by Eoin Colfer
Artemis caught the hand. The tears were streaming now. Unchecked.
“Good-bye, Butler.”
The bodyguard’s sightless eyes were calm. “Artemis, call me Domovoi.’
The name told Artemis two things. First, his lifelong ally had been named for a Slavic guardian spirit. Second, graduates of the Madam Ko school were instructed never to reveal their first names to their Principals. It helped to keep things clinical. Butler would never have broken this rule . . . unless it no longer mattered.
“Good-bye, Domovoi,” sobbed the boy. “Good-bye, my friend.”
The hand dropped. Butler was gone.
“No!” shouted Artemis, staggering backward.
This wasn’t right. This was not the way things should end. For some reason, he had always imagined that they would die together. Perhaps facing insurmountable odds in some exotic location. On the lip of Vesuvius perhaps, or the banks of the mighty Ganges. But together, as friends. After all they had been through, Butler could not simply be defeated at the hands of some grandstanding, second-rate muscleman.
Butler had almost died before. The year before last, he had been mauled by a troll from the deep tunnels below Haven City. Holly Short had saved him then, using her fairy magic. But now there were no fairies around to save his bodyguard.
Time was the enemy here. If Artemis had more of it, he could figure out how to contact the LEP and persuade Holly to use her magic once again. But time was running out. Butler had perhaps four minutes before his brain shut down. Not long enough, even for an intellect such as his. Artemis needed to buy some more time. Or steal some.
Think, boy, think. Use what the situation provides. Artemis shut off the wellspring of tears. He was in a restaurant, a fish restaurant. Useless! Worthless! Perhaps in a medical facility he could do something. But here? What was here? An oven, sinks, utensils. Even if he did have the proper tools, he had not yet completed his medical studies. It was too late for conventional surgery at any rate, unless there was a method of heart transplant that took less than four minutes.
The seconds were ticking by. Artemis was growing angry with himself. Time was against them. Time needed to be stopped. The idea sparked in Artemis’s brain in a flash of neurons. Perhaps he couldn’t stop time, but he could halt Butler’s passage through it. The process was risky certainly, but it was the only chance they had.
Artemis popped the dessert trolley’s brake with his foot, and began hauling the contraption toward the kitchen. He had to pause several times to drag moaning assassins from the vehicle’s path. Emergency vehicles were approaching, making their way down Knightsbridge. Obviously the sonic grenade’s detonation would have attracted attention. There were only moments left before he would have to fabricate some plausible story for the authorities. Better not to be here. Fingerprints wouldn’t be a problem, as the restaurant would have had dozens of customers. All he had to do was get out of here before London’s finest arrived.
The kitchen was forged from stainless steel. Hobs, hoods, and work surfaces were littered with fallout from the sonic grenade. Fish flapped in the sink, crustaceans clicked across the tiles, and caviar dripped from the ceiling.
There! At the back, a line of freezers, essentials in any seafood bistro. Artemis put his shoulder against the trolley, steering it to the rear of the kitchen.
The largest of the freezers was of the custom built pullout variety often found in large restaurants. Artemis hauled open the drawer, quickly evicting the salmon, sea bass, and hake that were encrusted in the ice shavings.
Cryogenics. It was their only chance. The science of freezing a body until medicine had evolved sufficiently to revive it. Generally dismissed by the medical community, it nevertheless made millions each year from the estates of rich eccentrics who needed more than one lifetime to spend their money. Cryogenic chambers were generally built to very exact specifications, but there was no time for Artemis’s usual standards now. This freezer would have to do as a temporary solution. It was imperative that Butler’s head be cooled to preserve the brain cells. So long as his brain functions were intact, he could theoretically be revived, even if there were no heartbeat.
Artemis maneuvered the trolley until it overhung the open freezer, then with the help of a silver platter, he levered Butler’s body into the steaming ice. It was tight, but the bodyguard fit with barely a bend of the legs. Artemis heaped loose ice on top of his fallen comrade, and then adjusted the thermostat to four degrees below freezing, to avoid tissue damage. Butler’s blank eyes stared at him through a layer of ice.
