Captain Short whirled, but the blast doors were already closing. The fireproof barriers were automatically triggered by a thermo sensor in the chute. When a flare passed by below, six-foot-thick steel doors shut the access tunnel off from the rest of the terminal. They were trapped in here, with a column of magma on the way. Not that the magma would kill them, there wasn’t much overspill from the flares. The superheated air would bake them drier than autumn leaves.
The goblin was standing on the tunnel’s edge, oblivious to the impending eruption. Holly realized that it wasn’t a question of the fugitive being crazy enough to fly into the chute. He was just plain stupid.
With a jaunty wave the goblin hopped into the chute, rising rapidly from view. Not rapidly enough. A twenty-foot-thick jet of roiling lava pounced on him like a waiting snake, consuming him completely.
Holly did not waste time grieving. She had problems of her own. LEP jumpsuits had thermal coils to disperse excess heat, but it wouldn’t be enough. In seconds a wall of dry heat would roll in here, and raise the temperature enough to crack the walls.
Holly glanced upward. A reinforced line of ancient coolant tanks were still bolted to the tunnel roof. She slid her blaster to maximum power and began sinking charges into the bellies of the tanks. This was no time for subtlety.
The tanks buckled and split, belching out rancid air and coolant traces. Useless. They must have bled out over the centuries, and the goblins had never bothered replacing them. But there was one. A black oblong, out of place among the standard green LEP models. Holly positioned herself directly underneath and fired.
Three thousand gallons of coolant-enhanced water crashed onto her head, at the very moment a heat wave came billowing in from the chute. It was a curious sensation to be frozen and burned almost simultaneously. Holly felt blisters pop on her shoulders only to be flattened by water pressure. Captain Short was driven to her knees, lungs starving for air. But she couldn’t take a breath, not now, and she couldn’t raise a hand to switch on her helmet tank.
After an eternity the roaring stopped, and Holly opened her eyes to a tunnel full of steam. She activated the de-mister in her visor and got up off her knees. Water slid in sheets from her nonfriction suit. She released her helmet seals, taking deep breaths of tunnel air. Still warm, but breathable.
Behind her the blast doors slid open, and Captain Trouble Kelp appeared in the gap along with an LEP Rapid Response team.
“Nice maneuver, Captain.”
Holly didn’t answer, too absorbed by the weapon abandoned by the recently vaporized goblin. This was the prize pig of rifles, almost two feet long, with a starlite scope clipped above the barrel.
Holly’s first thought had been that somehow the B’wa Kell were manufacturing their own weapons. But now she realized that the truth was far more dangerous. Captain Short pried the rifle from the half-melted rock. She recognized it from her History of Law Enforcement in-service. An old softnose laser. Softnoses had been outlawed long ago. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Instead of a fairy power source, the gun was powered by a human AA alkaline battery.
“Trouble,” she called. “Have a look at this.”
“D’Arvit,” breathed Kelp, reaching immediately for the radio controls on his helmet.
“Get me a priority channel to Commander Root. We have Class A contraband. Yes, Class A. I need a full team of techies. Get Foaly, too. I want this entire quadrant shut down. . . .”
Trouble continued spouting orders but they faded to a distant buzz in Holly’s ears. The B’wa Kell were trading with the Mud Men. Humans and goblins working together to reactivate outlawed weapons. And if the weapons were here, how long could it be before the Mud Men followed?
Help arrived just after the nick of time. In thirty minutes there were so many halogen spotlights buzzing around E37 that it looked like a GolemWorld movie premiere.
Foaly was down on his knees examining the unconscious goblin by the escalator. Foaly was the main reason that humans hadn’t yet discovered the People’s underground lairs. He was a technical genius who had pioneered every major development from flare prediction to mind-wiping technology. Every discovery made him less respectful and more annoying. But rumor had it that he had a soft spot for a certain female Recon officer. Actually, the only female Recon officer.
“Good job, Holly,” he said rubbing the goblin’s reflective suit. “You just had a firefight with a kabob.”
