The Time Paradox (19 page)

“Perhaps I would be, if you could squeeze your chubby finger into the trigger guard,” said Artemis, almost as if he were goading the doctor into action.

“To hell with you then!” barked Kronski, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing much happened. A spark and a slight hum from the inner workings.

“It’s broken,” gasped the doctor.

“You don’t say,” said Artemis, who had remote-destructed the Neutrino’s charge pack from the shuttle.

Kronski raised his palms. “Okay, boy. Okay. Give me a moment to think.”

“Just let the girl go, Doctor. Save a shred of dignity. We don’t execute humans.”

“I am in charge here. I just need a second to gather myself. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This is not how she said it would go. . . .”

The doctor rested his elbows on the lectern, rubbing his eyes beneath the round, tinted spectacles.

How
she
said it would go? thought Artemis. Were there unseen forces at work here?

While Artemis was puzzling and Kronski’s world collapsed around his ample shoulders, cell phones began to ring in the banquet hall. A lot of people were receiving messages all of a sudden. In moments the room rang with a discordant symphony of beeps,
brrr’s
, and polyphonic tunes.

Kronski ignored this strange development, but Artemis was anxious. He had things under control now and did not need anything to redress the scales, or for that matter, tip Kronski over the edge.

The reactions to the incoming messages were a mixture of shock and glee.

Oh my God. Is this true? Is it real?

Play it again. Turn up the volume.

I don’t believe this. Kronski, you fool.

That’s the last straw. We are a joke. The Extinctionists are finished.

Artemis realized that all these messages were in fact the same message. Someone had an Extinctionists database and was sending them all a video.

Artemis’s own phone trilled gently. Of course it would; he had put his fake identity on every Extinctionist database he could find. And as his phone was still linked to the giant screen, the video mail began to play automatically.

Artemis recognized the scene immediately. The leather souk. And the main player was Kronski, standing on one leg, squealing with a high-pitched ruptured-balloon intensity. Comical was not the word for it. Ridiculous, farcical, and pathetic were words that came close. One thing was certain, having seen this video, no one in their right mind could respect this man ever again, much less follow his lead.

While the video played, a short message scrolled below the picture.

Here we see Dr. Damon Kronski, president of the Extinctionists, displaying surprising balance for a man his size. This reporter has learned that Kronski turned against animals when he was mauled by an escaped koala at one of his politician father’s rallies in Cleveland. Witnesses to the mauling say that young Damon “squealed so sharp he coulda cut glass.” A talent the good doctor does not seem to have lost. Squeal, baby, squeal!

Artemis sighed. I did this, he realized. It’s just the kind of thing I would do. At another time he would have appreciated this touch, but not now. Not when he was so close to freeing Holly. Speaking of Holly . . . “Artemis, get me out of here,” she hissed. “Yes, of course. Time to go.” Artemis rifled through his pockets for a handy wipe.

Inside the wipe were three long coarse hairs donated by Mulch Diggums. Dwarf hairs are actually antennae that dwarfs use to navigate in dark tunnels, and have been adapted by the resourceful race to serve as skeleton keys. No doubt Holly’s omnitool would have been handier, but Artemis could not risk losing that to security. The wipe had kept the hairs moist and pliable until they were needed.

Artemis removed the first hair, blew a speck of moisture from its tip, and inserted it into the cage lock, working it through the cogs. As soon as he felt the hair harden in his fingers, he turned the makeshift key and the door sprang open.

“Thank you, Mulch,” he whispered, then went to work on Holly’s centrally locked cuffs. The third hair would not even be needed. In seconds, Holly was free and rubbing her wrists.

“Orphanage?” said Artemis. “You don’t think that was overdoing it?”

“Boo-hoo,” said Holly briskly. “Let’s just get back to the shuttle.”

It was not to be that straightforward.

Kronski was being herded into a corner by a group of Extinctionists. They harangued and even slapped and poked the doctor, ignoring his arguments, while overhead the video message played again and again.

Oops, thought Artemis, closing his phone.

