by Eoin Colfer
If No.1 was honest with himself, his resolve was wavering. It was easy to imagine hopping into an interdimensional crater when you were rolling your cocooned classmates into a becrusted dung pit. It had seemed then, as the flakes of ash had fluttered down on him, that things could not get any worse. And there had been something in Abbot's voice that made the idea seem irresistible. But now, sitting on the ridge, with a gentle wind cooling his chest plates, things didn't seem quite as bleak. At least he was alive, and there was no guarantee that the crater led anywhere except into the belly of the volcano. None of the other demons had made it back alive. They came back all right.
Some encased in blocks of ice, some burned to a crisp, but none hale and hearty like the pride leader. Although for some reason, when No.1 thought about Abbot, the many moments of cruelty he had suffered at the pride leader's whim seemed hazy, hard to focus on. All he could remember was that beautiful insistent voice telling him to cross over.
Moon madness. That was the heart of the matter. Demonkind was attracted to the moon. It sang to them, agitating particles in their blood.
They dreamed of it at night and ground their teeth at its absence. At any hour of the so-called day here on Hybras, demons could be seen stopping in their tracks to gaze at the space where the moon used to be.
It was part of them, a live organic part, and on an atomic level, they belonged together.
There were threads of the time spell still in the crater. Wisps of magic that curled about the mountain top, snagging any demon stupid enough to be caught without silver. And coded inside the magic was the song of the moon, calling the demons back, enticing them with visions of white light and weightlessness. Once those pale tendrils had a grip on a demon's mind, he would do anything to be closer to the source. The magic and moon madness would pour energy into the atoms of his being, vibrating his very electrons to a new orbit, changing his molecular structure, pulling him through time and space.
But there was only Abbot's word that this journey would end on Earth. It could end on the moon, and as much as demons loved the moon, they knew that nothing survived on its barren surface. The elders said that sprites could not fly close without freezing to death, spiralling to Earth with frozen wings and blue faces.
For some reason, No.1 wanted to take the journey today. He wanted the moon to call him into the crater, then deposit him somewhere where another warlock existed. Someone who would teach him to control his strange powers. But, he admitted miserably, he didn't have the courage. He could not just hurl himself into a rocky crater. The volcano's base was littered with the charred corpses of those who had imagined the moon calling to them. How could he know if the moon's power was truly beckoning, or if it was simply wishful thinking?
No.1 rested his face in his hands. Nothing for it but to return to the school. The imps in the pit would need turning or their hides could suffer dung lividity marks.
He sighed. This was not the first time he had made this desperate journey. But now No.1 really thought he would do it. Abbot was in his head, urging him on. He could almost bear the idea of the rocks rushing towards him. Almost.
No.1 toyed with the silver bangle on his wrist. It would have been so easy to slip off this trinket and just disappear.
Slip it off then, little one, said a voice in his head. Slip it off and come to me.
No.1 was not surprised by the voice. Actually it was more a feeling than a voice. No.1 had supplied the words himself. He often conversed with voices in his head. There was no one else to talk to. There was Flambard the shoemaker, and Lady Bonnie the spinster and his favourite, Bookie the lisping gossip.
This voice was new. More forceful.
A moment without silver, and a new world could be yours.
No.1's bottom lip jutted as he considered. He could remove the bangle,
he supposed, just for a moment. What harm could it do? He was nowhere near the crater, and the magic rarely strayed beyond the volcano.
No harm. No harm at all. One little tug.
The ridiculous notion had No.1 now. Taking off the bangle could be like a practice run for the day when he finally worked up the courage to feel the moon madness. His fingers traced the runes on the bangle. They were precisely the same as the markings on his chest. A double charm.
Repelling the moon magic. Removing one meant that the force of his own markings was reversed, pulling him straight towards the moon.
Take it off. Reverse the power.
No.1 watched his fingers grip the bangle's rim. He was in a daze, a buzzing fugue. The new voice had coated his mind with fog and was in control.