“I’ll be back,” the boy said. “Sleep well.”
The sirens were close now. Artemis heard the screech of tires.
“Hold on, Domovoi,” whispered Artemis, closing the freezer drawer.
Artemis left through the back door, mingling with the crowds of locals and sightseers. The police would have someone photographing the crowd, so he did not linger, or even glance back toward the restaurant. Instead, he made his way to Harrods, and found himself a table at the gallery café.
Once he had assured the waitress that he was not looking for his mommy, and produced sufficient cash to pay for his pot of Earl Grey tea, Artemis pulled out his cell phone, selecting a number from the speed-dial menu.
A man answered on the second ring. “Hello. Make it quick, whoever you are. I’m very busy at the moment.”
The man was Detective Inspector Justin Barre of New Scotland Yard. Barre’s gravelly tones were caused by a hunting knife across the gullet during a bar fight in the nineties. If Butler hadn’t been on hand to stop the bleeding, Justin Barre would never have risen beyond sergeant. It was time to call in the debt.
“Detective Barre. This is Artemis Fowl.”
“Artemis, how are you? And how’s my old partner, Butler?”
Artemis kneaded his forehead. “Not well at all, I’m afraid. He needs a favor.”
“Anything for the big man. What can I do?”
“Did you hear something about a disturbance in Knightsbridge?”
There was a pause. Artemis heard paper rip as a fax was torn off the roll.
“Yes, it just came in. A couple of windows were shattered in some restaurant. Nothing major. Some tourists got a bit shell-shocked. Preliminary reports say it was some kind of localized earthquake, if you can believe that. We’ve got two cars there right now. Don’t tell me Butler was behind it?”
Artemis took a breath. “I need you to keep your men away from the freezers.”
“That’s a strange request, Artemis. What’s in the freezers that I shouldn’t see?”
“Nothing illegal,” promised Artemis. “Believe me when I say, this is life or death for Butler.”
Barre didn’t hesitate. “This is not exactly in my jurisdiction, but consider it done. Do you need to get whatever I’m not supposed to see out of the freezers?”
The detective had read his mind. “As soon as possible. Two minutes are all I need.”
Barre chewed it over. “Okay. Let’s synchronize schedules. The forensics team is going to be in there for a couple of hours. Nothing I can do about that. But by six-thirty, I can guarantee there won’t be anyone on duty. You have five minutes.”
“That will be more than sufficient.”
“Good. And tell the big man that we’re even.”
Artemis kept his voice even. “Yes, Detective Barre. I’ll tell him.” If I get the opportunity, he thought.
The Ice Age Cryogenics Institute was not actually on London’s Harley Street. Technically, it was tucked away in Dickens Lane, a side alley on the famous medical boulevard’s southern end. But this did not stop the facility’s MD, one Dr. Constance Lane, from putting Harley Street on all Ice Age stationery. You couldn’t buy credibility like that. When the upper classes saw those magic words on a business card, they fell over themselves to have their frail frames frozen.
Artemis Fowl was not so easily impressed. But then, he had little choice. Ice Age was one of three cryogenic centers in the city
, and the only one with free units. Though Artemis did consider the neon sign a bit much. PODS TO RENT. Honestly.
The building itself was enough to make Artemis squirm. The façade was clad in brushed aluminum, obviously designed to resemble a spaceship, and the doors were of the whoosh Star Trek variety. Where was culture? Where was art? How did a monstrosity like this get planning permission in historic London?
A nurse complete with white uniform and three-cornered hat was supervising the reception. Artemis doubted she was an actual nurse—it must have been the cigarette between her false nails.
“Excuse me, miss?”
The nurse barely glanced up from her gossip magazine.
“Yes? Are you looking for someone?”
Artemis clenched his fists behind his back.
“Yes, I would like to see Dr. Lane. She is the surgeon, is she not?”
The nurse ground out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.
