by Eoin Colfer
“Power failure,” said Merv, bumping into him with calculated clumsiness. “Those lines are a nightmare. I’ve been telling Dr. Argon, but nobody wants to spend money on maintenance when there are fancy company cars to be bought.”
Merv was not chatting for the fun of it; he was waiting for the soluble sedative pad he had pressed onto Grub’s wrist to take effect.
“Tell me about it,” said Grub, suddenly blinking a lot more than he generally did. “I’ve been lobbying for new lockers at Police Plaza. I’m really thirsty. Is anyone else thirsty?” Grub stiffened, frozen by the serum that was spreading through his system. The LEP officer would snap out of it in under two minutes and be instantly alert. He would have no memory of his unconsciousness, and with luck, he would not notice the time lapse.
“Go,” said Scant tersely.
Merv was already gone. With ease, he punched Dr. Argon’s code into Opal’s door. He completed this action faster than Argon ever could, due to hours spent practicing on a stolen pad in his apartment. Argon’s code changed every week, but the Brill brothers made certain that they were cleaning outside the room when Argon was on his rounds. The pixies generally had the complete code by midweek.
The battery-powered pad light winked green, and the door slid back. Opal Koboi swung gently before him, suspended in her harness like a bug in an exotic cocoon.
Merv winched her down onto the trolley. Moving briskly, and with practiced precision, he rolled up Opal’s sleeve and located the scar in her upper arm where the seeker-sleeper had been inserted. He gripped the hard lump between his thumb and forefinger.
“Scalpel,” he said, holding out his free hand. Scant passed him the instrument. Merv took a breath, held it, and made a one-inch incision in Opal’s flesh. He wiggled his index finger into the hole and rolled out the electronic capsule. It was encased in silicone and roughly the size of a painkiller.
“Seal it up,” he ordered.
Scant bent close to the wound and placed a thumb at each end.
“Heal,” he whispered, and blue sparks of fairy magic ran rings around his fingers, sinking into the wound. In seconds the folds of skin had zipped themselves together, with only a pale pink scar to show that a cut had been made—a scar almost identical to the one that already existed. Opal’s own magic had dried up months ago, as she was in no position to complete a power-restoring ritual.
“Miss Koboi,” said Merv briskly. “Time to get up. Wakey-wakey.”
He unstrapped Opal completely from the harness. The unconscious pixie collapsed onto the lid of the cleaning trolley. Merv slapped her across the cheek, bringing a blush to her face. Opal’s breathing rate increased slightly, but her eyes remained closed.
“Jolt her,” said Scant.
Merv pulled an LEP-issue buzz baton from inside his jacket. He powered it up and touched Opal on the elbow. The pixie’s body jerked spasmodically, and Opal Koboi shot into consciousness, a sleeper waking from a nightmare.
“Cudgeon,” she screamed. “You betrayed me!”
Merv grabbed her shoulders. “Miss Koboi. It’s us, Mervall and Descant. It’s time.”
Opal glared at him, wild eyed.
“Brill?” she said after several deep breaths.
“That’s right. Merv and Scant. We need to go.”
“Go? What do you mean?”
“Leave,” said Merv urgently. “We have about a minute.”
Opal shook her head, dislodging the after-trance daze. “Merv and Scant. We need to go.”
Merv helped her from the trolley’s lid. “That’s right. The clone is ready.”
Scant peeled back a sealed foil false bottom in the trolley. Inside lay a cloned replica of Opal Koboi wearing an Argon Clinic coma suit. The clone was identical, down to the last follicle. Scant removed an oxygen mask from the clone’s face, hauled it from its resting place, and began cinching her into the harness.
“Remarkable,” said Opal, brushing the clone’s skin with her knuckle. “Am I that beautiful?”
“Oh yes,” said Merv. “That and more.”
Suddenly, Opal screeched. “Idiots. Its eyes are open. It can see me!”
Scant closed the clone’s lids hurriedly. “Don’t worry, Miss Koboi, it can’t tell anyone, even if its brain could decipher what it sees.”
Opal climbed groggily into the trolley. “But its eyes can register images. Foaly may think to check. That infernal centaur.”
