Eoin Colfer - Artemis Fowl and the Atlantis Complex

“I will not be deterred,” shouted Artemis, finding that he could shout inside the mind-screen. “I am needed in the wide world .”

And then.

Deterred? Wide world? I am beginning to sound like that idiot Orion.

This thought gave him strength, and he tore at the curtains of gunk that kept him a prisoner. It felt good being active and positive. Artemis felt like the Fowl heir of old. Unstoppable.

Then he spotted something in the air before him. Bright and fizzling like a Halloween sparkler. There were more, dozens, all around him, sinking slowly through the gel.

What were they? What could those things mean?

I made them, thought Artemis. I should know.

A moment later he did know. The fizzling sparklers were actually tiny golden numbers. All the same number.

All fours. Death.

Artemis recoiled, but then rallied.

No. I will not be a slave. I refuse.

A tiny number four grazed his elbow, sending a shock through his entire body.

This is a memory, nothing more. My mind is reconstructing the plasma conduit. None of this is real.

But the shocks felt real. Once the tiny fours realized that he was there, they gathered like a shoal of malignant fish, herding Artemis back to the safety of his office.

He fell backward to the floor, panting.

I need to try again, he thought.

But not yet. The fours seemed to watch him, matching his movements.

Five, thought Artemis. I need five to stay alive. I will try again soon. Soon.

Artemis felt a weight settle on his chest that seemed too heavy to be just his imagination.

I will try soon. Hold on, my friends .

The Deeps, Atlantis; Now

Prisoner 42 checked the LEP’s official site and was amused to see that he was no longer on the Top Ten Most Dangerous list.

They forget what I have done, he thought with some satisfaction. Which is exactly as I planned.

Turnball sent a quick V-mail to Leonor, one of the dozen he sent daily.

Prepare yourself for travel, darling. I shall be with you soon.

He waited breathlessly for the reply, and it soon came. A single word.

Hurry.

Turnball was cheered by the prompt response: even after all these years they hung on each other’s words.

But he was a little worried too. Lately, all of Leonor’s messages had been brief, often no more than a phrase. He did not believe that his darling wife was not inclined to write more-he believed that she grew too weak, the effort was too painful.

Turnball sent a second mail to Ark Sool, an LEP turncoat he had recently employed to make sure his wife and affairs were well looked after.

Leonor grows weaker without my fairy magic beside her, Mr. Sool. Take special care.

Turnball grew suddenly impatient.

Mere hours separate us, my dear. Hold on for me.

The authorities were mistaken, of course. Turnball Root was extremely dangerous. They had forgotten he was the elf who had stolen millions from the LEP’s own weapons’ budget. The elf who had almost managed to destroy half of Haven City just to get rid of a competitor.

I would have done it too, he thought for the thousandth time. If not for my holier-than-thou little brother.

He banished this thought. Thinking about Julius would just get his vitals up, and the jailers might notice.

I should give myself a little treat, he thought, sitting down at his terminal. It could be the last one before I go. Vishby will come for me soon, and then the LEP will realize their mistake. Too late, of course.

He smiled at his reflection on the screen as he typed a brief message for a certain Web site.

One is never too old for mischief, Turnball realized as he pressed send.

The Sozzled Parrot, Miami; Now

It is a universal law that fugitives flock together. No matter how large the posse on their tail, people on the run always manage to find that one low-down dirty dive, with the cheapest hooch, run by the dodgiest innkeeper, that not even the police know about. These establishments generally have steel doors, paint over their windows, mold in their bathroom stalls, and don’t serve anything with more than two ingredients. The Sozzled Parrot was such a place.

The owner was a certain dwarf called Barnet Riddles who ruled the roost with a certain wheedling panache that made him a likeable host in a sleazy sort of way. And if wheedling panache was not enough to calm a troublemaker down, then Barnet would follow it with a tap from a stolen LEP buzz baton.

The Sozzled Parrot was a dwarf hangout, and the club motto was: If you are not welcome there, then you are welcome here , which meant that every exiled criminal or slumming fairy in North America sooner or later turned up at The Sozzled Parrot. Barnet Riddles made the perfect host, as, by some freak of nature, he was one of only a tiny percentage of fairies who were over four feet tall. And so, as long as he wore a bandanna to cover his ears, Barnet was the ideal go-between with the humans, who supplied him with liquor, slightly turned beef for his quesadillas, and as much firepower as he could shift out of the back room.

The early hours of this morning in The Sozzled Parrot were pretty much the same as any other. Dwarfs sat hunched over tankards of ale in one of the booths. A couple of sprites were playing video crunchball on their handhelds, and half a dozen elfin soldiers of fortune were trading war stories by the pool table.

Barnet Riddles was deep in conversation with a dwarf at the bar.

“Come on, Tombstone,” he wheedled in a charming way. “Buy a couple of guns. A grenade at least. All you do is sit there and drink creek water. Isn’t there someone you’d like to shoot a couple of times?”

The dwarf grinned, baring his trademark tombstone teeth. “It’s getting that way, Riddles.”

Barnet was not discouraged-then again this particular dwarf was a born optimist. Who else would set up a bar for photosensitive dwarfs in sunny Miami?

It’s the last place the Leppers will look for us fugitives from justice , he often explained. They’re up freezing their LEP tails off in Russia, meanwhile we’re sinking beers here in luxurious air-conditioned surroundings.

Luxurious was a stretch. Even clean would have been a stretch. But The Sozzled Parrot was somewhere for fairy soldiers of fortune to meet and exchange war stories day or night, and so they were prepared to put up with Barnet’s exorbitant prices and his constant sales pitches.

“How about a computer implant?” persisted the innkeeper. “Everybody has implants these days. How do you keep tabs on the LEP?”

Tombstone pulled down the brim of his felt hat so that it covered his eyes. “Believe it or not, Riddles, I’m not on the hot list anymore. What you are looking at now is a one hundred percent legit citizen. Heck, I’ve even got a visa to be aboveground.”

“Groomchunks,” said Barnet doubtfully.

Tombstone slid a plastic square across the bar. “Read it and weep.”

Barnet squinted at the Gnommish writing and checked the official hologram.

“Looks pretty real,” he admitted.

“That is because it is real, my beer-watering friend.”

Barnet shook his head. “I don’t get it. If you can be anywhere, why are you here?”

Tombstone tossed a handful of beezel nuts into his cavernous mouth, and Barnet swore that after each crunch there was an echo.

“I am here,” said Tombstone eventually, “because of the clientele.”

Barnet was even more befuddled. “What? Thieves, mercenaries, extortionists, and forgers?”

Tombstone’s grin was wide and bright. “Yep. My kind of people.”