The Arctic Incident

The bodyguard was considering his breaking-and-entering options when he noticed the door was open. Open doors generally meant one of two things: One, nobody was left alive to close it. Or, two, he was expected. Neither of these options appealed to him particularly.

Butler entered cautiously. The apartment walls were lined with open crates. Battery packs and fire suits poked through the Styrofoam packing. The floor was littered with thick wads of currency.

“Are you a friend?” It was Carrère. He was slumped in an oversized armchair, a weapon of some kind nestled on his lap.

Butler approached cautiously. An important rule of combat is that every opponent be taken seriously.

“Take it easy.”

The Parisian raised the weapon. The grip was made for smaller fingers. A child, or a fairy.

“I asked if you were a friend?”

Butler cocked his own pistol. “No need to shoot.”

“Stand still,” ordered Carrère. “I’m not going to shoot you, just take your photo maybe. The voice told me.”

Holly’s voice sounded in the earpiece. “Get closer. I need to see the eyes.”

Butler holstered his weapon, taking a step forward. “You see, no one has to get hurt here.”

“I’m going to enhance the image,” said Holly. “This may sting a bit.”

The tiny camera in his eye buzzed, and suddenly Butler’s vision was magnified by four. Which would have been just fine had the magnification not been accompanied by a sharp jolt of pain. Butler blinked a stream of tears from his eye. Below in the goblin shuttle, Holly studied Luc’s pupils.

“He’s been mesmerized,” she pronounced. “Several times. You see how the iris has actually become jagged. You mesmerize a human too much, and they can go blind.”

Artemis studied the image.

“Is it safe to mesmerize him again?”

Holly shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He’s already under a spell. That particular Mud Man is just following orders. His brain doesn’t know a thing about it.”

Artemis grabbed the mike stand. “Butler! Get out of there. Right now.”

In the apartment, Butler stood his ground. Any sudden movement might be his last.

“Butler,” said Holly. “Listen carefully. That gun pointed at you is a wide-bore low-frequency blaster. We call it a bouncer; it was developed for tunnel skirmishes. If he pulls that trigger, a wide-arc laser is going to ricochet off the walls until it hits something.”

“I see,” muttered Butler.

“What did you say?” asked Carrère.

“Nothing. I just don’t like having my photo taken.”

A spark of Luc’s greedy personality surfaced. “I like that watch on your wrist. It looks expensive. Is it a Rolex?”

“You don’t want this,” said Butler, very reluctant to part with the com-screen. “It’s cheap. A piece of trash.”

“Just give me the watch,”

Butler peeled back the strap on the instrument on his wrist.

“If I give you this watch, maybe you can tell me about all these batteries.”

“It is you! Say cheese,” squealed Carrère, forcing his pudgy thumb into the undersized trigger guard, and pulling.

For Butler, time seemed to slow to a crawl. It was almost as though he were inside his personal time stop. His soldier’s brain absorbed all the facts and analyzed his options.

Carrère’s finger was too far gone. In a moment a wide-bore laser burst would be speeding his way, and would continue to bounce around the room until they were both dead. His gun was of no use in a situation like this. All he had was the Safetynet, but a six-foot sphere was not going to be enough. Not for two good-size humans. So in the fraction of a second left to him, Butler formulated a new strategy. If the sphere stopped concussive waves coming in, perhaps it could stop them coming out. Butler touched the screen, and hurled the device in Carrère’s direction.

Not a nanosecond too soon, a spherical shield blossomed, enveloping the expanding beam. Three hundred and sixty degrees of protection. It was a sight to see, a fireworks display in a bubble. The shield hovered overhead, shafts of light ricocheting against the sphere’s curved planes.

Carrère was hypnotized by the sight, and Butler took advantage of the distraction to disarm him.

“Start the engines,” grunted the bodyguard into his throat mike. “The Sureté are going to be all over this place in minutes. Foaly’s Safetynet didn’t stop the noise.”

“Roger that. What about Monsieur Carrère?”

Butler dumped the dazed Parisian flat on the carpet.

“Luc and I are going to have a little chat.”

For the first time Carrère seemed to be aware of his surroundings.

“Who are you?” he mumbled. “What’s happening?”

Butler ripped open the man’s shirt, placing his palm flat on the P.I.’s heart. Time for a little trick he’d learned from Madame Ko, his Japanese sensei. “Don’t worry, Monsieur Carrère. I’m a doctor. There’s been an accident, but you’re perfectly fine.”

“An accident? I don’t remember any accident.”

“Trauma. It’s quite normal. I’m just going to check your vitals.”

Butler placed a thumb on Luc’s neck, locating the artery.