by Eoin Colfer
Butler entered the kitchen. His face was slick with perspiration, and his breath came in short gasps.
“I checked the monitor,” he said. “The car is empty, the other man must be—”
“Here,” said Loafers. “Old news to everyone except you, Grandpa. Now, no sudden moves and you might not have a heart attack.”
Artemis saw Butler’s eyes flitting around the room. He was searching for an angle. Some way to save them. Maybe yesterday’s Butler could have done it, but today’s Butler was fifteen years older and not yet fully recovered from magical surgery. The situation was desperate.
“You could tie the others up,” ventured Artemis. “Then we could leave together.”
Loafers smacked his own head. “What a great idea! Then maybe I could agree to some other delaying tactic, on account of me being a complete amateur.”
Loafers felt a shadow fall across his back. He spun around to see a girl standing in the doorway. Another witness. Carla Frazetti would be getting the bill for all these sundries. This whole job had been misrepresented from the start.
“Okay, miss,” said Loafers. “Go join the others. And don’t do anything stupid.”
The girl at the door flicked her hair over one shoulder, blinking glittering green eyelids.
“I don’t do stupid things,” she said. Then her hand flicked out, brushing against Loafer’s weapon. She grabbed the pistol’s slide and deftly twisted it from the stock. The gun was now completely useless, except for hammering nails.
Loafers jerked backward. “Hey, hey. Watch it. I don’t want to wound you by accident. This gun could go off.”
That’s what he thought.
Loafers continued brandishing his piece of harmless metal.
“Back off, little girl, I won’t say it again.”
Juliet dangled the slide under his nose. “Or what? You’ll shoot me with this?”
Loafers stared cross-eyed at the piece of metal.
“Hey, that looks just like—”
Then Juliet hit him in the chest so hard he crashed through the breakfast bar.
Mulch stared over at the unconscious mobster, then at the girl in the doorway.
“Hey, Butler. Just a shot in the dark here, but I’d say that’s your sister.”
“You’re right,” said the manservant, hugging Juliet tightly. “How on earth did you guess?”
Fowl Manor
It was time for consultation. That night, the group sat in the manor’s conference room facing two monitors that Juliet had brought down from the security booth. Foaly had hijacked the monitors’ frequency and was broadcasting live images of Commander Root and himself.
Much to his own annoyance, Mulch was still present. He had been attempting to weasel some kind of reward from Artemis when Holly returned and cuffed him to a chair.
Root’s cigar smoke was hazing the screen. “Looks like the gang’s all here,” he said, using the fairy gift of tongues to speak English. “And guess what? I don’t like gangs.”
Holly had placed her headset in the center of the conference table, so all the room’s occupants could be picked up.
“I can explain, Commander.”
“Oh, I’ll just bet you can. But strangely, I have a premonition that your explanation is going to cut no ice with me whatsoever, and I will have your badge in my drawer by the end of this shift.”
Artemis tried to intervene. “Really, Commander. Holly—Captain Short is only here because I tricked her.”
“Is that a fact? And then, pray tell, why is she still there? Doing lunch, are we?”
“This is no time for sarcasm, Commander. We have a serious situation here. Potentially disastrous.”
Root exhaled a cloud of greenish smoke. “What you humans do to each other is your own affair. We are not your personal police force, Fowl.”
Foaly cleared his throat. “We’re involved whether we like it or not. Artemis was the one who pinged us. And that’s not the worst of it, Julius.”
Root glanced across at the centaur. Foaly had called him by his first name. Things must be serious.
“Very well, Captain,” he said. “Continue with your briefing.”
Holly opened a report on her handheld computer. “Yesterday I responded to a recording from the Sentinel warning system. The call was sent by Artemis Fowl, a Mud Man well known to the LEP for his part in suppressing the B’wa Kell uprising. Fowl’s associate, Butler, had been mortally injured on the orders of another Mud Man, Jon Spiro, and he requested my assistance with a healing.”
“Which you refused, and then requested technical backup to perform a mind wipe, as per regulations.”
Holly could have sworn the screen was heating up.
“No. Taking into account Butler’s considerable assistance during the goblin revolution, I performed the healing and transported Butler and Fowl back to their domicile.”
“Tell me you didn’t fly them.”
“There was no alternative. They were wrapped in camfoil.”
Root rubbed his temples. “One foot. If there was so much as one foot sticking out, we could be all over the Internet by tomorrow. Holly, why do you do this to me?”
Holly didn’t reply. What could she say?
“There’s more. We have detained one of Spiro’s employees. A nasty piece of work.”
“Did he see you?”
“No. But he heard Mulch say that he was a fairy dwarf.”
“No problem,” said Foaly. “Do a block mind wipe, and send him home.”
“It’s not that simple. The man is an assassin. He could be sent back to finish the job. I think we need to relocate him. Believe me. He won’t be missed here.”
“Okay,” said Foaly. “Sedate him, do the wipe and get rid of anything that might trigger his memories. Then send him someplace where he can’t do any harm.”
The commander took several long puffs to calm himself. “Okay. Tell me about the probe. And if Fowl is responsible, is the alert over?”