“Don’t fret, Miss,” said Scant, folding the trolley’s false bottom over his mistress. “Very soon now, that will be the least of Foaly’s worries.”
Opal strapped the oxygen mask across her face. “Later,” she said, her voice muffled by the plastic. “Talk, later.”
Koboi drifted into a natural sleep, exhausted by even this small exertion. It could be hours before the pixie regained consciousness. After a coma of that length, there was even the risk that Opal would never be quite as smart as she once was.
“Time?” said Merv.
Scant glanced at his moonometer. “Thirty seconds left.”
Merv finished cinching the straps exactly as they had been. Pausing only to dab sweat from his brow, he made a second incision with his scalpel, this time in the clone’s arm, and inserted the seeker-sleeper. While Scant sealed the cut with a blast of magical sparks, Merv rearranged the cleaning paraphernalia over the trolley’s false section.
Scant bobbed impatiently. “Eight seconds, seven. By the gods, this is the last time I break the boss out of a clinic and replace her with a clone.”
Merv spun the trolley on its castors, pushing it through the open doorway. “Five&four&”
Scant did one last check around, running his eyeballs across everything they had touched.
“Three&two&”
They were out, pulling the door behind them.
“One&”
Corporal Grub slumped slightly, then jerked to attention.
“Hey&what the? I’m really thirsty. Is anyone else thirsty?”
Merv stuffed the night-vision goggles into the trolley, blinking a bead of sweat from his eyelid. “It’s the air in here. I get dehydrated all the time. Terrible headaches.”
Grub pinched the bridge of his nose. “Me too. I’m going to write a letter, as soon as the lights come back.”
Just then the lights did come back, flickering on one after another down the length of the corridor.
“There we go.” Scant grinned. “Panic over. Maybe now they’ll buy us some new circuits, eh, brother?”
Dr. Argon came barreling down the passageway, almost keeping pace with the flickering lights.
“Your hip is better, then, Jerry?” said Merv.
Argon ignored the pixies, his eyes wide, his breath ragged.
“Corporal Kelp,” he panted. “Koboi, is she? Has she&”
Grub rolled his eyes. “Calm yourself, doctor. Miss Koboi is still suspended where you left her. Take a look.”
Argon flattened his palms against the wall, first checking the vitals.
“Okay, no change. No change. A two-minute lapse, but that’s okay.”
“I told you,” said Grub. “And while you’re here, I need to talk to you about these headaches I’ve been having.”
Argon brushed him aside. “I need a cotton ball. Scant, do you have any?”
Scant slapped his pockets. “Sorry, Jerry. Not on me.”
“Don’t call me Jerry!” howled Jerbal Argon, ripping the lid from the cleaning trolley. “There must be cotton balls in here somewhere,” he said, sweat pasting thin hair across his wide gnome’s forehead. “It’s a janitor’s box, for heaven’s sake.” His blunt fingers scrabbled through the trolley’s contents, scraping across the false bottom.
Merv elbowed him out of the way before he could discover the secret compartment or spy screens. “Here we are, doctor,” he said, grabbing a tub of cotton balls. “A month’s supply. Knock yourself out.”
Argon fumbled a single ball from the pack, discarding the rest.
&nb
sp; “DNA never lies,” he muttered, punching his code into the keypad. “DNA never lies.”
He rushed into the room and roughly swabbed the inside of the clone’s mouth. The Brill brothers held their breath. They had expected to be out of the clinic before this happened. Argon rolled the cotton ball’s head across the sponge pad on his clipboard. A moment later, Opal Koboi’s name flashed onto the board’s miniplasma screen.
Argon heaved a massive sigh, resting his hands on both knees. He threw the observers a shamefaced grin. “Sorry. I panicked. If we lost Koboi, the clinic would never live it down. I’m just a little paranoid, I suppose. Faces can be altered, but&”
“DNA never lies,” said Merv and Scant simultaneously.
Grub reset his video goggles. “I think Dr. Argon needs a little vacation.”
“You’re telling me.” Merv snickered, rolling the trolley toward the maintenance elevator. “Anyway, we’d better get going, brother. We need to isolate the cause of the power failure.”
