by Eoin Colfer
‘Goodbye, Domovoi,’ sobbed the boy. ‘Goodbye, my friend.’
The hand dropped. Butler was gone.
‘No!’ shouted Artemis, staggering backwards.
This wasn’t right. This was not the way things should end. For some reason, he had always imagined that they would die together — facing insurmountable odds, in some exotic location. On the lip of a reactivated Vesuvius perhaps, or on the banks of the mighty Ganges. But together, as friends. After all they had been through, Butler simply could not 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 the 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 Artemis’s — he 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 was the enemy. 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 towards 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 there. . Fingerprints wouldn’t be a problem, as the restaurant would have had dozens of customers. All he had to do was get out of there 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 beluga dripped from the ceiling.
There! At the back, a line of freezers, essential 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 pull-out 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 manoeuvred 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 fitted with barely a bend of the legs. Artemis heaped loose ice on top of his fallen comrade, and then adjusted the thermostat to four below zero to avoid tissue damage.
Butler’s blank face was just visible through a layer of ice.
‘I’ll be back,’ the boy said. ‘Sleep well.’
The sirens were close now. Artemis heard the screech of tyres.
‘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 at the cordon, or even glance back towards the restaurant. Instead, he made his way to Harrods and found himself a table at the gallery cafe.
Once he had assured the waitress that he was not looking for his mummy, and produced sufficient cash to pay for his pot of Earl Grey tea,
Artemis pulled out his mobile, 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 Inspector 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 favour.’
‘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 are 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 officer had read his mind. ‘As soon as possible. Two minutes are all I need.’
Barre chewed it over. ‘OK. 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 at six-thirty precisely, 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 quits.’
Artemis kept his voice even. ‘Yes, Detective Inspector. I’ll tell him.’
If I get the opportunity, he thought.
ICE AGE CRYOGENICS INSTITUTE, OFF HARLEY STREET, LONDON
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 Doctor 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 centres 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 itsel
f was enough to make Artemis squirm. The facade was lined with brushed aluminium, 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-pointed hat, was manning the reception. Artemis doubted she was an actual nurse — something about 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 Doctor 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? Doctor 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 nappies?’
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.
Artemis had half finished a cup of something that was most definitely not Earl Grey when Doctor 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.
Doctor Lane sat behind her desk. She was a very glamorous woman, with flowing red hair and the tapered fingers of an artist. Her smock was Dior. Even 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 still reluctant. .
‘Generally minors are not allowed to commit relatives to our chambers. It’s the law actually.’
Artemis leaned forward.
‘Doctor 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 fingered 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.
STONEHEHGE, WILTSHIRE
Two LEP chutes emerged in the south of England. One in London itself, but that was closed to the public due to the fact that Chelsea Football Club had built their grounds five hundred metres above the shuttle port.
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. These ranged from spaceship landing port to pagan centre 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 parlour.
A gnome called Bog had realized how many tourists forgot their sandwiches on above-ground jaunts, and so had set up shop beside the terminal. It was a smooth operation. You drove up to 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 fairy 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 above ground. The picnic consisted of pizza, tuber beer and pizza-flavoured 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 hippy doll that said,
‘Peace, man,’ when you pressed its tummy.
Holly badged her way through the customs queue, taking a security elevator to the surface. Stonehenge had become easier to exit recently, because the Mud People had put up fencing. The humans were protecting their heritage, or so they thought. Strange that Mud People 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 airlock, 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 on-board navigator in the wings’ computer and let the rig do the steering for her. It was nice to be above ground again, and at sunset too. Her favourite 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 be
tween her teeth.
KNIGHTSBRIDGE, LONDON
It had been almost 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,’ Doctor Constance
Lane informed Artemis, as they sat in the stark white surgery. A cylindrical cryo pod was strapped to a trolley between them.
‘The vans are custom-made in Munich, specially armoured too. This thing could drive over a landmine 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 crowded with droves of tired customers on their way home. It took a further seventeen minutes to reach En Fin’s delivery entrance and, as promised, there were no policemen present, except one. Detective Inspector 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.