We will be together, you and I. You will bask in my light.
Bask in my light? thought the last conscious sliver of No.1. This new voice is quite the drama queen. Bookie is not going to like you.
Take it off, little one.
No.1 watched his hand tug the bangle over his knuckles. He was powerless to stop himself — not that he wanted to.
Moon madness, he realized with a jolt. All the way over here. How can that be?
Something in him knew. The warlock part of him, perhaps.
The time spell is breaking down. No one is safe.
No.1 saw the bangle, his dimensional anchor, slip from his fingers and spin to the ground. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the silver flowed and rippled like sunlight through water.
No.1 felt the tingle that comes when every atom in your body is overloaded with energy and boosted into a gaseous form. It really should be terribly painful, but the body doesn't really know how to respond to this kind of cell damage and so throws up a pathetic tingling.
There was no time to scream; all No.1 could do was disappear into a million flashing pinpoints of light, which quickly wound themselves into a tight band following a path to another dimension. In seconds there was nothing left to show that No.1 had ever been there but a spinning silver bangle.
It would be a long time, relatively speaking, before anyone missed him.
And no one would care enough to come looking.
the Massimo BELLini theatre, SiciLY
To look at Artemis Fowl, you would have thought that he was here simply for the opera. One hand trained a pair of opera glasses on the stage, the other hand conducted expertly, following the score note for note.
'Maria Callas is the acknowledged seminal Norma,' he said to Holly, who nodded politely, then rolled her eyes at Butler. 'But I have a confession:
I actually prefer Montserrat Caballe. She took the role on in the seventies. Of course, I have only heard recordings, but to me, Caballe's performance is more robust.'
'Really,' said Holly. 'I'm trying to care, Artemis, really. But I thought it was all supposed to be over when the fat lady sings. Well, she's singing, but it doesn't appear to be over.'
Artemis smiled, exposing his incisors. 'That's Wagner you're thinking of.'
Butler did not participate in the opera-related chit-chat. To him it was just another layer of distraction to be zoned out. Instead he decided to test the night-vision filter on Holly's new helmet. If it could indeed overcome the white-out problem, as Holly claimed, then he would have to ask Artemis to procure one for him.
Needless to say, Holly's helmet would not fit Butler's head. In fact it would barely slot over his fist, so the bodyguard folded the filter's left wing out until he could squint through it by holding the helmet to his cheek.
The effect was impressive. The filter successfully equalized the light throughout the building. It boosted or dimmed so that every person in the building was seen in the same light. Those on the stage appeared caked in make-up, and those in the boxes had no shadows to hide in.
Butler panned across the boxes, satisfying himself that there was no threat present. He saw plenty of nose-picking and handholding, sometimes by the same people. But nothing obviously dangerous. But in a second-tier box, adjacent to the stage, there was a girl with a head of blonde curls, all dressed up for a night of theatre.
But
ler immediately recalled seeing the same girl at the materialization site in Barcelona. And now she was here too? Coincidence? There was no such thing. In the bodyguard's experience, if you saw a stranger more than once, either they were following you, or you were both after the same thing.
He scanned the rest of the box. There were two men behind the girl.
One in his fifties, paunchy, expensive tuxedo, was filming the stage with his mobile-phone camera. This was the first man from Barcelona. The second man was there too, possibly Chinese, wiry, spiked hair. He had apparently not yet recovered from his leg injury and was adjusting one of his crutches. He flipped it round, removed a rubber grip from the foot, then nestled it against his shoulder like a rifle.
Butler automatically moved between Artemis and the man's line of fire.
Not that the crutch was aimed at his charge, it was pointed stage right.
A metre from the soprano. Just where Artemis was expecting his demon to show up.
'Holly,' he said in a low, calm voice. 'I think you should shield.'
Artemis lowered his opera glasses. 'Problems?'