“This is not another school project is it? Dr. Lane says, no more projects.”
“No. Not another school project.”
“You’re not a lawyer, are you?” asked the nurse suspiciously. “One of those geniuses who gets a degree while they’re still in diapers?”
Artemis sighed. “A genius, yes. A lawyer, hardly. I am, mademoiselle, a customer.”
And suddenly the nurse was all charm.
“Oh, a customer, why didn’t you say so? I’ll show you right in. Would sir care for tea, coffee, or perhaps something stronger?”
“I am thirteen years old, mademoiselle.”
“A juice?”
“Tea would be fine. Earl Grey if you have it. No sugar obviously. It might make me hyperactive.”
The nurse was quite prepared to accept sarcasm from an actual paying customer, and directed Artemis to a lounge where the style was again, space age. Plenty of shining velour and eternity mirrors. He had half finished a cup of something that most definitely was not Earl Grey when Dr. Lane’s door swung open.
“Do come in,” said a tall woman uncertainly.
“Shall I walk?” asked Artemis. “Or will you beam me up?”
The office walls were lined with frames. Along one side were the doctor’s degrees and certificates. Artemis suspected that many of these certificates could be obtained over the weekend. Along the wall were several photographic portraits. Above these read the legend LOVE LIES SLEEPING. Artemis almost left then, but he was desperate.
Dr. Lane sat behind her desk. She was a very glamorous woman with flowing red hair and the tapered fingers of an artist. Even her smock was Dior. Constance Lane’s smile was perfect. Too perfect. Artemis looked closer and realized that her entire face was the handiwork of a plastic surgeon. Obviously this woman’s life was all about cheating time. He had come to the right place.
“Now, young man, Tracy says you wish to become a customer?” The doctor tried to smile, but the stretching made her face shine like a balloon.
“Not personally, no,” replied Artemis. “But I do wish to rent one of your units. Short term.”
Constance Lane pulled a company pamphlet from the drawer, ringing some figures in red. “Our rates are quite steep.”
Artemis did not even glance at the numbers. “Money is no object. We can set up a wire transfer right now from my Swiss bank. In five minutes you can have a hundred thousand pounds sitting in your personal account. All I need is a unit for a single night.”
The figure was impressive. Constance thought of all the nips and tucks it would buy, but she was reluctant. “Generally minors are not allowed to commit relatives to our chambers. It’s the law actually.”
Artemis leaned forward.
“Dr. Lane. Constance. What I’m doing here is not exactly legal, but no one is being hurt either. One night and you’re a rich woman. This time tomorrow and I was never here. No bodies, no complaints.”
The doctor’s hand flew to her jaw line.
“One night?”
“Just one. You won’t even know we’re here.”
Constance took a hand mirror from her desk drawer, studying her reflection closely.
“Call your bank,” she said.
Stonehenge, southern England
Two LEP chutes emerged in the south of England. One in London itself, but that was closed to the People because the Chelsea Football Club had built their grounds five hundred yards above the shuttleport.
The other port was in Wiltshire, beside what humans referred to as Stonehenge. Mud People had several theories as to the origins of the structure. Hypotheses ranged from spaceship landing port to pagan center of worship. The truth was far less glamorous. Stonehenge had actually been an outlet for a flat, bread-based food. Or in human terms; a pizza parlor.
A gnome called Bog had realized how many tourists forgot their sandwiches on aboveground jaunts, and so had set up shop beside the terminal. It was a smooth opera-tion. You drove up to the one of the windows, named your toppings, and ten minutes later you were stuffing your face. Of course, Bog had to shift his operation below-ground once humans began talking in full sentences. And anyway, all that cheese was making the ground soggy. A couple of the service windows had even collapsed.
It was difficult for civilians to get visas to visit Stonehenge because of the constant activity on the surface. Then again, hippies saw fairies every day and it never made the front page. As a police officer, Holly didn’t have a visa problem; one flash of the Recon badge opened a hole right through to the surface.