Scant followed him down the corridor. “Any idea where the problem could be?”
“I have a hunch. Let’s try the parking lot, or maybe the basement.”
“Whatever you say. After all, you are the older brother.”
“And wiser,” added Merv. “Don’t forget that.”
The pixies continued down the corridor, their brisk banter masking the fact that their knees were shaking and their hearts were battering their rib cages. It wasn’t until they had removed the evidence of their acid bombs, and were well on their way home in the van, that they began to breathe normally again.
Back in the apartment he shared with Scant, Merv unzipped Koboi from her sealed hiding place. Any worries they’d had about Opal’s IQ taking a dip immediately vanished. Their employer’s eyes were bright and aware.
“Bring me up to speed,” she said, climbing shakily from the trolley. Even though her mind was fully functioning, it would take a couple of days in an electromassager to get her muscles back to normal.
Merv helped her onto a low sofa. “Everything is in place. The funds, the surgeon, everything.”
Opal drank greedily straight from a jug of core water on the coffee table. “Good, good. And what of my enemies?”
Scant stood beside his brother. They were almost identical except for a slight wideness in Merv’s brow. Merv had always been the smart one.
“We have kept tabs on them, as you asked,” said Scant.
Opal stopped drinking. “Asked?”
“Instructed,” stammered Scant. “Instructed, of course. That’s what I meant.”
Koboi’s eyes narrowed. “I do hope the Brill brothers haven’t developed any independent notions since I’ve been asleep.”
Scant stooped slightly, almost bowing. “No, no, Miss Koboi. We live to serve. Only to serve.”
“Yes,” agreed Opal. “And you live only as long as you do serve. Now, my enemies. They are well and happy, I trust.”
“Oh yes. Julius Root goes from strength to strength as LEP Commander. He has been nominated for the Council.”
Opal smiled a vicious wolverine’s smile. “The Council. Such a long way to fall. And Holly Short?”
“Back on full active duty. Six successful reconnaissance missions since you induced your coma. Her name has been put on the list for promotion to major.”
“Major, indeed. Well, the least we can do is to make sure that promotion never comes through. I plan to wreck Holly Short’s career, so she dies in disgrace.”
“The centaur Foaly is as obnoxious as ever,” continued Scant Brill. “I suggest a particularly nasty&”
Opal raised a delicate finger, cutting him off. “No. Nothing happens to Foaly just yet. He will be defeated by intellect alone. Twice in my life, someone has outsmarted me. Both times it was Foaly. Just killing him requires no ingenuity. I want him beaten, humiliated, and alone.” She clapped her hands in delighted anticipation. “And then I will kill him.”
“We have been monitoring Artemis Fowl’s communications. Apparently the human youth has spent most of the past year trying to find a certain painting. We have traced the painting to Munich.”
“A painting? Really?” Cogwheels turned in Opal’s brain. “Well, let’s make sure we get to it before he does. Maybe we can add a little something to his work of art.”
Scant nodded. “Yes. That’s not a problem. I’ll go tonight.”
Opal stretched out on the sofa like a cat in the sunlight. “Good. This is turning out to be a lovely day. Now, send for the surgeon.”
The Brill brothers glanced at each other.
“Miss Koboi?” said Mervall nervously.
“Yes, what is it?”
“The surgeon. This kind of operation cannot be reversed, even by magic. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to think&”
Opal leaped from the sofa. Her cheeks were crimson with rage. “Think! You’d like me to think about it! What do you imagine I have been doing for the past year? Thinking! Twenty-four hours a day. I don’t care about magic. Magic did not help me to escape, science did. Science will be my magic. Now, no more advice, Merv, or your brother will be an only child. Is that clear?”
Merv was stunned. He had never seen Opal in such a rage. The coma had changed her.
“Yes, Miss Koboi.”
“Now, summon the surgeon.”
“At once, Miss Koboi.”
Opal lay back on the sofa. Soon everything would be right in the world. Her enemies would shortly be dead or discredited. Once those loose ends were tied up, she could get on with her new life. Koboi rubbed the tips of her pointed ears. What would she look like, she wondered, as a human?