“No. The human businessman, Jon Spiro, has stolen the fairy technology from Artemis.”
“Which Artemis stole from us,” noted Foaly.
“This Spiro character is determined to acquire the technology’s secret and he’s not particular how he gets it.”
“And who knows the secret?”
“Artemis is the only one who can operate the C Cube.”
“Do I want to know what a C Cube is?”
Foaly took up the narrative. “Artemis cobbled a microcomputer together from old LEP technology. Most of it is obsolete belowground, but by human standards it’s approximately fifty years ahead of their developmental schedule.”
“And therefore worth a fortune,” concluded the commander.
“And therefore absolutely worth a fortune,” agreed Foaly.
Suddenly Mulch was listening.
“A fortune? Exactly how much of a fortune?”
Root was relieved to have someone to shout at. “Shut your mouth, convict! This doesn’t concern you. You just concentrate on enjoying your last few breaths of free air. This time tomorrow you’ll be shaking hands with your cellmate, and I hope he’s a troll.”
Mulch was unbowed. “Give me a break, Julius. Every time there’s a Fowl situation, I’m the one who saves your sorry hide. I have no doubt that whatever plan Artemis concocts will feature yours truly. Probably in some ridiculously dangerous capacity.”
Root’s complexion went from rosé to full-bodied red. “Well, Artemis? Do you plan on using the convict?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not you give me Holly.”
Root’s head disappeared behind a fog of cigar smoke. With the red tip glowing, he looked like a steam train coming out of a tunnel. Some of the smoke drifted across to Foaly’s screen.
“It doesn’t look good,” commented the centaur.
Eventually, Root calmed down sufficiently to talk.
“Give you Holly? Gods give me patience.
Have you any idea the amount of red tape I’m ignoring just for this conference?”
“Quite a lot, I’d imagine.”
“A mountain of the stuff, Artemis. A mountain. I wouldn’t be talking to you at all if it wasn’t for the B’wa Kell thing. If this ever leaked out, I’d end up directing sewage-treatment subs in Atlantis.”
Mulch winked at the screen. “I probably shouldn’t have heard that.”
The commander ignored him. “You have thirty seconds, Artemis. Sell me.”
Artemis rose, standing directly before the screen. “Spiro has fairy technology. It is unlikely that he will be able to use it, but it will put his scientists onto ion technology. The man is a megalomaniac, with no respect for life or the environment. Who knows what ghastly machine he will construct from fairy technology. There is also the definite chance that his new technology will lead him to discover Haven itself, and if that happens, the life of every creature on the planet, and under it, is at risk.”
Root wheeled his chair off camera, reappearing in Foaly’s monitor. He leaned close to the centaur’s ear, whispering in low tones.
“It doesn’t look good,” said Holly. “I could be on the next shuttle home.”
Artemis drummed his fingers on the table. It was difficult to see how he could take on Spiro without fairy assistance. After several moments, the commander reappeared in his own screen.
“This is serious. We cannot afford to risk that this Spiro person will activate another probe. However small the possibility, there’s still a chance. I have to put together an insertion team. The works, a fully tooled-up Retrieval team.”
“A full team?” protested Holly. “In an urban area? Commander, you know what Retrieval are like. This could turn into a disaster. Let me take a crack at it.”
Root considered. “It will take forty-eight hours to clear an operation, so that’s what you have. I can cover for you for a couple of days. I can’t let you have Foaly. He’ll have enough to do putting this operation together. Diggums can help if he wants, it’s his choice. I might drop a couple of the burglary charges, but he’s still facing five to ten for the bullion robbery. That’s all I can do. If you fail, then the Retrieval team is waiting in the wings.”
Artemis thought about it. “Very well.”
Root took a breath. “There is a condition.”
“I thought as much,” said Artemis. “You want a mind wipe. Correct?”
“That’s right, Artemis. You are becoming a severe liability to the People. If we are to assist you in this matter, then you and your staff will have to submit to mind wipes.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then we go straight to plan B, and you get wiped anyway.”
“No offense, Commander, but this is a technical matter&.”
Foaly stepped in. “There are two kinds of mind wipe. A block wipe, which takes out everything in the chosen period—Holly can do that with the equipment in her bag. And a fine-tune wipe, which only deletes certain memories. This is a more specialized procedure, but there is less danger of a drop in IQ. We do a fine-tune wipe on all of you. I detonate a data charge in your computer system that automatically deletes any fairy-related files. Also, I will need your permission to do a sweep of your house just in case there is any fairy memorabilia lying around. In practical terms, you will wake up the day after this operation with absolutely no record or memory of the fairy People.”
“You’re talking about nearly two years of memories.”
“You won’t miss them. Your brain will invent some new ones to fill the gaps.”
It was a tough decision. On the one hand, his knowledge of the People was now a large part of Artemis’s psychological makeup. On the other, he could no longer put people’s lives at risk.
“Very well,” said the teenager. “I accept your offer.”
Root tossed the cigar into a nearby incinerator. “Okay, then. We have a deal. Captain Short, keep a channel open at all times.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Holly.”
“Commander?”
“Be careful on this one. Your career won’t survive another blow.”
“Understood, sir,” said Holly.
