Artemis Fowl 08 - The Last Guardian (17 page)

“I know what
dissipate
means, Arty. I’m not three, for heaven’s sake.”

Holly knew from long experience that shouting at Myles and Artemis would not hurry them along, but she also knew that it would make her feel better. And at the moment she felt glum and dirty after her treatment of one of the People’s most illustrious warriors. Yelling at Mud Boys might be just the thing to cheer her up a little.

She settled for a prod at medium volume. “Can you two get a move on? There is no time-stop in operation here. Morning is on the way.”

Myles waved at her. “Hello, fairy. You sound funny. Have you been sucking helium? Helium is an inert, monatomic gas, by the way.”

Holly snorted. “Oh, he’s your brother all right. We need whatever information he has in his head, Artemis.”

Artemis nodded. “Very well, Holly. I am working on it. Myles, what do you remember from Gobdaw’s visit?”

“I remember everything,” replied Myles proudly. “Would you like to hear about Opal’s plan to destroy humanity, or how she plans to open the second lock?”

Artemis took his brother’s hand. “I need to know everything, Myles. Start at the beginning.”

“I will start at the beginning, before the memories start to
dissipate
.”

Myles told them everything in language that was a decade beyond his years. He did not stray from the point or become confused, and at no instant did he seem worried about his future. This was because Artemis had often told his little brother that intelligence will always win out in the end, and there was nobody more intelligent than Artemis.

Unfortunately, after the events of the past six hours, Artemis did not have the same faith in his own maxim that he used to. And, as Myles told his story, Artemis began to believe that even his intelligence would not be enough to forge a happy ending from the mess they were mired in.

Perhaps we can win, he thought. But there will be no happy ending.

Foaly did not have much of a plan in his mind as he ran. All he knew was that he had to get to Caballine’s side no matter how he achieved it. No matter what the cost.

This is what love does, he realized, and in that moment he understood why Artemis had kidnapped a fairy to get the money to find his father.

Love makes everything else seem inconsequential.

Even with the world crumbling around his ears, all Foaly could think about was Caballine’s plight.

There are goblin criminals converging on our house.

Opal had known that, as an LEP consultant, Foaly would require that all deliveries to his house be scanned as a matter of routine. So she had sent an ornate gift box that would appear empty to the scanners. In actuality, though, no box is ever truly empty. This one would be packed with microorganisms that vibrated at a high frequency, producing an ultrasonic whine that would knock out surveillance and drive goblins absolutely crazy—so much so that they would do anything to stop it.

Goblins were not bright creatures at the best of times. There was only one example of a goblin ever winning a science prize, and he turned out to be a genetic experiment who had entered himself into the competition.

This sonix bomb would strip away any higher brain functions and turn the goblins into marauding fire-breathing lizards. Foaly knew all of this because he had pitched a mini-version of the sonix bomb to the LEP as a crime deterrent, but the Council had refused grant aid because his device gave the wearer nosebleeds.

Police Plaza was eighty percent rubble now, with only the top story left clinging to the rock ceiling like a flat barnacle. The lower floors had collapsed onto the reserved parking spaces below, forming a rough rubble pyramid that steamed and sparked. Luckily, the covered bridge that led to the adjoining parking structure was still relatively intact. Foaly hurried across the bridge, trying not to see the gaps in the floor where a hoof could slip through, trying not to hear the tortured screech of metal struts as they twisted under the weight of their overload.

Don’t look down. Visualize reaching the other side.

As Foaly ran, the bridge collapsed in sections behind him, until it felt like the plinking keys of a piano falling into the abyss. The automatic door on the other side was stuck on a kink in the rail, and it juddered back and forth, leaving barely enough room for Foaly to squeeze through and collapse, panting, on the fourth-story floor.

This is so melodramatic, he thought. Is this how things are for Holly every day?

Encouraged by the crash of masonry and the stink of burning cars, Foaly hurried across the lot to his van, which was parked in a prime spot near the walkway. The van was an ancient crock that could easily have been mistaken for a derelict vehicle instead of the chosen conveyance of the fairy responsible for most of the city’s technological advancements. If a person did happen to know who the van belonged to, then that person might suppose Foaly had disguised the exterior to discourage potential carjackers. But no, the van was simply a heap of rust mites and should have been replaced decades ago. In the same way that many decorators never painted their own houses, Foaly, an expert in automobile advancements, did not care what he himself drove. This was a daily disadvantage, as the centaurmobile emitted noise output several decibels above regulation and regularly set off sonic alarms all over the city. Today, though, the van’s antiquity was a definite advantage, as it was one of the few vehicles that could run independently of Haven’s automated magnetic rail system and was actually fully functional.

