Eoin Colfer: Artemis Fowl and the Atlantis Complex

Where are you going?

Not running away, that was for sure. If anything, Artemis was moving directly into the path of the still-falling space probe.

Holly tried to scream a warning. She opened her mouth but could only cough smoke. She tasted smoke and battle.

“Artemis,” she managed to hack after several attempts.

Artemis glanced up at her. “I know,” he shouted, a ragged edge to his voice. “The sky appears to be falling, but it isn’t. None of this is real, the ship, those soldiers, none of it. I realize that now. I’ve been. . I’ve been having delusions, you see.”

“Get clear, Artemis,” cried Holly, her voice not her own, feeling like her brain was sending signals to someone else’s mouth. “That ship is real. It will crush you.”

“No it won’t, you’ll see.” Artemis was actually smiling benignly. “Delusional disorder, that’s all this craft is. I simply constructed this vision from an old memory, one of Foaly’s blueprints I sneaked a look at. I need to face my dementia. Once I can prove to myself that this is all in my head, then I can keep it there.”

Holly crawled across the roof, feeling her insides buzz as magic went to work on her organs. Strength was returning, but slowly, and her legs felt like lead pipes. “Listen to me, Artemis. Trust me.”

“No,” Artemis barked. “I don’t trust any of you. Not Butler, not even my own mother.” Artemis hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know what to believe, or who to trust. But I do know that there cannot be a space probe crash-landing here at this precise moment. The odds against it are just too astronomical. My mind is playing tricks on me, and I have to show it who’s boss.”

Holly registered about half of that speech, but she’d heard enough to realize that Artemis was referring to his own mind in the third person, which was a warning sign no matter which head doctor’s theories you subscribed to.

The spaceship continued to bear down on them, unaffected by Artemis’s lack of belief in its existence, shunting shock waves before it. For a memory, it certainly seemed very real, each panel richly textured by the tribulations of space travel. Long jagged striations were etched into the nose cone like scars from lightning bolts, and buckshot dents peppered the fuselage. A ragged semicircular chunk was missing from one of the three fins, as though a deep-space creature had taken a bite from the passing craft, and strangely colored lichen was crayoned in the square patch vacated by a hull plate.

Even Artemis had to admit it. “That doesn’t seem particularly ethereal. I must have a more vivid imagination than I had thought.”

Two of the ship’s silencers blew out in rapid succession, and engine roar filled the bowl of gray sky.

Artemis pointed a rigid finger at the craft. “You are not real!” he shouted, though even he did not hear the words. The ship was low enough now for Artemis to read the message written in several scripts and pictograms across the nose cone.

“‘I come in peace,’” he mumbled, and thought: Four words. Death.

Holly was thinking too, images of tragedy and destruction flashing past like the lights of a train carriage, but there was one other notion holding steady through the chaos.

I can’t reach him from this rooftop. Artemis is going to die, and there’s nothing I can do but watch.

And then a hysterical afterthought.

Butler is going to kill me.

AND CRAZY BEAR

Cancún, Mexico; The Night Before

The man in the rental Fiat 500 swore loudly as his broad foot mashed the tiny brake and accelerator pedals, stalling the tiny car for the umpteenth time. It might be a little easier to drive this miniature vehicle if I could sit in the backseat so my knees were not jammed under my chin, the man reasoned. And with that thought he pulled over sharply onto the verge bordering Cancún’s spectacular lagoon. In the reflected light of a million twinkling luxury-suite balcony lamps, he performed an act of vandalism on the Fiat that would definitely cost him his deposit and possibly send him rocketing to number one on the Hertz blacklist.

“Better,” grunted the man, and tossed the driver’s seat down the verge.

Hertz only has itself to blame, he thought, on a reasoning roll. This is what happens when you insist on giving a toy car to a man of my proportions. It’s like trying to load fifty-caliber rounds into a Derringer boot gun. Ridiculous.

He crammed himself into the vehicle and, navigating from the backseat, pulled into the flow of cars, which even at close to midnight were packed together tighter than train carriages.

I’m coming, Juliet, he thought, squeezing the steering wheel as though it were a threat to his little sister somehow. I’m on my way.

The driver of this carelessly remodeled Fiat was of course Butler, Artemis Fowl’s bodyguard, though he had not always been known by that name. In the course of his career as a soldier of fortune, Butler had adopted many a nom de guerre to protect his family from recriminations. A band of Somali pirates knew him as Gentleman George, he had for a time hired himself out in Saudi Arabia under the name Captain Steele (Artemis had later accused him of having a touch of the screeching melodramas), and for two years a Peruvian tribe, the Isconahua, knew the mysterious giant who protected their village from an aggressive logging corporation only as El Fantasma de la Selva, the ghost of the jungle. Of course, since becoming Artemis Fowl’s bodyguard, there was no more time for side projects.

Butler had traveled to Mexico at Artemis’s insistence, though insistence had hardly been necessary once Butler had read the message on his principal’s smartphone. They had been in the middle of a mixed martial-arts session earlier in the day when the phone rang. A polyphonic version of Morricone’s “Miserere,” which signified the arrival of a message.

“No phones in the dojo, Artemis,” Butler had rumbled. “You know the rules.”

Artemis had delivered one more blow to the hand pad, a left jab that had little power and less accuracy, but at least his shots were landing on the pad now. Until recently, Artemis’s punches were so wide of the mark that in the event of actual combat a passerby would be in more danger than any assailant.

“I know the rules, Butler,” said Artemis, taking several breaths to get the sentence out. “The phone is definitely off. I checked it five times.”

Butler pulled off a pad, which in theory protected the wearer’s hand from punches, but in this case protected Artemis’s knuckles from Butler’s spadelike palm. “The phone is off, and yet it rings.”

Artemis trapped a glove between his knees and tugged his hand free. “It’s set to emergency breakthrough. It would be irresponsible of me not to check it.”

“Your speech seems strange,” noted Butler. “Stilted somehow. . Are you counting your words?”

“That is patently ridiculous. . actually,” said Artemis, coloring. “I am simply choosing carefully.” He hurried to the phone, which was one of his own design with a dedicated operating platform based on an amalgamation of human and fairy technology. “The message is from Juliet,” he said, consulting the three-inch touch screen.

Butler’s pique immediately evaporated. “Juliet sending an emergency message? What does it say?”

Artemis wordlessly handed over the phone, which seemed to shrink as Butler’s massive hand enfolded it.

The message was short and urgent. Five words only.

In trouble, Domovoi. Come alone.

Butler’s fingers squeezed the phone until its casing cracked. The first names of all Blue Diamond bodyguards were closely guarded secrets, and the mere fact that Juliet had invoked his name to summon him was an indicator of how much trouble she was in.