Inevitably perhaps, Kronski cracked. He batted his tormentors aside like bowling pins, clearing a circle of breathing space for himself, then, panting, he pulled a walkie-talkie from a clip on his belt. “Secure the area,” he wheezed into the device. “Use all necessary force.”

Even though the Domaine des Hommes security were technically working for the Extinctionists, their loyalties lay with the man who paid their salaries. That man was Damon Kronski. He might dress like a demented peacock and have the manners of a desert dog, but he knew the combination to the safe and paid the wages on time.

The sharpshooters on the upper terrace sent a few warning shots over the heads of the crowd, which caused utter pandemonium.

“Lock the building down,” said Kronski into the walkietalkie. “I need time to gather my funds. Ten thousand dollars in cash for every man who stands by me.”

There was no need for further incentive. Ten thousand dollars was two years’ wages to these men.

Doors and shutters were slammed down and manned by burly guards, each one brandishing a rifle or a custom-made Moroccan nimcha sword with rhino grips, which Kronski had made for the security team.

The spooked Extinctionists bolted toward bathrooms or alcoves, anywhere that might have a window. They frantically punched numbers into their phones, screaming for help from anyone, anywhere.

A few were more resourceful. Tommy Kirkenhazard pulled out a ceramic handgun he had smuggled in under his hat and took a few potshots at the upper terrace from behind a heavy teak bar. He was answered by a volley from above with shattered bottles, mirrors, and glasses sending slivers flying like arrowheads.

With a straight-fingered jab to the solar plexus, a tall Asian man quickly disarmed a door guard.

“This way!” he called, flinging the fire door wide. The portal was quickly jammed with Extinctionist torsos.

Artemis and Holly sheltered behind the cage, watching for a way out.

“Can you shield?”

Holly twisted her chin, and one arm rippled out of sight. “I’m low on juice. I have just about enough for a minute or two. I’ve been saving it.”

Artemis scowled. “You are always low on juice. Didn’t N
^o
1 fill you up with his signature magic?”

“Maybe if your bodyguard hadn’t plugged me with a dart—twice. Maybe if I hadn’t had to heal you at Rathdown Park. And maybe if I hadn’t been shielding in the souk, trying to find your monkey.”

“Lemur,” said Artemis. “At least we saved Jayjay.”

Holly ducked as a hail of glass shot over her head. “My goodness, Artemis. You sound like you actually care about an animal. Nice beard, by the way.”

“Thank you. Now, do you think you could shield for long enough to disarm those two guards on the kitchen door behind us?”

Holly sized the two men up. Both had shotguns and were radiating enough malevolence to ripple the air. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Good. Do it quietly. We don’t want another bottleneck. If we do get separated, let’s meet somewhere close. At the souk.”

“Okay,” said Holly, vibrating into invisibility.

A second later Artemis felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a disembodied voice in his ear.

“You came for me,” whispered Holly. “Thank you.”

Then the hand was gone.

All magic has a price. When fairies shield, they sacrifice fine motor skills and clear thought. It is infinitely more difficult to do a jigsaw when your body is vibrating faster than a hummingbird’s wings, even if your brain could stop rattling for long enough to focus on the puzzle.

In the LEP Academy, Holly had picked up a tip from an Atlantean gym coach. It really helped to beat the shield-shakes if you sucked your lower abdominals in and up, strengthening your core. It gave you something to focus on and held your torso a little tighter.

Holly practiced the exercise as she crossed the banquet floor toward the kitchen. As a frantic butter-knife-wielding Extinctionist missed her by a shade, she thought that sometimes being invisible was more dangerous than being in plain sight.

The two guards at the door were actually growling at anyone who ventured too close. They were big, even for humans, and Holly was glad that no fine motor skill would be called for. Two quick jabs into the nerve cluster above the knee should be plenty to bring these guys down.

Simple, thought Holly, then:
I shouldn’t have thought that. Whenever you think that, something goes wrong.

Of course she was dead right.

Someone started firing on Kronski’s guards. Silver darts streaked through the air, then punctured skin with a sickening thunk.

