Artemis Fowl. The Arctic Incident af-2

by Eoin Colfer

  ‘Just forget it. After this, all square.’

  ‘Holly, move it out,’ ordered Root. ‘Butler, don’t let them get too close.’

  Butler wrapped his fingers around the gun’s moulded grip. He looked like an armed bear. ‘They better not. For their sake.’

  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?’

  Mulch tugged at his beard thoughtfully. ‘Actually, Julius reckons the cannons have been turned off.’

  ‘Any way to be certain?’

  ‘We could open this unopenable panel.’ Mulch ran his fingers along the curved surface. ‘Ahh, see here. A micro-keyhole. To service the cannons.

  Even plasma needs recharging.’ He pointed to a tiny hole in the metal. It could have been a speck of dirt. ‘Now, observe a master at work.’

  The dwarf fed one of his chin hairs into the hole. When the tip reappeared, Mulch plucked the hair out by the root. The hair died as soon as Mulch plucked it, stiffening in rigor mortis and retaining the precise shape of the lock’s interior.

  Mulch held his breath, twisting the makeshift key. The hatch dropped open.

  ‘That, my boy, is talent.’

  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 hung on to its cylindrical shape.

  Mulch squinted through the wobbling gel. ‘Deactivated all right. If that stuff were 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, MudWhelp? 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. ‘OK.

  You’ve got thirty metres 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, genius 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. Got 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 anti-rad 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 half a metre.

  So calculate for sixty pulls and then get out of there.’

  ‘Slightly under half a metre 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 pipe. 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 spasming 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, then he would have to place the dwarf on the payroll.

  He began to crawl blindly. One pull, two pulls. .

  Sixty-three seemed a long way off.

  Butler cocked the Sig Sauer. The footsteps were ear-splitting now, bouncing off the metal walls. Shadows stretched around the corner, ahead of their owners. The manservant took approximate aim.

  A head appeared. Froglike. Licking its own eyeballs. Butler pulled the trigger. The slug punched a melon-sized hole in the wall above the goblin’s head. The head was hurriedly withdrawn. Of course, Butler had missed on purpose. Scared was always better than dead. But it couldn’t last forever.

  Twelve more shots to be precise.

  The goblins grew braver, sneaking out further and further. Eventually, Butler knew he would be forced to shoot one.

  The manservant decided that it was time to go close-quarters. He rose from his hunkers, making slightly less noise than a panther, and hurtled down the corridor towards the enemy.

  There were only two men on the planet better educated in the various martial arts than Butler, and he was related to one of them. The other lived on an island in the South China Seas and spent his days meditating and beating up palm trees. You really had to feel sorry for those goblins.

  The B’wa Kell had two guards on the sanctum door. Both armed to the teeth and both as thick as several short planks. In spite of repeated warnings,

  they were both falling asleep inside their helmets when the elves came running around the corner.

  ‘Look,’ mumbled one. ‘Elves.’

  ‘Huh?’ said the other, the denser of the two.

  ‘Don’t matter,’ said number one. ‘LEP don’t got no guns.’

  Number two gave his eyeballs a lick. ‘Yeah, but they sure are irritable.’

  And that was when Holly’s boot impacted with his chest, slamming him into the wall.

  ‘Hey,’ complained number one, bringing up his own gun. ‘Not fair.’

  Root didn’t bother with fancy spinning kicks, preferring instead to body-slam the sentry against the titanium door.

  ‘There,’ panted Holly. ‘Two down. That wasn’t so hard.’ A premature statement as it happened. Because that was when the rest of the two-hundred-strong B’wa Kell squadron thundered down the perpendicular corridor.

  ‘That wasn’t so hard,’ mimicked the commander, curling his fingers into fists.

  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 trawled 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.

  Artemis punched one last time through the gel, filling his lungs with stale air — sixty-three. That was it. Soon the air purifiers in his helmet would be useless and he would be breathing carbon dioxide.

  He 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, spiralling 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, lighting 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. Gently. He squinted through the gel. Was it going in? He thought so. Perhaps sixty per cent 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, savouring 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. Not so lucky for his friends.