“That’s it, Foaly, draw attention away from the fact that the B’wa Kell fooled your sensors.”
Foaly tried on one of the helmets. “Not the B’wa Kell. No way. Too dumb. Goblins just don’t have the cranial capacity. These are human manufacture.”
Holly snorted. “And how do you know that? Recognize the stitching?”
“Nope,” replied Foaly, tossing the helmet to Holly.
Holly read the label. “Made in Germany.”
“I’d guess that this is a fire suit. The material keeps the heat out as well as in. This is serious, Holly. We’re not talking a couple of designer shirts and a case of chocolate bars here. Some human is doing some serious smuggling with the B’wa Kell.”
Foaly stepped out of the way to allow the technical crew access to their prisoner. The techies would tag the unconscious goblin with a subcutaneous sleeper. The sleeper contained microcapsules of a sedative agent and a tiny detonator. Once tagged, a criminal could be knocked out by computer if the LEP realized he was involved in an illegal situation.
“You know who’s probably behind this, don’t you?” said Holly.
Foaly rolled his eyes. “Oh let me guess. Captain Short’s archenemy, Master Artemis Fowl.”
“Well, who else could it be?”
“Take your pick. The People have been in contact with thousands of Mud Men over the years.”
“Is that so?” retorted Holly. “And how many that haven’t been mind-wiped?”
Foaly pretended to think about it, adjusting the foil hat jammed on his head to deflect any brain-probing signals that could be focused his way.
“Three,” he muttered eventually.
“Pardon?”
“Three, okay.”
“Exactly. Fowl and his pet gorillas. Artemis is behind this. Mark my words.”
“You’d just love that to be the case now, wouldn’t you? You’d finally get the chance to get your own back. You do remember what happened the last time the LEP went up against Artemis Fowl?”
“I remember. But that was last time.”
Foaly smirked. “I would remind you that he’ll be thirteen, now.”
Holly’s hand dropped to her buzz baton.
“I don’t care how old he is. One zap with this, and he’ll be sleeping like a baby.”
Foaly nodded toward the entrance. “I’d save my charges if I were you. You’re going to need them.”
Holly followed his gaze. Commander Julius Root was sweeping across the secured zone. The more he saw, the redder his face grew, hence the nickname Beetroot.
“Commander,” began Holly. “You need to see this.”
Root’s gaze silenced her. “What were you thinking?”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Don’t give me that. I was in Ops for the whole thing. I was watching the video feed from your helmet.”
“Oh.”
“Oh hardly covers it, Captain!” Root’s buzz-cut gray hair was quivering with emotion. “This was supposed to be a surveillance mission. There were several backup squads sitting on their well-trained behinds only waiting for you to call. But no, Captain Short decides to take on the B’wa Kell on her own.”
“I had a man down, sir. There was no choice.”
“What was Verbil doing out there in the first place?”
For the first time, Holly’s gaze dropped. “I sent him out to do a thermal, sir. Just following regulations.”
Root nodded. “I just talked to the paramedic warlock. Verbil will be okay, but his flying days are over. There’ll be a tribunal of c
ourse.”
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
“A formality, I’m sure, but you know the Council.”
Holly knew the Council all too well. She would be the first LEP officer in history to be the subject of two simultaneous investigations.
“So what’s this I hear about a Class A?”
All contraband was classed. Class A was code for dangerous human technology. Power sources for instance.
“This way, sir.”
Holly lead them to the rear of the maintenance area, to the shuttle bay itself.
A translucent restricted-access Perspex dome had been erected in the shuttle bay. Holly pressed through the frosted entrance flaps.
“You see? This is serious.”
Root studied the evidence. In the shuttle’s cargo bay were crates of AA batteries. Holly selected a pack.
“Pencil batteries,” she said. “A common human power source. Crude, inefficient, and an environmental disaster. Twelve crates of them right here. Who knows how many are in the tunnels already?”
Root was unimpressed. “Forgive me for not quaking in my boots. So a few goblins get to play human video games. So what?”