'Maybe,' replied Butler. 'Though not for us. I think somebody else knows about the new materialization figures, and I think they're planning to do more than just observe.'
Artemis tapped his chin with two fingers, thinking fast. 'Where?'
'Tier two. Beside the stage. I see one possible weapon trained on the stage. Not a standard gun. Maybe a modified dart rifle.'
Artemis leaned forward, gripping the brass rail. 'They plan to take the demon alive, if one turns up. In that case, they will need a distraction.'
Holly was on her feet. 'What can we do?'
'It's too late to stop them,' said Artemis, a frown slashing his brow. 'If we interfere, we may upset the distraction, in which case the demon will be exposed. If these people are clever enough to be here, you may be sure their plan is a good one.'
Holly claimed her helmet, slotting it over her ears. Air pads automatically inflated to cradle her head. 'I can't just let them kidnap a fairy.'
'You have no choice,' snapped Artemis, risking the audience's displeasure. 'Best and most likely case scenario, nothing happens. No materialization.'
Holly scowled. 'You know as well as I do that fortune never sends the best-case scenario our way. You have too much bad karma.'
Artemis had to chuckle. 'You're right, of course. Worst-case scenario, a demon appears, they anchor it with the dart rifle, we interfere and in the confusion the demon is swept up by the local polizia and we all end up in custody.'
'Not good. So we just sit back and watch.'
'Butler and I sit back and watch. You get over there and record as much data as possible. And when these people go, you go after them.'
Holly activated her wings. They slid from her backpack, crackling blue as the flight computer sent a charge through them.
'How much time do I have?' asked Holly, as she faded from sight.
Artemis checked the stopwatch on his watch.
'If you hurry,' he said, 'none.'
Holly launched herself out over the audience, controlling her trajectory using the joystick built into the thumb of her glove. She soared above the gathered humans, invisible.
With the aid of her helmet's filters, she could clearly see the occupants of the stage-side box.
Artemis was wrong. There was time to stop this. All she had to do was throw the shooter's aim off a little. The demon would never get anchored, and Section 8 could track these Mud Men at their leisure. It was simply a matter of touching the marksman's elbow with her buzz baton to make him lose control of all his motor functions for a few seconds. Plenty of time for a demon to appear, then disappear.
Then Holly smelled burning ozone and felt heat on her arm. Artemis was not wrong. There was no time. Someone was coming.
No.1 appeared on the stage, more or less intact. The trip had cost him the last knuckle on his right index finger, and about two gigabytes worth of memories. But they were mostly bad memories and he had never been very good with his hands.
Dematerialization isn't a particularly painful process, but materialization happens to be a thoroughly enjoyable one. The brain is so happy to register all the body's essential bits and bobs coming together again that it releases a surge of happy endorphins.
No.1 looked at the nub where his previously whole index finger used to be.
'Look,' he said, tittering. 'No finger.'
Then he noticed the humans. Scores of them, arranged in rings, rising up to the heavens. No.1 knew instantly what this must be.
'A theatre. I'm in a theatre. With only seven and a half fingers. I have only seven and a half fingers, not the theatre.' This observation brought on another fit of giggles, and that would have been about it for No.1. He would have been whisked off to the next stop on his interdimensional jaunt, had not a human near the stage aimed a tube at him.
'Tube,' said No.1, proud of his human vocabulary, pointing with the finger that wasn't altogether there.
After that, things happened very quickly. A flurry of events blurred like mixed stripes of vivid paint. The tube flashed, something exploded over his head. A bee stung No.1 on the leg, a female screamed piercingly. A herd of animals, elephants perhaps, passed directly below him.Then most disconcertingly, the ground disappeared from beneath his feet and everything went black. The blackness was rough against his fingers and face.
The last thing No.1 heard before his own personal blackness claimed him, was a voice. It was not a demon's voice — the tones were lighter.
Halfway between bird and boar.
