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“No, chief,” replied the centaur, somber for once. “This is deadly serious. The B’wa Kell are using human batteries to power the old softnose lasers. They’d only get about six shots per battery. But you give every goblin a pocketful of power cells, and that’s a lot of shots.”
“Softnose lasers? They were outlawed decades ago. Weren’t they all recycled?”
Foaly nodded. “Supposedly. My division supervised the meltdowns. Not that we considered it priority, they were originally powered by a single solar cell, with a life span of less than a decade. Obviously, somebody managed to sneak a few out of the recycling lockup.”
“Quite a few by the looks of all these batteries. That’s the last thing I need, goblins with softnoses.”
The softnose technique involved placing an inhibitor on a blaster, which allowed a laser to travel at slower speeds, actually penetrating the target. Initially developed for mining purposes, they were quickly adapted by some greedy weapons manufacturer.
The softnoses were just as quickly outlawed, for the obvious reason that these weapons were designed to kill, and not to incapacitate. Now and then one found its way into the hands of a gang member. But this did not look like an isolated case. This looked like somebody was planning something big.
“You know what the worrisome thing about this is?” said Foaly.
“No,” said Root with deceptive calmness. “Do tell me what the worrisome thing is.”
Foaly turned the gun around. “The way this weapon has been adapted to take a human battery. Very clever. There’s no way a goblin figured this out on his own.”
“But why adapt the softnoses?” asked the commander. “Why not just use the old solar cells?”
“Those solar cells are very rare. They’re worth their weight in gold. Antiques dealers use them to power all sorts of old gadgets. And it would be impossible to build a power-cell factory of any kind without my sensors picking up emissions. Much simpler just to steal them from the humans.”
Root lit one of his trademark fungal cigars. “Tell me that’s it. Tell me there’s nothing else.”
Holly’s gaze flickered to the rear of the hangar. Root caught the glance and pressed past the crates to the makeshift shuttle in the docking bay. The commander climbed into the craft.
“And what the hell is this, Foaly?”
The centaur ran a hand along the ship’s hull.
“It’s amazing. Unbelievable. They put a shuttle together from junk. I’m surprised this thing gets off the ground.”
The commander bit down hard on his fungus cigar. “When you’re finished admiring the goblins, Foaly, maybe you can explain how the B’wa Kell got a hold of this stuff. I thought all outdated shuttle technology was supposed to be destroyed.”
“That’s what I thought. I retired some of this stuff myself. This starboard booster used to be in E1, until Captain Short blew it out last year. I remember signing the destruct order.”
Root spared a second to shoot Holly a withering glance.
“So now we have shuttle parts escaping the recycling smelters as well as softnose lasers. Find out how this shuttle got here. Take it apart, piece by piece. I want every strand of wire lasered for prints and DNA. Feed all the serial numbers into the mainframe, see if there are any common denominators.”
Foaly nodded. “Good idea. I’ll get someone on it.”
“No, Foaly, you get on it. This is priority. So give your conspiracy theories a rest for a few days, and find me the inside fairy who’s selling this junk.”
“But, Julius,” protested Foaly. “That’s grunt work.”
Root took a step closer. “One, don’t call me Julius, civilian. And two, I’d say it was more like donkey work.”
Foaly noticed the vein pulsing in the commander’s temple.
“Point taken,” he said, removing a handheld computer from his belt. “I’ll get right on it.”
“You do that. Now, Captain Short, what is our B’wa Kell prisoner saying?”
Holly shrugged. “Nothing much, still unconscious. He’ll be coughing soot for a month as soon he wakes up. Anyway, you know how the B’wa Kell works, the soldiers aren’t told anything. This guy is just a grunt. It’s a pity the Book forbids using the mesmer on other fairies.”
“Hmm,” said Root, his face glowing redder than a baboon’s behind. “An even greater pity the Atlantis Convention outlawed truth drugs. Otherwise we could pump this convict full of serum until he sang like a drunken Mud Man.”
The commander took several deep breaths to calm down before his heart popped.
“Right now, we need to find out where these batteries came from, and if there are any more in the Lower Elements.”
Holly took a breath. “I have a theory, sir.”
“Don’t tell me,” groaned Root. “Artemis Fowl, right?”
“Who else could it be? I knew he’d be back. I knew it.”
“You know the rules, Holly. He beat us last year. Game over. That’s what the Book says.”
“Yes, sir, but that was a different game. New game, new rules. If Fowl is supplying power cells to the B’wa Kell, the least we can do is check it out.”
Root considered it. If Fowl was behind this, things could get very complicated very fast.
“I don’t like the idea of interrogating Fowl on his turf. But we can’t bring him down here. The pressure underground would kill him.”
Holly disagreed. “Not if we keep him in a secure environment. The city is equalized. So are the shuttles.”
“Okay, go,” the commander said at last. “Bring him in for a little chat. Bring the big one, too.”
“Butler?”
“Yes, Butler.” Root paused. “But remember, we’re going to run a few scans, Holly, that’s it. I don’t want you using this as an opportunity to settle a score.”
“No, sir. Strictly business.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
“Yes, sir. I guarantee it.”
Root ground the cigar butt beneath his heel.
“I don’t want anyone else getting hurt today, not even Artemis Fowl.”
“Understood.”
“Well,” added the commander. “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
CHAPTER 3
GOING UNDERGROUND
Saint Bartleby’s School for Young Gentlemen
Butler had been in Artemis Fowl’s service since the moment of the boy’s birth. He had spent the first night of his charge’s life standing guard on the Sisters of Mercy maternity ward. For over a decade,
Butler had been teacher, mentor, and protector to the young heir. The pair had never been separated for more than a week, until now. It shouldn’t bother him, he knew that. A bodyguard should never become emotionally attached to his charge: it affects his judgment. But in his private moments, Butler couldn’t help thinking of the Fowl heir as the younger brother he had never had.
Butler parked the Bentley Arnage Red Label on the College Avenue. If anything, the Eurasian manservant had bulked up since midterm. With Artemis in boarding school, he was spending a lot more time in the gym. Truth be told, Butler was bored pumping iron, but the college authorities absolutely refused to allow him a bunk in Artemis’s room. And when the gardener had discovered the bodyguard’s hideout just off the seventeenth green, they had banned him from the school grounds altogether.
Artemis slipped through the school’s gate, Dr. Po’s comments still in his thoughts.
“Problems, sir?” said Butler, noticing his employer’s sour expression.
Artemis ducked into the Bentley’s wine-colored leather interior, selecting a bottle of still water from the bar.
“Hardly, Butler. Just another quack spouting psychobabble.”
Butler kept his voice level. “Should I have a word with him?”
“Never mind him now. What news of the Fowl Star?”
“We got an e-mail at the manor this morning. It’s an MPG.”
Artemis scowled. He could not access MPG video files on his mobile phone.
Butler pulled a portable computer from the glove compartment.
“I thought you might be anxious to see the file, so I downloaded it onto this.”
He passed the computer over his shoulder. Artemis activated the compact machine, folding out the flat color screen. At first he thought the battery was dead, then realized he was looking at a field of snow. White on white, with only the faintest shadows to indicate dips and drumlins.
Artemis felt the uneasiness rolling in his gut. Funny how such an innocent image could be so foreboding.
The camera panned upward, revealing a dull twilight sky. Then a black hunched object, in the distance. A rhythmic crunching issued through the compact speakers as the cameraman advanced through the snow. The object grew clearer. It was a man sitting on, no, tied to, a chair. The ice clinked in Artemis’s glass. His hands were shaking.