  There are too many, thought Butler as he rounded the corner and saw almost an entire army of B’wa Kell slotting fresh batteries into their weapons.

  The goblins, when they noticed Butler, began to think things like, O gods, it’s a troll in clothes; or, why didn’t I listen to Mummy and stay out of the gangs?

  Then Butler was above them and on the way down. He landed like the proverbial tonne of bricks, except with considerably more precision. Three goblins were out cold before they knew they’d been hit. One shot himself in the foot and several others lay down pretending to be unconscious.

  Artemis watched it all on the control room’s plasma screen. Along with all the other occupants of the inner sanctum. It was entertainment to them. TV.

  The goblin generals chuckled and winced as Butler decimated their men. It was all immaterial. There were hundreds of goblins in the building and no way into this room.

  Artemis had seconds to decide on a course of action. Seconds. And he had no idea how to use any of this technology. He scanned the walls below him for something he could use. Anything.

  There. On a small picture-in-picture screen, away from the main console, was Foaly. Trapped in the Operations’ booth. The centaur would have a plan. He had certainly had time to come up with one. Artemis knew that as soon as he emerged from the conduit he was a target. They would kill him without hesitation.

  He dragged himself from within the tube, falling to Earth with a thick slap. His saturated clothes slowed his progress to the monitor bank. Heads were turning, he could see them out the corner of his eye. Figures came his way. He didn’t know how many.

  There was a reed mike below Foaly’s image. Artemis pressed the button.

  ‘Foaly!’ he rasped, globs of gel splatting on to the console.’Can you hear me?’

  The centaur reacted instantly. ‘Fowl? What happened to you?’

  ‘Five seconds, Foaly. I need a plan or we’re all dead.’

  Foaly nodded curtly. ‘I’ve got one ready. Put me on all screens.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘Press the conference button. Yellow. A circle with lines shooting out, like the sun. Do you see it?’

  Artemis saw it. He pressed it. Then something pressed him. Very painfully.

  General Scalene first noticed the creature flopping out of the plasma pipe. What was it? A pixie? No. No, by all the gods. It was human.

  ‘Look!’ he cackled. ‘A Mud Man.’

  The others were oblivious, too interested in the spectacle on-screen.

  But not Cudgeon. A human in the inner sanctum. How could this be? He seized Scalene by the shoulders. ‘Kill him!’

  All the generals were listening now. There was killing to be done. With no danger to themselves.They would do this the old-fashioned way: with claws and fireballs.

  The human stumbled to one of the consoles and they surrounded him, tongues dangling excitedly. Sputa spun the human around to face his fate.

  One by one, the generals conjured fireballs around their fists, closing in for the kill. But then something made them completely forget the injured human. Cudgeon’s face had appeared on all the screens. And the B’wa Kell executive didn’t like what it was saying:

  ‘— Just when things are at their most desperate, I shall instruct Opal to return weapons control to the LEP. The B’wa Kell will be rendered unconscious, and you will be blamed for the entire affair, provided you survive, which I doubt — ’

  Sputa whirled on his ally. ‘Cudgeon! What does this mean?’

  The generals advanced, hissing and spitting. ‘Treachery, Cudgeon! Treachery!’

  Cudgeon was not unduly worried. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Treachery.’

  It took Cudgeon a moment to figure out what had happened. It was

  Foaly. He must have recorded their conversation somehow. How tiresome.

  Still, you had to hand it to the centaur. He was resourceful.

  Cudgeon quickly crossed to the main console, shutting off the broadcast. It wouldn’t do for Opal to hear the rest of it. Particularly the part concerning her tragic accident. He really would have to cut out this grandstanding. Still, no matter. Everything was on track.

  ‘Treachery!’ hissed Scalene.

  ‘OK,’ admitted Cudgeon. ‘Treachery.’ And directly after that he said,

  ‘Computer, activate DNA cannons. Authorization Cudgeon B. Alpha alpha two two.’