Foaly had spotted the goblin’s softnose laser. “Oh no!” he said, checking the weapon.
“Exactly,” agreed Holly.
The commander did not appreciate being left out of the conversation. “Oh no!” he mimicked them. “I hope you’re just being melodramatic.”
“No, chief,” replied the centaur, somber for once. “This is deadly serious. The B’wa Kell are using human batteries to power the old softnose lasers. They’d only get about six shots per battery. But you give every goblin a pocketful of power cells, and that’s a lot of shots.”
“Softnose lasers? They were outlawed decades ago. Weren’t they all recycled?”
Foaly nodded. “Supposedly. My division supervised the meltdowns. Not that we considered it priority, they were originally powered by a single solar cell, with a life span of less than a decade. Obviously, somebody managed to sneak a few out of the recycling lockup.”
“Quite a few by the looks of all these batteries. That’s the last thing I need, goblins with softnoses.”
The softnose technique involved placing an inhibitor on a blaster, which allowed a laser to travel at slower speeds, actually penetrating the target. Initially developed for mining purposes, they were quickly adapted by some greedy weapons manufacturer.
The softnoses were just as quickly outlawed, for the obvious reason that these weapons were designed to kill, and not to incapacitate. Now and then one found its way into the hands of a gang member. But this did not look like an isolated case. This looked like somebody was planning something big.
“You know what the worrisome thing about this is?” said Foaly.
“No,” said Root with deceptive calmness. “Do tell me what the worrisome thing is.”
Foaly turned the gun around. “The way this weapon has been adapted to take a human battery. Very clever. There’s no way a goblin figured this out on his own.”
“But why adapt the softnoses?” asked the commander. “Why not just use the old solar cells?”
“Those solar cells are very rare. They’re worth their weight in gold. Antiques dealers use them to power all sorts of old gadgets. And it would be impossible to build a power-cell factory of any kind without my sensors picking up emissions. Much simpler just to steal them from the humans.”
Root lit one of his trademark fungal cigars. “Tell me that’s it. Tell me there’s nothing else.”
Holly’s gaze flickered to the rear of the hangar. Root caught the glance and pressed past the crates to the makeshift shuttle in the docking bay. The commander climbed into the craft.
“And what the hell is this, Foaly?”
The centaur ran a hand along the ship’s hull.
“It’s amazing. Unbelievable. They put a shuttle together from junk. I’m surprised this thing gets off the ground.”
The commander bit down hard on his fungus cigar. “When you’re finished admiring the goblins, Foaly, maybe you can explain how the B’wa Kell got a hold of this stuff. I thought all outdated shuttle technology was supposed to be destroyed.”
“That’s what I thought. I retired some of this stuff myself. This starboard booster used to be in E1, until Captain Short blew it out last year. I remember signing the destruct order.”
Root spared a second to shoot Holly a withering glance.
“So now we have shuttle parts escaping the recycling smelters as well as softnose lasers. Find out how this shuttle got here. Take it apart, piece by piece. I want every strand of wire lasered for prints and DNA. Feed all the serial numbers into the mainframe, see if there are any common denominators.”
Foaly nodded. “Good idea. I’ll get someone on it.”
“No, Foaly, you get on it. This is priority. So give your conspiracy theories a rest for a few days, and find me the inside fairy who’s selling this junk.”
“But, Julius,” protested Foaly. “That’s grunt work.”
Root took a step closer. “One, don’t call me Julius, civilian. And two, I’d say it was more like donkey work.”
Foaly noticed the vein pulsing in the commander’s temple.
“Point taken,” he said, removing a handheld computer from his belt. “I’ll get right on it.”
“You do that. Now, Captain Short, what is our B’wa Kell prisoner saying?”
Holly shrugged. “Nothing much, still unconscious. He’ll be coughing soot for a month as soon he wakes up. Anyway, you know how the B’wa Kell works, the soldiers aren’t told anything. This guy is just a grunt. It’s a pity the Book forbids using the mesmer on other fairies.”
