much
radioactive slop.”
“Radioactive?”
…

Inside the pipe, an orange jelly pulsed gently. Occasional sparks
roiled in its depths. The plasma was too dense even to spill from the hatch,
and retained its cylindrical shape.
Mulch squinted through the wobbling gel.
“Deactivated, all right. If that stuff was live, our faces would be
getting a nice tan about now.”
“What about those sparks?”
“Residual charge. They’d give you a bit of a tingle, but nothing
serious.”
Artemis nodded.“Right,”he said, strapping on the helmet.
Mulch blanched. “You are not serious, Mud Whelp? Do you have any
idea what will happen if those cannons are activated?”
“I’m trying not to think about it.”
“It’s probably just as well.” The dwarf shook his head bewildered.
“Okay. You’ve got thirty yards to go, and no more than ten minutes of air
in that helmet. Keep the filters closed, the air may get a bit stale after a
while but it’s better than sucking plasma. And here, take this.” He plucked
the stiffened hair from the keyhole.
“What for?”
“I presume you will want to get out again at the other end. Or hadn’t
you thought of that, enius Boy?”
Artemis swallowed. He hadn’t. There was more to this heroism thing
than rushing in blindly.
“Just feed it in gently, remember it’s hair, not metal.”
“Feed it in gently. ot it.”
“And don’t use any lights. Halogen could reactivate the plasma.”
Artemis felt his head beginning to spin.
“And make sure you get foamed as soon as you can. The antirad
canisters are blue. They’re everywhere in this facility.”
“Blue canisters. Anything else, Mister Diggums?”
“Well, there are the plasma snakes. . . .”
Artemis’s knees almost collapsed. “You’re not serious?”
“No,” Mulch conceded. “I’m not. Now, your reach is about one and a
half feet. So calculate for sixty pulls and then get out of there.”
“Slightly under one and a half feet I’d say. Perhaps sixty-three pulls.”
He placed the dwarf hair inside his breast pocket.
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.
“What for?”
“I presume you will want to get out again at the other end. Or hadn’t
you thought of that, enius Boy?”
Artemis swallowed. He hadn’t. There was more to this heroism thing
than rushing in blindly.
“Just feed it in gently, remember it’s hair, not metal.”
“Feed it in gently. ot it.”
“And don’t use any lights. Halogen could reactivate the plasma.”
Artemis felt his head beginning to spin.
“And make sure you get foamed as soon as you can. The antirad
canisters are blue. They’re everywhere in this facility.”
“Blue canisters. Anything else, Mister Diggums?”
“Well, there are the plasma snakes. . . .”
Artemis’s knees almost collapsed. “You’re not serious?”
“No,” Mulch conceded. “I’m not. Now, your reach is about one and a
half feet. So calculate for sixty pulls and then get out of there.”
“Slightly under one and a half feet I’d say. Perhaps sixty-three pulls.”
He placed the dwarf hair inside his breast pocket.
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.
…

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. ently. 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.
It was quite possible that every enemy he had in the underworld was
waiting outside that hatch, big nasty guns pointed at his head. At that point
Artemis didn’t much care. He couldn’t bear one more of his own oxygen
depleted breaths or one more excruciating shock to his body.
So, Artemis Fowl poked his helmet through the plasma’s surface. He
flipped the visor, savoring what could very well be his last breath. Lucky
for him, the room’s occupants were looking at the view screen, watching
his friends fight for their lives.
…

“Butler,” rasped Artemis, with the absolute last ounce of his strength.
“Could someone spray me down? And then could we please go to
Murmansk?”
Butler was mystified. “Spray? What spray?”
Holly unhooked the antirad foam canister, flipping the safety catch.
“Allow me,” she grinned. “It would be my pleasure.”
She directed a jet of foul-smelling foam at Artemis. In seconds he
resembled a half-melted snowman. Holly laughed. Who said there were no
perks in law enforcement?

-The Arctic Incident, Chapter 13