Eoin Colfer - Artemis Fowl and the Atlantis Complex

The captain channeled all the day’s frustrations into the next few minutes of furious kicking. Holly stamped on that ice as though it had somehow been responsible for blowing up the shuttle, as though its crystals were somehow to blame for the probe’s attack. Whatever the source of Holly’s strength, her efforts bore fruit, and soon the hatch’s outline was visible beneath a transparent sheath of mashed ice.

A voice floated down from above. “Helloooo. Holly. Are you okay?”

There was another phrase at the end. Muffled. Could this Orion person have called her fair lady again? Holly fervently hoped not.

“I. . am. . fine!” she grunted, each word punctuated with another blow to the shell of ice.

“Try not to become too stressed,” said the echoing voice. “Do a few breathing exercises.”

Unreal, thought Holly. This guy has lived in the back of Artemis’s head for so long that he has no idea how to handle the actual world.

She wormed her fingers into the recessed handle grip, flicking away tenacious clots of ice blocking the handle. The hatch was purely mechanical, so there was no problem with jammers, but that did not necessarily hold for the pod’s controls. The rogue probe could theoretically have fried the pod’s guidance systems just as easily as it had taken out their communications.

Holly planted a boot on the hull and hauled the hatch open. A deluge of pink disinfectant gel poured out, pooling around her second boot, and quickly evaporated to mist.

Disinfectant gel. In case whatever destroyed the shuttle had been bacterial.

She poked her head inside, and the motion sensors heated a couple of phosphorescent plates on the roof panels.

Good. Emergency power, at least.

The escape pod was totally inverted, pointed straight down to the center of the Earth. The interior was Spartan and made with soldiers in mind, not passengers.

Orion is going to love this, she thought, strapping herself into the pilot’s harness. There were six separate belts in the harness, as this ship had little in the way of gyroscopes or suspension.

Maybe I can shake Artemis out of his own brain. We can count up to five together.

She flexed her fingers, then allowed them to hover above the control panel.

Nothing happened. No activation, no sudden heads-up controls. No icon asking her for a start code.

Stone age it is, thought Holly, and leaned forward to the limits of her harness, reaching underneath the console for a good old-fashioned steering wheel and manual propulsion controls.

She pressed the ignition plunger, and the engine coughed.

Come on. I have things to do.

One more press and the escape pod’s pitiful engine caught and turned over, irregular as a dying man’s breathing, but it turned over nevertheless.

Thank you.

Holly thought this just before jets of black smoke blurted through the vents into the cabin, making her splutter.

There’s some damage, but we should be okay.

Holly cranked open the for’ard porthole and was alarmed by the view that was suddenly revealed. She had expected to see the blue waters of a subterranean river splashing across the transparent polymer, but instead she saw an abyss. The pod had punched into a vast underground cavern that seemed to run right through the glacier in a dizzyingly sheer drop toward the bedrock below. Rippling walls of ice stretched below her, illuminated by the distant flickering blue lights of the probe’s engines as it made its way into the depths of the cavern.

There it is. Heading down.

Holly hit the thaw button for the fuel block and tapped her fingers impatiently while it heated up.

“What I need now,” she muttered to herself, “is reverse. And quickly.”

But reverse did not come soon enough. The glacier river worked its tendrils into the ice ridge supporting the escape pod, and quickly stripped it away. For a moment the probe hung suspended, then it dropped through the hole and fell powerless straight down.

A couple of minutes earlier, the boy who wore Artemis Fowl’s face had been standing on the surface, peering down at Holly Short. Appreciating her labors and admiring her form.

“She’s a feisty one, n’est-ce pas? Look at her battling the elements.”

Foaly clopped to his side. “Come on, Artemis. You can’t kid me. What are you up to?”

Orion’s face was smooth. On him, Artemis’s features seemed open and trustworthy. This was a neat trick, as, on Artemis, these same features seemed conniving and almost sinister, some would say sneaky. Indeed, one music teacher did use this term in Artemis’s school report, which was quite an unprofessional thing to do, but in fairness, Artemis had rewired the man’s keyboard so that it would only play “Jingle Bells” no matter what keys were pressed.

“I am not up to anything,” said Orion. “I am alive and I am here. That is all. I have Artemis’s memories but not his disposition. I believe that I owe my sudden appearance to what fairies would call an Atlantis Complex.”

Foaly wagged a finger. “Nice try, but Atlantis Complex generally manifests itself through compulsion and delusion.”

“Stage two.”

Foaly took a moment to consult his near photographic memory.

“Atlantis Complex stage two can result in the subject displaying signs of several completely different and distinct personalities.”

“And?” prompted Orion.

“Stage two can be initiated by either or both mental trauma or physical shock, typically electrocution.”

“Holly shot me. So there we go.”

Foaly scraped the snow with a hoof. “That’s the problem with beings of our intellect. We can argue our points of view all day without either gaining a significant advantage. That’s what happens when you’re a genius.” The centaur smiled. “Look, I scraped an F for Foaly .”

“That is excellent work,” said Orion. “Such straight lines. That takes hoof control.”

“I know,” said Foaly. “It’s a real talent, but there’s no forum for this kind of expression.”

Foaly was well aware that he was babbling about hoof drawings in order to distract himself from the current situation. He had often assisted Holly through one crisis or another. But he had rarely been in the field to actually witness these crises occurring.

The video logs never really capture the emotion, he thought. I am scared out of my wits right now, but no helmet-cam footage can convey that.

It scared Foaly that someone had managed to hack his space probe and reprogram the amorphobots. It scared him that this person had no regard for life-fairy, human, or animal. And it totally terrified him that if, gods forbid, Holly was injured or worse, then it would be up to him and this simpering alternate Fowl personality to warn Haven, and he hadn’t the first idea how he was qualified for this job, unless the talents of smart-aleckry and rapid V-board manipulation were somehow called for. Artemis would know what to do, but apparently Artemis wasn’t at home right now.

Foaly realized with a jolt that the current situation was quite close to being his own worst nightmare, especially if it eventually led to Caballine shaving him. Control was very important to Foaly, and here he was stuck on a glacier with a damaged human, watching their only hope of salvation fighting an underground river.

His current worst nightmare was suddenly relegated to second place as the escape pod, with Holly inside it, was suddenly swallowed whole by the ice. Loose chunks tumbled quickly to fill the hole, and before Foaly had time to gasp in shock, it was as if the craft had never been there.

Foaly sank to his fore-knees. “Holly!” he called desperately. “Holly.”