Holly knew instinctively who the shooter was, and her suspicions were confirmed when she spotted a familiar silhouette anchored in the roof beams.

Butler!

The bodyguard was draped in a desert blanket, but Holly identified him from the shape of his head and also from his unmistakable shooting position: left elbow cocked out a little more than most marksmen preferred.

Young Artemis sent him back to clear a path for us, she realized. Or maybe Butler made the decision himself.

Whichever it was, Butler was not helping as much as he’d hoped. With the guards dropping, the Extinctionists were piling over their fallen captors, desperate to be free of this building.

Caged Extinctionists, thought Holly. I’m sure Artemis appreciates that irony.

Just as Holly drew back her fists, the two guards at the kitchen door clutched their necks and pitched forward, unconscious before they hit the floor.

Nice shooting. Two shots in under a second from eighty yards out. With darts too, which are about as accurate as wet sponges.

She was not the only one to notice the unguarded door. A dozen hysterical Extinctionists rushed the portal, screaming like rock-band fans.

We need to exit this building. Now.

Holly turned toward Artemis, but he was lost in a clump of advancing Extinctionists.

He must be somewhere in there, she thought; then she was pinned by the mob, borne aloft and into the kitchen.

“Artemis,” she called, completely forgetting that she was still invisible. “Artemis!”

But he was nowhere to be seen. The world was a melee of elbows and torsos, sweat and screams. Voices were in her ears and ragged breath on her face, and by the time she had disentangled herself from the pack, the banquet hall was virtually deserted. A few stragglers, but no Artemis.

The souk, she thought. I will find him in the souk.

Artemis tensed himself to run. As soon as Holly took the guards out of commission, he would sprint as fast as he could and pray that he didn’t trip and fall.

Imagine, to endure all of this, only to be defeated by a lack of coordination. Butler would be sure to say
I told you so
when they met in the afterlife.

Suddenly the pandemonium level jumped a few notches, and the screaming of the Extinctionists reminded Artemis of Rathdown Park’s panicked animals.

Caged Extinctionists, he thought. Oh, the irony.

The kitchen door guards fell, clutching their throats.

Nice work, Captain.

Artemis bent low, like a sprinter waiting for the gun, then catapulted himself from his hiding place behind the dock.

Kronski hit him broadside with his full weight, tumbling them both through the railings into the dock. Artemis landed heavily on the baby chair, and it collapsed underneath him, one of its arms raking along his side.

“This is all your fault,” squealed Kronski. “This was supposed to be the best night of my life.”

Artemis felt himself being smothered. His mouth and nose were jammed by sweat-soaked purple material.

He intends to kill me, thought Artemis. I have pushed him too far.

There was no time for planning, and even if there were, this was not one of those situations where a handy mathematical theorem could be found to get Artemis out of his predicament. There was only one thing to do: lash out.

So Artemis kicked, punched, and gouged. He buried his knee in Kronski’s ample stomach and blinded him with his fists.

All very superficial blows that had little lasting effect—except one. Artemis’s right heel brushed against Kronski’s chest. Kronski didn’t even feel it. But the heel connected briefly with the oversize button on the remote control in the doctor’s pocket, releasing the dock trapdoor.

The second his brain registered the loss of back support, Artemis knew what had happened.

I am dead, he realized. Sorry, Mother.

Artemis fell bodily into the pit, breaking the laser beam with his elbow. There was a beep, and half a second later the pit was filled with blue-white flame, which blasted black scorch marks in the walls.

Nothing could have survived.

Kronski braced himself against the dock rails, perspiration dripping from the tip of his nose into the pit, evaporating on the way down.

Do I feel bad about what just happened? he asked himself, aware that psychologists recommended facing trauma head-on in order to avoid stress later in life.

No, he found. I don’t. In fact, I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Kronski raised himself up with a great creaking and cracking of knees.

Now, where’s the other one? he wondered. I still have some weight to lose.

Artemis saw the flames blossom around him. He saw his skin glow blue with their light and heard their raw roar, then he was through, unscathed.

Impossible.

Obviously not.
Obviously
these flames had more bark about them than bite.