Foaly beeped open the front loading doors and backed up to the cab, waiting for the extendable harness to buzz out and cradle his equine torso. The harness cinched around him, beeping all the while, then lifted the centaur backward into the cab. Once the beetle-wing doors had folded down, the van’s sensors detected Foaly’s proximity and started its own engines. It took a few seconds to mount up and get going in this vehicle, but it would take a lot longer to try and climb into the automobile with six limbs and a tail, which some equinologists considered a seventh limb, or at least an appendage.

Foaly pulled a steering wheel out of its slot on the dash and put his hoof to the metal, screaming out of his parking spot.

“Home!” Foaly shouted into the nav system bot suspended on a gel string before his face. He had, in a moment of vanity, shaped the bot’s face in his own image.

“The usual route, handsome?” said the system bot, winking fondly at Foaly.

“Negative,” replied Foaly. “Ignore usual speed and safety parameters. Just get us there as quickly as possible. All normal behavioral restraints are lifted on my authority.”

If the bot had had any hands, it would have rubbed them. “I have been waiting a long time to hear that,” it said, and took over control of the vehicle.

Something was happening to the beautifully inlaid little box in Caballine’s hand. It seemed as though a tiny thundercloud was roiling inside there. The thing vibrated like a beehive, but there was absolutely no sound. But there was
something
, a feeling that set her teeth on edge and made her eyes water, as though invisible nails were being dragged down a mental blackboard.

Crazy, I know, but that’s how it feels.

She flung the box away from her, but not before the tiny thundercloud flowed from the container and coated her hand. The box rolled beneath the coffee table—a petrified giant flat toadstool that Holly had once called
so stereotypical it makes me want to scream
—and it lay there emitting whatever it was that had set Caballine’s nerves on edge.

“What is it, darling?” she turned to ask the little ARClight, but it lay dead on the floor, a tiny wisp of smoke curling from its head.

The box did that, she guessed. Whatever this thing was, it hadn’t come from Foaly, because it felt somehow
wrong.
And now the
wrongness
was on her hand. Caballine was not in any way a skittish centaur, but she felt a premonition of danger that almost buckled her legs.

Something bad is about to happen. Even worse than all the bad things that have happened today.

Many fairies would have fallen to pieces under the weight of such ominous circumstances, but if the universe expected such a reaction from Caballine Wanderford Paddox Foaly, then the universe was about to be surprised, for one of the characteristics that had drawn Foaly to his bride-to-be was her fighting spirit. And she did not sustain this spirit with the power of positive thinking alone. Caballine had achieved the level of blue sash in the ancient centaurian martial art of Nine Sticks, which included the head and tail as weapons. She often worked out in the LEP gymnasium with Holly Short, and indeed had once accidentally kicked Holly through a rice-paper wall when the image of an old boyfriend had suddenly popped into her head.

Caballine trotted to a locked tall cupboard in the bedroom and instructed it to open. Inside was her blue sash, which she quickly draped across her chest. The sash would be of no practical use if attackers were on the way. What would help was the long whippy bamboo pole next to it, which whistled as it cut the air and could, in the right hands, skin the hide from a troll’s back.

The texture of the pole against her palm soothed Caballine, to the point where she felt a little foolish standing there in full Nine Sticks regalia.

Nothing bad is going to happen. I’m just overreacting.

Then the front door exploded.

Foaly’s navigation system drove like a maniac, cackling with a glee that Foaly could not remember programming into it. And even though Foaly was consumed with nightmarish visions of Caballine in the clutches of fire-breathing goblins, he could not help but take notice of the devastation that streaked by the window—clouds of thick smoke, and flares of orange and blue flame blurred by the van’s manic speed. LEP officers picked through rubble and wreckage looking for survivors, and smoke pillars rose from a dozen familiar landmarks.