  On her hover chair, Opal spun with sheer joy, clapping her tiny hands in delight. Briar was sooo ugly, but he was sooo evil.

  Throughout Koboi Labs, robot DNA cannons perked up in their cradles and ran swift self-diagnostics. Apart from a slight drain in the inner sanctum, everything was in order. And so, without further ado, they began to obey their program parameters and target anything with goblin DNA at a rate often blasts per second.

  It was swift and, as with everything Koboi, efficient. In less than five seconds, the cannons settled back into their cradles. Mission accomplished: two hundred unconscious goblins throughout the facility.

  ‘Phew,’ said Holly, stepping over rows of snoring goblins. ‘Close one.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ agreed Root.

  Cudgeon kicked Sputa’s sleeping body.

  ‘You see, you haven’t accomplished anything, Artemis Fowl,’ he said, drawing his Redboy.

  ‘Your friends are out there. You’re in here. And the goblins are unconscious, soon to be mind-wiped with some particularly unstable chemicals. Just as I planned.’ He smiled at Opal hovering above them. ‘Just as we planned.’

  Opal returned the smile.

  At another time, Artemis would have been forced to pass a snide comment. But the possibility of imminent death was occupying his thoughts for the moment.

  ‘Now, I simply reprogram the cannons to target your friends, return power to the LEP cannons, and take over the world. And nobody can get in here to stop me.’

  Of course, you should never say something like that, especially when you’re an arch-villain. It’s just asking for trouble.

  Butler hurried down the corridor, catching up with the others outside the inner sanctum. He could see Artemis’s predicament through the door’s quartz pane. In spite of all his efforts, Master Artemis had still managed to place himself in mortal danger. How was a bodyguard supposed to do his job when his charge insisted on jumping into bear pits, so to speak?

  Butler felt the testosterone building in his system. One door was all that separated him from Artemis. One little door, designed to withstand fairies with ray guns. He took several steps backwards.

  Holly could tell what he was thinking. ‘Don’t bother. That door is reinforced.’

  The manservant didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The real Butler was submerged beneath layers o
f adrenalin and brute force.

  With a roar, Butler charged the entrance, concentrating all of his considerable might in the triangular point of his shoulder. It was a blow that would have felled a medium-sized hippopotamus. And while this door was tested for plasma dispersion and moderate physical resistance, it was certainly not Butler-proof. The metal portal crumpled like tin foil.

  Butler’s momentum took him halfway across the inner sanctum’s rubber tiling. Holly and Root followed, pausing only to grab some Softnose lasers from the unconscious goblins.

  Cudgeon moved fast, dragging Artemis upright. ‘Don’t move, any of you. Or I’ll kill the Mud Boy.’

  Butler kept right on going. His last rational thought had been to disable Cudgeon. Now this was his sole aim in life. He raced forward, arms outstretched.

  Holly dived desperately, latching on to Butler’s belt. He dragged her like a string of cans behind a wedding car.

  ‘Butler, stop,’ she grunted.

  The bodyguard ignored her.

  Holly hung on, digging in her heels. ‘Stop!’ she repeated, this time layering her voice with the mesmer.

  Butler seemed to wake up. He shook the cave man from his system.

  ‘That’s right, Mud Man,’ said Cudgeon. ‘Listen to Captain Short. Surely we can work something out here.’

  ‘No deals, Briar,’ said Root. ‘It’s all over, so just put the Mud Boy down.’

  Cudgeon cocked the Redboy. Til put him down all right.’

  This was Butler’s worst nightmare. His charge was in the hands of a psychopath with nothing to lose. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  A phone rang.

  ‘I think it’s mine,’ said Artemis automatically.

  Another ring. Definitely his mobile phone. Amazing the thing worked at all really, considering what it had been through. Artemis ripped open the case.

  ‘Yes?’

  It was one of those frozen moments. Nobody knew what to expect.

  Artemis tossed the handset at Opal Koboi. ‘It’s for

  The pixie swooped low to catch the tiny mobile phone. Cudgeon’s chest heaved. His body knew what was happening even if his brain hadn’t figured it out yet.