The Arctic Incident

“Referencing.”


Cudgeon knocked on the booth’s security glass. Now, technically Cudgeon shouldn’t be allowed in Ops, but Foaly buzzed him through. He could never resist having a crack at the ex-commander. Cudgeon had been demoted to lieutenant following a disastrous attempt to replace Root as Recon head honcho. If it hadn’t been for his family’s considerable political clout, he would have been booted off the force altogether. All in all, he might have been better off in some other line of work. At least he wouldn’t have had to suffer Foaly’s constant teasing.

“I have some e-forms for you to initial,” said the lieutenant, avoiding eye contact.

“No problem, Commander,” chuckled the centaur.

“How’s the plotting going? Any revolutions planned for this afternoon?”

“Just sign the forms please,” said Cudgeon, holding out a digi-pen. His hand was shaking.

Amazing, thought Foaly. This broken-down shell of an elf was once on the LEP fast track.

“No, but seriously, Cudgeon. You’re doing a great job on the form-signing thing.”

Cudgeon’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Thank you, sir.”

A grin tugged at the corner of Foaly’s mouth. “You’re welcome. No need to get a swelled head.”

Cudgeon’s hand flew to his misshapen forehead. Still a touch of the old vanity left.

“Oops. Sore subject. Sorry about that.”

There was a spark in the corner of Cudgeon’s eye. A spark that should have warned Foaly. But he was distracted by a beep from the computer.

“List complete.”

“Excuse me for a moment, Commander. Important business. Computer stuff—you wouldn’t understand it.”

Foaly turned to the plasma screen. The lieutenant would just have to wait for his signature. It was probably just an order for shuttle parts anyway.

The penny dropped. A big penny with a clang louder than a dwarf’s underpants hitting a wall. Shuttle parts. An inside job. Someone with a grudge to settle. A line of sweat filled each groove on Foaly’s forehead. It was so obvious.

He looked at the plasma screen for confirmation of what he already knew. There were only two names. The first, Bom Arbles, could be eliminated immediately. The Retrieval officer had been killed in a core-diving accident. The second name pulsed gently. Lieutenant Briar Cudgeon. Demoted to recycling crew around the time Holly retired that starboard booster. It all fit.

Foaly knew that if he didn’t acknowledge the message in ten seconds, the computer would read the name aloud. He casually punched the delete button.

“You know, Briar,” he croaked. “All those jibes about your head problem. It’s all in fun. My way of being sympathetic. Actually, I have some ointment . . .”

Something cold and metallic pressed against the back of the centaur’s head. Foaly had seen too many action movies not to know what it was.

“Save your ointment, donkey boy,” said Cudgeon’s voice in his ear. “I have a feeling you’ll be developing some head problems of your own.”





The Mayak Chemical Train, Northern Russia


The first thing Artemis felt was a rhythmical knocking, jarring along the length of his spine. I’m at the spa in Blackrock, he thought. Irina is massaging my back. Just what my system needs, especially after all that horseplay on that train . . . The train!

Obviously they were still aboard the Mayak train. The jerking motion was actually the carriage jolting over the track joins. Artemis forced his eyes open, expecting gargantuan doses of stiffness and pain. But instead, he realized, he felt fine. More than fine. Great, in fact. It must be magic. Holly must have healed his various cuts and bruises while he was unconscious.

Nobody else was feeling quite so chipper. Especially Captain Short, who was still unconscious. Root was draping a large coat over his fallen officer.

“Oh, you’re awake, are you?” he said, without so much as a glance at Artemis. “I don’t know how you can sleep at all after what you’ve just done.”

“Done? But I saved you—at least, I helped.”

“You helped, all right, Fowl. You helped yourself to the last of Holly’s magic while she was unconscious.”

Artemis groaned. It must have happened when they fell. Somehow her magic had been diverted.

“I see what must have happened. It was an . . .”

Root raised a warning finger. “Don’t say it. The great Artemis Fowl doesn’t do anything by accident.”

Artemis fought against the train’s motion, climbing to his knees.

“It can’t be anything serious. Just exhaustion, surely.”

And suddenly Root’s face was an inch from his own, his complexion rosy enough to generate heat.

“Nothing serious!” spluttered the commander, barely able to get the words out past his rage. “Nothing serious! She lost her trigger finger! The door cut it clean off. Her career is over. And because of you, Holly barely had enough magic to stop the bleeding. She’s drained of power now. Empty.”