'Welcome, demon,' said the voice, then sniggered.
They know, thought No.1, and he would have panicked, had the chloral hydrate seeping into his system through a leg wound allowed such exertions. They know all about us.
Then the knockout serum caressed his brain, tipping him off a cliff into a deep dark hole.
Artemis watched events unfold from his box. A smile of admiration twitched at the corners of his mouth as the plan unrolled smoothly like the most expensive Tunisian carpet. Whoever was behind this was good.
More than good. Perhaps they were related.
'Keep your camera pointed at the stage,' Artemis said to Butler. 'Holly will get the box.'
Butler was squirming to cover Holly's back, but his place was at Artemis's side. And after all, Captain Short could look after herself. He made sure his watch crystal was trained on the stage. Artemis would never let him forget it if he missed even a nanosecond of the action.
On stage, the opera was almost over. Norma was leading Pollione to the pyre, where they were both to be burned. All eyes were upon her.
Except those involved in a drama of the fairy kind.
The music was lush and layered, providing an unwitting soundtrack to the real-life drama unfolding in the theatre.
It began with an electric crackle downstage, stage right. Barely noticeable, unless you were expecting it. And even I, if some patrons did notice the glow, they were not alarmed. It could easily be a reflected blotch of light, or one of the special effects these modern theatre directors were so fond of.
So, thought Artemis, feeling the excitement buzz in his fingertips.
Something is coming. Another game begins.
The 'something' began to materialize inside the crackling blue envelope.
It took on a vague, humanoid shape. Smaller than the last one, but definitely a demon, and definitely not a reflected blotch of light.
Initially the shape was insubstantial, wraithlike, but after a second it became less transparent and more of this world.
Now, thought Artemis. Anchor it, and tranquilize it too.
A slender silver tube poked from the shadows on the opposite side of the theatre. There was a small pop, and a dart sped from the tube's mouth. Artemis did not need to follow the dart's path. He knew that it was headed straight into the creature's leg. The leg would be best. A good target, but unlikely to be fatal
. A silver tip with some kind of knockout cocktail.
The creature was trying to communicate now and making wild gestures.
Artemis heard a few gasps from the audience as patrons noticed the shape inside the light.
Very well. You have anchored it. Now you need a distraction. Something flashy and loud, but not particularly dangerous. If somebody gets hurt, there will be an investigation.
Artemis switched his gaze to the demon. Solid now in the shadows.
Around him the opera steamrolled towards Act Four's crescendo. The soprano lamented hysterically and almost every eye in the theatre was riveted on her. Almost every eye. But there are always a few bored audience members at an opera, especially by the time Act Four comes along. Those particular eyes would be wandering around the hall, searching for something, anything, interesting to watch. Those eyes would land on the little demon downstage, stage right, unless they were distracted.
Right on cue, a large stage lamp broke free of its clamp in the rigging and swung on its cable into the back canvas. The impact was both flashy and loud. The bulb exploded, showering the stage and orchestra pit with glass fragments. The bulb's filament glowed with a magnesium glare, temporarily blinding everyone staring at it. Which was almost the entire audience.
Glass rained down on the orchestra, and the musicians panicked, fleeing en masse towards the green room, dragging their instruments behind them. A cacophony of squealing strings and overturned percussion instruments shattered any echoes of Bellini's masterpiece.
Nice, thought Artemis appreciatively. The clamp and the filament were rigged. The stampeding orchestra is a lucky bonus.
Artemis appreciated all of this out of the corner of his eye. His main focus was the diminutive demon, lost in the shadows behind a canvas flat.
Now if it was me, thought the Irish teenager, I would have Butler drop a black sack over that little creature and whisk him out of the stage door into a four-wheel drive. We could be on the ferry to Ravenna before the theatre crew got the bulb changed.
What actually happened was slightly different. A stage trapdoor opened beneath the demon and it disappeared on a hydraulic platform.