“Take it easy,” he said, slapping the nav-bot. “I won’t be much use to Caballine if I arrive dead.”

“Chill, old dude,” said the tiny bot-head. “It’s not like you’re going to be much use anyway. Caballine knows Nine Sticks. What are you going to do? Throw a keyboard?”

Old dude? thought Foaly, wishing now that he had never given the bot an experimental personality chip, wishing even more that the chip did not have his own personality. But the bot was right. What was he going to do? It would be tragic indeed if Caballine were killed trying to save him. Suddenly Foaly felt like an aquaphobic lifeguard. Was he bringing anything of use to this situation?

The nav-bot seemed to read his mind, which was impossible; but Foaly resolved to patent it just in case he had accidentally invented a telepathic robot.

“Play to your strengths, dude,” it said.

Of course, thought Foaly. My strengths. What are my strengths? And where are they?

They were, of course, in the back of the van, where he stored a thousand half-finished and quasi-legal experiments and replacement parts. When Foaly thought about it, he realized that there were things in his truck capable of blowing a hole in the time stream if they ever bumped together, so he had decided long ago not to think about it, as the alternative was to clean out his van.

“Keep driving,” he instructed the nav-bot, wriggling out of his harness and backing across the small bridge that linked the cab to the rear carriage. “I need to look in the back.”

“Mind your head, dude,” said the bot gleefully, a second before hurtling over a humpbacked bridge outside of a pixie dental care facility built in the shape of a giant molar.

That personality chip must be corrupted, thought Foaly. I would never be so reckless, and I would absolutely never call anyone “dude.”

When the front door exploded, Caballine’s reaction was fury. Firstly because the house’s front door was antique rosewood and had been responsibly sourced from Brazil, and secondly because the door had been open and only a moron would feel the need to blow up something that was already ajar. Now the door would have to be reconstituted, and it would never be the same, even if they could find all the splinters.

Caballine stormed into the lobby to find a crazed goblin slithering into the house on all fours, smoke leaking from its flat nostrils, its lizardlike head thrashing from side to side as though there were a hornet in its skull.

“How dare you!” said Caballine, dealing the lizard-like creature a blow to the side of its head that literally knocked the goblin out of its skin, which it had been on the point of shedding.

Well, that was upsetting, she thought, believing the assault to be over, when a second goblin appeared in the blackened doorway, head weaving in the same disconcerting manner as the first. Two more began pawing at the window, and something began scrabbling inside the garbage disposal.

Don’t tell me. Another goblin.

Caballine turned her back on the goblin in the doorway and dealt him a double-barreled kick with her hind legs that knocked a puff of smoke from his open mouth and sent him flying backward over the boundary wall as though yanked by a bungee cord. She simultaneously punctured holes in the window with two lightning jabs of her bamboo, dislodging the goblins from a windowsill that had just been painted. Through the cracked pane she saw dozens of goblins converging on the property and felt something close to real panic.

I hope Foaly doesn’t come home, she thought, bending her knees in a fighter’s stance. I don’t think I can rescue us both.

Foaly rummaged around the van, looking for something,
anything
, that could save his beloved.

Even if I could call for help, he thought, everybody is up to their necks in one disaster or other. It’s up to me.

The van was a jumble of clutter, the shelves piled high with robot casings, specimen jars, incubators, power sources, and bionic body parts.

But no weapons. Not one single gun.

He found a jar of bio-hybrid eyes, which glared at him, and a specimen jar full of some kind of liquid specimen that he could not remember collecting.

“Any luck?” asked the nav-bot from a gel speaker adhered to a wall panel.

“Not yet,” said Foaly. “How long till we get there?”

“Two minutes,” replied the bot.

“Can’t you shave a minute off that time?”

“I could, if I run over a few pedestrians.”

Foaly considered it. “No. Better not. Wasn’t there a plasma cannon back here somewhere?”

“No. You donated that to the orphanage.”

Foaly did not waste time wondering why he would have donated a plasma cannon to an orphanage but instead kept digging through the junk in the van.

If I had an hour I could assemble something, but two minutes?

Fiber optics. Inside-outers. Voodoo mannequins. Cameras.

Nothing useful.

At the very back of the van Foaly found an old obsolete lithium-ion magic battery that he should have drained years ago. He patted the large cylinder fondly.