Artemis Fowl: the time paradox

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 time, 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 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 which had little lasting effect, except one. Artemis’s right heel brushed against Kronski chest. Kronski didn’t even feel it. But the heel connected briefly with the oversized 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 that 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 in later 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.

Holograms?

The pit floor yielded beneath his weight with a hiss of pneumatics, and Artemis found himself in a sub- chamber looking up at heavy steel doors swinging closed above him.

The view from inside a swing-top bin.

A very high-tech swing-top bin, with expanding gel hinges. Fairy design, without a doubt.

Artemis remembered something Kronski had said earlier.

This is not how she said it would go …

She… she.

Fairy design. Endangered species. What fairy had been harvesting lemur brain fluid even before the Spelltropy epidemic?

Artemis paled. Not her. Please not her.

What do I have to do? he thought. How many times must I save the world from this lunatic?

He scrambled to his knees and saw he had been funnelled on to a padded pallet. Before he could roll off, Octobonds sprang from recessed apertures along the pallet’s steel rim, trussing him tighter than a tumbled rodeo cow. Purple gas hissed from a dozen overhead nozzles, shrouding the pallet.

Hold your breath, Artemis told himself. Animals don’t know to hold their breaths.

He held on until it felt as though his sternum would split, and then just as he was about to exhale and suck in a huge breath, a second gas was pumped into the chamber, crystallizing the first. It fell on to Artemis’s face like purple snowflakes.

You are asleep now. Play possum.

A small door sank smoothly into the floor with a sound like air being blown through a straw.

Artemis peeked through one half-closed eye.

Magnetic field, he thought dully, a band of steel creasing his forehead.

I know what I will see, but I have no wish to see it.

A pixie stood framed in the doorway, her tiny, beautiful features twisted with their customary pouting cruelty.

‘This,’ squealed Opal Koboi, pointing a vibrating finger, ‘is not a lemur.’

CHAPTER 13: THE HAIRY ONE IS DEAD

THE LEATHER SOUQ

BUTLER jogged from the Extinctionists’ compound to the leather souq. Artemis was waiting in the building in which they had planned the previous day’s exchange. Police presence in Fez amounted to no more than a couple of two-man patrols and so it was easy for someone of Butler’s experience to sneak around without being detected. Though it was hardly illegal to visit a medina, it was certainly frowned on to stroll around a tourist area with a large rifle strapped to one’s back.

Butler ducked into a dark corner and quickly broke down his dart rifle into almost a dozen parts, slotting them into various rubbish tips. It was possible that he could slip the Fez Saiss airport customs men some baksheesh and simply stow the weapon under his seat, but these days it was better to be safe than sorry.

Ten-year-old Artemis was sitting at a pre-arranged spot in one of the sniper windows, picking non-existent lint from his jacket sleeve, which was his version of nervous pacing.

‘Well?’ he asked, steeling himself for the answer.

‘The female got out,’ said Butler. He thought it better not to mention that the long-haired male had had everything under control until Artemis’s video arrived.

Artemis caught the implication. ‘The female? The other one was there too?’

Butler nodded. ‘The hairy one is dead. He attempted a rescue and it didn’t work out.’

Artemis gasped. ‘Dead?’ he said. ‘Dead?’

‘Repeating the word won’t change its meaning,’ said Butler sharply. ‘He tried to rescue his friend and Kronski killed him for it. But what’s done is done, eh? And at least we have our diamonds.’ Butler checked his temper. ‘We should move out for the airport. I need to run the preflight checks.’

Artemis was left stunned and silent, unable to take his eyes from the bag of diamonds that winked accusingly from their slouched perch on his lap.

Holly was not having any luck. Her shield was so weak that she switched it off to save her last spark for a small healing if it was needed, and no sooner had her image solidified than one of Kronski’s goons spotted her and walkie-talkied his entire squad. Now she was running for her life through the medina, praying that Artemis was at the meeting point and that he had thought to bring the scooter.

No one was taking potshots at her, which was encouraging, unless Kronski wanted to do the potshotting himself.

No time to think about that now. Survival was the priority.

The medina was quiet this late in the evening, with only a few straggling tourists and die-hard merchants still walking the streets. Holly dodged between them, pulling down whatever she could reach to get in the way of the