So Holly did. She told Artemis how he had kidnapped her, then released her at the last moment. She told him how they had journeyed to the Arctic to rescue his father, and how they had foiled a goblin rebellion bankrolled by Opal Koboi. She recounted in great detail their mission to Chicago to steal back the C Cube, a supercomputer constructed by Artemis from pirated fairy technology. Finally, in a small, quiet voice, she told of Commander Roots death and Opal Kobois mysterious plot to bring the fairy and human worlds together.
Artemis sat perfectly still, absorbing hundreds of incredible facts. His brow was slightly creased, as if the information were difficult to digest. Finally, when his brain had organized the data, he opened his eyes.
Very well, he said. I dont remember any of this, but I believe you. I accept that we humans have fairy neighbours below the planets surface.
Just like that?
Artemiss lip curled. Hardly. I have taken your story and cross-referenced it with the facts as I know them. The only other scenario which could explain everything that has happened, up to and including your own bizarre appearance, is a convoluted conspiracy theory involving the Russian Mafiya and a crack team of plastic surgeons. Hardly likely. But your fairy story fits, right down to something that you could not know about, Captain Short.
Which is?
After my alleged mind wipe, I discovered mirrored contact lenses in my own eyes and in Butlers. Investigation revealed that I myself had ordered the lenses, though I had no memory of the fact. I suspect that I ordered them to cheat your mesmer.
Holly nodded. It made sense. Fairies had the power to mesmerize humans, but eye contact was part of the trick, coupled with a mesmeric voice. Mirrored contact lenses would leave the subject completely in control, while still pretending to be under the mesmer.
The only reason for this would be if I had planted a trigger somewhere. Something that would cause my fairy memories to come rushing back. But what?
I have no idea, said Holly. I was hoping that just seeing me would tripper recall.
Artemis smiled in a very annoying way. As one would to a small child who had just suggested that the moon was made of cheese.
No, Captain. I would guess that your Mister Foalys mind-wiping technology is an advanced version of the rnemory-suppressant drugs being experimented with by various governments. The brain, you see, is a complex instrument; if it can be convinced that something did not happen, it will invent all kinds of scenarios to maintain that illusion. Nothing can change its mind, so to speak. Even if the conscious accepts something, the mind wipe will have convinced the subconscious otherwise. So, no matter how convincing you are, you cannot convert my altered subconscious. My subconscious probably believes that you are a hallucination or a miniature spy. No, the only way my memories could be returned to me would be if my subconscious could not present a reasonable argument say if the one person whom I trust completely presented me with irrefutable evidence.
Holly felt herself growing annoyed. Artemis could get under her skin like nobody else. A child who treated everyone else like children.
And who is this one person whom you trust?
Artemis smiled genuinely for the first time since Munich. Why, myself, of course.
M UNICH
Butler woke to find blood dripping from the tip of his nose. It was falling on to the white hat of the hotel chef.
The chef stood with a group of hotel kitchen staff in the middle of a destroyed storage shed. The man gripped a cleaver in his hairy fist, just in case this giant on the tattered mattress that was wedged into the rafters was a madman.
Excuse me, said the chef politely, which is unusual for a chef, are you alive?
Butler considered the question. Apparently, unlikely as it seemed, he was alive. The mattress had saved him from the strange missile. Artemis had survived too. He remembered feeling his charges heartbeat just before he passed out. It wasnt there now.
I am alive, he grunted, a paste of tile dust and blood spilling from his lips. Where is the boy who was with me?
The crowd assembled in the ruined shed looked at one another.
There was no boy, said the chef finally. You fell into the roof all on your own.
Doubtless, this group would like an explanation, or they would inform the police.
Of course there was no boy. Forgive me, the mind tends to wander after a three-storey fall.
The group nodded as one. Who could blame the giant for being a touch rattled?
I was leaning against the railing, sunning myself, when the railing gave way. Luckily for me, I managed to grab the mattress on the way down.
This explanation was met with the mass scepticism it thoroughly deserved. The chef voiced the groups doubts.
You managed to grab a mattress?
Butler had to think quickly, which is not easy when all the blood in your body is concentrated in your forehead.
Yes. It was on the balcony. I had been resting in the sun.
This entire sun business was extremely unlikely. Especially considering that it was the middle of winter. Butler realized that there was only one way to dispel the crowd. It was drastic, but it should work.
He reached inside his jacket, pulling out a small spiral pad.