There are things to know about the world.
Surely you realize that what you know is not everything there is to know. In spite of humankind’s ingenuity, there are shadows too dark for your kind to fully illuminate. The very mantle of our planet is one example; the ocean floor is another. And in these shadows we live. The Hidden Ones. The magical creatures who have removed ourselves from the destructive human orbit. Once, we fairies ruled the surface as humans do now, as bacteria will in the future, but for now, we are content for the most part to exist in our underground civilization. For ten thousand years, fairies have used our magic and technology to shield ourselves from prying eyes, and to heal the beleaguered Earth mother, Danu. We fairies have a saying that is writ large in golden tiles on the altar mosaic of the Hey Hey Temple, and the saying is this: WE DIG DEEP AND WE ENDURE.
But there is always one maverick who does not care a fig for fairy mosaics and is hell-bent on reaching the surface. Usually this maverick is a troll. And specifically in this case, the maverick is a troll who will shortly and for a ridiculous reason be named Whistle Blower.
For here begins the second documented cycle of Fowl adventures.
The Baddie: Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye. The Duke of Scilly.
If a person wants to murder the head of a family, then it is very important that the entire family also be done away with, or the distraught survivors might very well decide to take bloody revenge, or at least make a detailed report at the local police station. There is, in fact, an entire chapter on this exact subject in The Criminal Mastermind’s Almanac, an infamous guidebook for aspiring ruthless criminals by Professor Wulf Bane, which was turned down by every reputable publisher but is available on demand from the author. The actual chapter name is “Kill Them All. Even the Pets.” A gruesome title that would put most normal people off from reading it, but Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye, Duke of Scilly, was not a normal person, and the juiciest phrases in his copy of The Criminal Mastermind’s Almanac were marked in pink highlighter, and the book itself was dedicated as follows:
To Teddy
From one criminal mastermind to another
Don’t be a stranger
Wulfy
Lord Bleedham-Drye had dedicated most of his one hundred and fifty years on this green earth to staying on this green earth as long as possible—as opposed to bein
g buried beneath it. In television interviews he credited his youthful appearance to yoga and fish oil, but in actual fact, Lord Teddy had spent much of his inherited fortune traveling the globe in search of any potions and pills, legal or not, that would extend his life span. As a roving ambassador for the Crown, Lord Teddy could easily find an excuse to visit the most far-flung corners of the planet in the name of culture, when in fact he was keeping his eyes open for anything that grew, swam, waddled, or crawled that would help him stay alive for even a minute longer than his allotted four score and ten.
So far in his quest, Lord Teddy had tried every so-called eternal youth therapy for which there was even the flimsiest of supporting evidence. He had, among other things, ingested tons of willow-bark extract, swallowed millions of antioxidant tablets, slurped gallons of therapeutic arsenic, injected the cerebrospinal fluid of the endangered Madagascan lemur, devoured countless helpings of Southeast Asian liver-fluke spaghetti, and spent almost a month suspended over an active volcanic rift in Iceland, funneling the restorative volcanic gas up the leg holes of his linen shorts. These and other extreme practices—never ever to be tried at home—had indeed kept Bleedham-Drye breathing and vital thus far, but there had been side effects. The lemur fluid had caused his forearms to elongate so that his hands dangled below his knees. The arsenic had paralyzed the left corner of his mouth so that it was forever curled in a sardonic-looking sneer, and the volcanic embers had scalded his bottom, forcing Teddy to walk in a slightly bowlegged manner as though trying to keep his balance in rough seas. Bleedham-Drye considered these secondary effects a small price to pay for his wrinkle-free complexion, luxuriant mane of hair, and spade of black beard, and of course the vigor that helped him endure lengthy treks and safaris in the hunt for any more rumored life-extenders.
But Lord Teddy was all too aware that he had yet to hit the jackpot, therapeutically speaking, in regards to his quest for an unreasonably extended life. It was true that he had eked out a few extra decades, but what was that in the face of eternity? There were jellyfish that, as a matter of course, lived longer than he had. Jellyfish! They didn’t even have brains, for heaven’s sake.