But being a Recon officer didn’t help if there was no magma flare scheduled. And the Stonehenge chute had been dormant for over three centuries. Not a spark. In the absence of a hotshot to ride, Holly was forced to travel aboard a commercial shuttle.
The first available shuttle was heavily booked, but luckily there was a late cancellation, so Holly wasn’t forced to bump a passenger.
The shuttle was a fifty-seater luxury cruiser. It had been commissioned especially by the Brotherhood of Bog to visit their patron’s site. These fairies, mostly gnomes, dedicated their lives to pizza, and every year on the anniversary of Bog’s first day in business, they chartered a shuttle and took a picnic aboveground. The picnic consisted of pizza, tuber beer, and pizza-flavored ice cream. Needless to say, they did not remove their rubber pizza bonnets for the entire day.
So, for sixty-seven minutes, Holly sat wedged between two beer-swilling gnomes singing the pizza song:
Pizza, pizza,
Fill up your face!
The thicker the pastry,
The better the base!
There were a hundred and fourteen verses. And it didn’t get any better. Holly had never been happier to see the Stonehenge landing lights.
The actual terminal was pretty comprehensive, boasting a three-lane visa clearance booth, entertainment complex, and duty-free shopping. The current souvenir craze was a Mud Man hippie doll that said “Peace, man” when you pressed its tummy.
Holly badged her way through the customs line, taking a security elevator to the surface. Stonehenge had become easier to exit recently, because the Mud Men had put up fencing. The humans were protecting their heritage, or so they thought. Strange that Mud Men seemed more concerned about the past than the present.
Holly strapped on her wings, and once the control booth had given her the go-ahead, she cleared the air lock, soaring to a height of seven thousand feet. There was plenty of cloud cover, but nevertheless she activated her shield. Nothing could spot her now, she was invisible to human and mechanical eyes. Only rats and two species of monkey could see through a fairy shield.
Holly switched on the onboard navigator in the wings’ computer and let the rig do the steering for her. It was nice to be aboveground again, and at sunset too. Her favorite time of day. A slow smile spread across her face. In spite of the situation, she was content. This was what she was born to do. Recon. With the wind against her visor and a challenge between her teeth.
Knightsbridge
It had been almos
t two hours since Butler had been shot. Generally the grace period between heart failure and brain damage is about four minutes, but that period can be extended if the patient’s body temperature is lowered sufficiently. Drowning victims, for example, can be resuscitated for up to an hour after their apparent death. Artemis could only pray that his makeshift cryogenic chamber could hold Butler in stasis until he could be transferred to one of Ice Age’s pods.
Ice Age Cryogenics had a mobile unit for transporting clients from the private clinics where they expired. The van was equipped with its own generator and full surgery. Even if cryogenics was considered crackpot medicine by many physicians, the vehicle itself would meet the strictest standards of equipment and hygiene.
“These units cost almost a million pounds apiece,” Dr. Constance Lane informed Artemis, as they sat in the stark-white surgery. A cylindrical cryo pod was strapped to a gurney between them.
“The vans are custom made in Munich, specially armored, too. This thing could drive over a land mine and come out smiling.”
For once, Artemis was not interested in gathering information.
“That’s very nice, Doctor, but can it go any faster? My associate’s time is running out. It has already been one hundred and twenty-seven minutes.”
Constance Lane tried to frown, but there wasn’t enough slack skin across her brow.
“Two hours. Nobody has ever been revived after that long. Then again, no one has ever been revived from a cryogenic chamber.”
The Knightsbridge traffic was, as usual, chaotic. Harrods was running a one-day sale, and the block was besieged by droves of eager customers lining up for access to the luxury store. It took a further seventeen minutes to reach En Fin’s delivery entrance.
Just as promised, there were no policemen present, except one. Detective Justin Barre himself was standing sentry at the rear door. The man was huge, a descendant of the Zulu nation, according to Butler. It was not difficult to imagine him at Butler’s side in some faraway land.
Incredibly, they found a parking space, and Artemis climbed down from the van.