“Oh, and, convict?”
Mulch sighed. “You mean me, I suppose, Julius?”
Root scowled. “It’s over, Mulch. You won’t escape again, so get your brain ready for cold food and hard walls.”
Mulch stood, presenting his back to the screen. Somehow the bum flap on his specially adapted tunneling trousers flopped open, presenting the commander with a lovely view of his rear end. In the dwarf world, presenting your behind was the ultimate insult, as it is in most cultures.
Commander Root terminated the link. After all, there was no comeback after an affront like that.
West of Wajir, Kenya
Loafers McGuire woke up with a debilitating headache. It was so painful that he felt obliged to come up with some imagery, in case he had to describe it later. His head felt, he decided, like there was an angry porcupine crawling around inside his cranium. Not bad, he thought. I should put that in the book.
Then he thought, What’s a book?
His next thought was, Who am I? Shoes, something to do with shoes.
It was always this way when memory-implant subjects first regained consciousness. The old identity hangs around for a few moments trying to assert itself until outside stimuli wash it away.
Loafers sat up and the porcupine went crazy, jamming needles into every square inch of his soft brain tissue.
“Oh,” groaned Loafers, cradling his aching skull. What did all this mean? Where was he? And how did he get here?
Loafers looked at his arms. For a second his brain projected tattoos onto the skin, but the images quickly disappeared. His skin was unblemished. Sunlight rolled across his forearms like white lightning.
All around him was scrubland. Terra-cotta earth stretched off to indigo hills in the distance. A golden disc of sun blasted cracks in the shimmering earth. Two figures ran through the heat waves, elegant as cheetahs.
The men were giants, easily seven feet tall. Each carried an oval, hide-covered shield, a thin spear, and a cell phone. Their hair, necks, and ears were decorated with multicolored beads.
Loafers jumped to his feet. Feet that, he noticed, were clad in leather sandals. The men were wearing Nikes.
“Help,” he cried. “Help me!”
The men altered their course, jogging across to the confused mobster.
“Jambo, brother. Are you lost?” asked one.
“I’m sorry,” said Loafers, in perfect Swahili. “I don’t speak Swahili.”
The man glanced at his partner. “I see. And what is your name?”
Loafers, said Loafers’ brain. “Nuru,” said his mouth.
“Well, Nuru. Unatoka wapi? Where are you from?”
The words were out before Loafers could do anything about it.
“I don’t know where I’m from, but I want to go with you. To your village. That’s where I should be.”
The Kenyan warriors stared down at the little stranger. He was the wrong color, true, but he seemed sane enough.
The taller of the two unhooked a cell phone from his leopard-skin belt. He punched in the village chieftain’s number.
“Jambo, Chief, this is Bobby. The earth spirits have left us another one.”
Bobby laughed, looking Loafers up and down.
“Yes, he’s tiny, but he looks strong and he’s got a smile bigger than a peeled banana.”
Loafers stretched his smile, just in case it was a factor. For some reason, all he wanted in this world was to go to the village and live a productive life.
“Okay, Chief, I’ll bring him in. He can have the missionary’s old hut.”
Bobby clipped the cell phone onto his belt. “Very well, brother Nuru. You’re in. Follow us, and try to keep up.”
The warriors set off at a brisk run. Loafers, henceforth to be known as Nuru, raced after them, his
leather sandals flapping beneath his feet. He really would have to see about getting a pair of Nikes.
Fifty meters over their heads, Captain Holly Short hovered, shielded from view, recording the entire incident.
“Relocation complete,” she said into her helmet mike. “The subject has been adopted successfully. No apparent signs of original personality. But he will be monitored at monthly intervals, just in case.”
Foaly was on the other end of the line. “Excellent, Captain. Return to shuttle port E77 immediately. If you open the throttle, you might just make the evening shuttle. We’ll have you back in Ireland in a couple of hours.”
Holly did not need to be told twice. It wasn’t often you got clearance for a speed run. She activated her radar in case of buzzards and set the stopwatch on her visor.
“Now,” he said. “Let’s see if we can’t break the airspeed record.”
A record that had been set eighty years before by Julius Root.
Excerpt from Artemis Fowl’s diary, disk 2 (encrypted)
Today Father was fitted for his prosthetic limb. He joked throughout the entire process, as though he were being measured for a new suit on Grafton Street. I must admit, his good humor was infectious, and I found myself making excuses just to sit in the corner of the hospital room and enjoy his presence.
It wasn’t always this way. In the past, one needed valid grounds to visit my father. Of course he wasn’t generally available, and even when he was, his time was limited. One did not burst into the Fowl study without good reason. But now, I feel welcome at his side. It is a nice feeling.
My father always liked to impart wisdom, but now it is more philosophical than financial. In the old days, he would direct my attention to the latest share prices in the Financial Times.
“Look, Artemis,” he would say. “Everything else falls, but gold stays steady. That is because there is not enough of it. And there never will be. Buy gold, boy, and keep it safe.” I liked to listen to these pearls, but now they are harder to understand.
On the third day of his consciousness, I fell asleep on the hospital bed, while my father did his walking exercises. I woke to find him regarding me thoughtfully.