“Hmm,” said Root, his face glowing redder than a baboon’s behind. “An even greater pity the Atlantis Convention outlawed truth drugs. Otherwise we could pump this convict full of serum until he sang like a drunken Mud Man.”
The commander took several deep breaths to calm down before his heart popped.
“Right now, we need to find out where these batteries came from, and if there are any more in the Lower Elements.”
Holly took a breath. “I have a theory, sir.”
“Don’t tell me,” groaned Root. “Artemis Fowl, right?”
“Who else could it be? I knew he’d be back. I knew it.”
“You know the rules, Holly. He beat us last year. Game over. That’s what the Book says.”
“Yes, sir, but that was a different game. New game, new rules. If Fowl is supplying power cells to the B’wa Kell, the least we can do is check it out.”
Root considered it. If Fowl was behind this, things could get very complicated very fast.
“I don’t like the idea of interrogating Fowl on his turf. But we can’t bring him down here. The pressure underground would kill him.”
Holly disagreed. “Not if we keep him in a secure environment. The city is equalized. So are the shuttles.”
“Okay, go,” the commander said at last. “Bring him in for a little chat. Bring the big one, too.”
“Butler?”
“Yes, Butler.” Root paused. “But remember, we’re going to run a few scans, Holly, that’s it. I don’t want you using this as an opportunity to settle a score.”
“No, sir. Strictly business.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
“Yes, sir. I guarantee it.”
Root ground the cigar butt beneath his heel.
“I don’t want anyone else getting hurt today, not even Artemis Fowl.”
“Understood.”
“Well,” added the commander. “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
CHAPTER 3
GOING UNDERGROUND
Saint Bartleby’s School for Young Gentlemen
Butler had been in Artemis Fowl’s service since the moment of the boy’s birth. He had spent the first night of his charge’s life standing guard on the Sisters of Mercy maternity ward. For over a decade,
Butler had been teacher, mentor, and protector to the young heir. The pair had never been separated for more than a week, until now. It shouldn’t bother him, he knew that. A bodyguard should never become emotionally attached to his charge: it affects his judgment. But in his private moments, Butler couldn’t help thinking of the Fowl heir as the younger brother he had never had.
Butler parked the Bentley Arnage Red Label on the College Avenue. If anything, the Eurasian manservant had bulked up since midterm. With Artemis in boarding school, he was spending a lot more time in the gym. Truth be told, Butler was bored pumping iron, but the college authorities absolutely refused to allow him a bunk in Artemis’s room. And when the gardener had discovered the bodyguard’s hideout just off the seventeenth green, they had banned him from the school grounds altogether.
Artemis slipped through the school’s gate, Dr. Po’s comments still in his thoughts.
“Problems, sir?” said Butler, noticing his employer’s sour expression.
Artemis ducked into the Bentley’s wine-colored leather interior, selecting a bottle of still water from the bar.
“Hardly, Butler. Just another quack spouting psychobabble.”
Butler kept his voice level. “Should I have a word with him?”
“Never mind him now. What news of the Fowl Star?”
“We got an e-mail at the manor this morning. It’s an MPG.”
Artemis scowled. He could not access MPG video files on his mobile phone.
Butler pulled a portable computer from the glove compartment.
“I thought you might be anxious to see the file, so I downloaded it onto this.”
He passed the computer over his shoulder. Artemis activated the compact machine, folding out the flat color screen. At first he thought the battery was dead, then realized he was looking at a field of snow. White on white, with only the faintest shadows to indicate dips and drumlins.
Artemis felt the uneasiness rolling in his gut. Funny how such an innocent image could be so foreboding.
The camera panned upward, revealing a dull twilight sky. Then a black hunched object, in the distance. A rhythmic crunching issued through the compact speakers as the cameraman advanced through the snow. The object grew clearer. It was a man sitting on, no, tied to, a chair. The ice clinked in Artemis’s glass. His hands were shaking.