Artemis Fowl: the time paradox

It was a spectacular indulgence. Ice flew, showering the guests, and the buzz of machinery was deafening.

Quickly the shoal of yellowfin poked through the blue murk of ice. They hung wide-eyed and frozen in mid- turn, their bodies caught by the flash freeze.

What a way to go, thought Kronski. With absolutely no inkling. Wonderful.

The performers began carving the fish in blocks from the ice, and each one was passed down to one of a dozen line cooks who had appeared from the side doors, wheeling gas burners. Each individual block was slid into a heated colander to steam off excess ice, then the fish were expertly filleted and fried in olive oil with a selection of chunky-cut vegetables and a crushed clove of garlic.

For the vegetarians there was a Champagne mushroom risotto, though Kronski did not anticipate many takers. The non-meat eaters would accept the fish just to stab it.

The meal was a huge success and the level of delighted chatter rose to fill the hall.

Kronski managed to eat half a fillet, in spite of his nerves.

Delicious. Exquisite.

They think that was the highlight, he thought. They ain’t seen nothing yet.

After coffee, when the Extinctionists were loosening their cummerbunds or turning fat cigars for an even burn, Kronski instructed his staff to set up the courtroom.

They responded with the speed and expertise of a Formula One pit-team, as well they should after three months of being whipped into shape. Literally. The workers swarmed across the grid where the melted ice sloshed below like a disturbed swimming pool, a few stray yellowfins floating on the surface. They covered this section of floor and exposed a second pit, this one lined with steel and covered with scorch marks.

Two podiums and a dock were wheeled into the centre of the hall, taking the place of the ice-trolley. The podiums had computers on their swivel tops, and the wooden dock was occupied by a cage. The cage’s resident was masked by a curtain of leopard skin.

The diners’ chatter ceased as they held their breath for the big reveal. This was the moment everyone was waiting for, these millionaires and billionaires paying through the nose for a few moments of ultimate power: holding the fate of an entire species in their hands. Showing the rest of the planet who was boss. The guests did not notice the dozen or so sharpshooters placed discreetly on the upper terrace in case the creature on trial dispayed any new magical powers. There was little chance of a subterranean rescue as the entire hall was built on a foundation of steel rods and concrete.

Kronski milked the moment, rising slowly from his seat, sauntering across to the prosecutor’s podium.

He steepled his fingers, allowing the tension to build, then began his presentation.

‘Every year we put a rare animal on trial.’

There were a few hoots from the audience, which Kronski waved away good-naturedly.

‘A real trial where the host prosecutes and one of you lucky people gets to defend. The idea is simple. If you can convince a jury of your unprejudiced peers …’

More hooting.

‘… that the creature in this cage contributes positively to human existence on this planet, then we will free the creature. This, believe it or not, did happen once in 1983. A little before my time, but I am assured it actually happened. If the defence counsel’s peers are not convinced of the animal’s usefulness, then I press this button.’ And here Kronski’s bulbous fingers twiddled playfully with an oversized red button on his remote control. ‘And the animal drops from its cage into the pit, passing the laser beam that activates the gas-powered flame jets. Voila: instant cremation.

‘Allow me to demonstrate. Indulge me, it’s a new pit. I’ve been testing it all week.’

He nodded at one of the staff, who yanked up a section of the grid with a steel hook. Kronski then picked a melon from a fruit platter and tossed it into the pit. There was a beep, followed by an eruption of blue-white flame gouts from nozzles ranged around the pit walls. The melon was burned to black floating crisps.

The display drew an impressed round of applause, but not everyone appreciated Kronski’s grandstanding.

Jeffrey Coontz-Meyers cupped both hands round his mouth. ‘Come on, Damon. What have we got tonight? Not another monkey. Every year it’s monkeys.’

Generally interruptions would irritate Kronski, but not tonight. On this night all hectoring, however witty, would be swept from people’s memories the second that curtain was drawn aside.

‘No, Jeffrey, not another monkey. What if …’

Jeffrey Coontz-Meyers groaned vocally. ‘Please, no more what ifs. We had half a dozen with the fish. Show us the blasted creature.’

Kronski bowed. ‘As you wish.’

He thumbed a button on his remote control and a large-view screen descended from the rafters, covering the back wall. Another button pushed and the curtain concealing the caged creature swished smoothly to one side.

Holly was revealed, cuffed to the baby chair, her eyes darting and furious.

At first the main reaction was puzzlement.

Was it a little girl?

It’s just a child.

Has Kronski gone mad? I knew he sang to himself, but this?

Then the Extinctionists’ eyes were drawn to the screen, which was displaying a feed from a camera clamped to the cage.

Oh, my Lord. Her ears. Look at her ears.

She’s not human.

What is that? What is it?

Tommy Kirkenhazard stood. ‘This better not be a hoax, Damon. Or we’ll string you up.’

‘Two points,’ said Kronski softly. ‘First, this is no hoax. I have unearthed an undiscovered species — as a matter of fact, I believe it to be a fairy. Second, if this were a hoax, you would not be stringing anyone up, Kirkenhazard. My men would cut you down before you could wave that ridiculous hat of yours and shout yee-haw.’

Sometimes it was good to send a shiver down people’s spines. Remind them where the power was.

‘Of course, your scepticism is to be expected, welcomed in fact. To put your minds at rest, I will need a volunteer from the audience. How about you, Tommy? How’s that backbone of yours?’

Tommy Kirkenhazard gulped down half a glass of whiskey to bolster his nerves, then made his way to the cage.

Good performance, Tommy, thought Kronski. It’s almost as if we hadn’t arranged this little confrontation to give me a bit more credibility.

Kirkenhazard stood as close to Holly as he dared, then reached in slowly to tweak her ear.

‘My saints, it’s no fake. This is the real deal.’ He stood back and the truth of what was happening filled his face with joy. ‘We got ourselves a fairy.’

Kirkenhazard rushed across to Kronski’s podium, pumping his hand, clapping his back.

And so my biggest critic is converted. The rest will follow like sheep. Useful animals, sheep.

Kronski silently congratulated himself.

‘I will prosecute the fairy, as is the tradition,’ Kronski told the crowd. ‘But who will defend? Which unlucky member will draw the black ball? Who will it be?’

Kronski nodded at the maitre d’.

‘Bring the bag.’

Like many ancient organizations, the Extinctionists were bound by tradition, and one of these traditions was that the creature on trial could be defended by any member of the assembly and, if no member were willing, one would be chosen by lottery. A bag of white balls, with one black. The spherical equivalent of the short straw.