The Arctic Incident

Twenty seconds left before the concussors blew, and the commander was still flattened against the chute wall. They had no wing sets, and no time to get a set outside even if they had. If they couldn’t pull Root out of there right now, then he’d be blown off the wall and into the abyss. And magic didn’t work on melted slop. There was only one option. Holly would have to use the gripper clamps.

All shuttles are equipped with secondary landing gear. If the docking nodes fail, then four magnetic gripper clamps could be blasted from recessed grooves. These clamps will latch onto the metal underside of the landing-bay dock, reeling the shuttle into the airlock. The grippers also came in handy in unfamiliar environments, where the magnets would seek out trace elements and latch on like sucker slugs.

“Okay, Julius,” said Holly. “Don’t move a muscle.”

Root paled. Julius. Holly had called him Julius. That was not good.

Ten seconds.

Holly flicked down a small view screen.

“Release forward-port docking clamp.”

A grating hum signaled the clamp’s release.

The commander’s image appeared in the view screen. Even from here he looked worried. Holly centered a crosshairs on his chest.

“Captain Short. Are you absolutely sure about this?”

Holly ignored her superior. “Range fifteen yards. Magnets only.”

“Holly, maybe I could jump. I could make it. I’m sure I could make it.”

Five seconds . . .

“Fire port clamp.”

Six tiny charges ignited around the clamp’s base, sending the metal disk rocketing from its socket, trailed by a length of retractable polymer cable.

Root opened his mouth to swear, but the clamp crashed into his chest, driving every gasp of air from his body. Several somethings cracked.

“Reel it in,” spat Holly into the computer mike, simultaneously peeling across the chute. The commander was dragged behind like an extreme surfer.

Zero seconds. The concussors blew, sending four tons of rubble careering into the void. A drop in an ocean of magma.

A minute later the commander was strapped on a gurney in the Atlantean Ambassador’s sick bay. It hurt to breathe, but that wasn’t going to stop him talking.

“Captain Short!” he rasped. “What the hell were you thinking? I could have been killed.”

Butler ripped open Root’s tunic to survey the damage.

“You could have been. Five more seconds and you were pulp. It’s thanks to Holly that you are still alive.”

Holly grabbed a medi-pac from the first-aid box. She crumpled it between her fingers to activate the crystals. Another of Foaly’s inventions. Ice packs infused with healing crystals. No substitute for magic, but better than a hug and a kiss.

“Where does it hurt?”

Root coughed, blood splattering his uniform. “The general bodily area. Couple ribs gone.”

Holly chewed her lip. She was no doctor, and healing was by no means an automatic business. Things could go wrong. Holly knew a vice captain once who had broken a leg and passed out. He woke up with one foot pointing backward. Not that Holly hadn’t performed some tricky operations before. When Artemis had wanted his mother’s depression cured, she had been in a different time zone. Holly had sent out a strong positive signal, with enough sparks in it to hang around for a few days. A sort of general pick-me-up. Anyone who even visited Fowl Manor for the following week should have gone away whistling.

“Holly,” groaned Root.

“Okay,” she stammered. “Okay.”

She laid her hands on Root’s chest, sending the magic scurrying down her fingers.

“Heal,” she breathed.

The commander’s eyes rolled back in his head. The magic was shutting him down for recuperation. Holly laid a medi-pac on the unconscious LEP officer’s chest.

“Hold that,” she instructed Artemis. “Ten minutes only. Otherwise there’ll be tissue damage.”

Artemis applied pressure to the pack. His fingers were quickly submerged in a pool of blood. Suddenly the desire to pass a smart remark utterly deserted him. First physical exercise, then actual bodily harm. And now this. These past few days were turning out to be quite educational. He’d almost prefer to be back in Saint Bartleby’s.

Holly returned quickly to the cockpit, panning the external cameras toward the supply tunnel. Butler squeezed into the copilot’s chair.

“Well,” he asked. “What’ve we got?”

Holly grinned. And for a second her expression reminded the manservant of Artemis Fowl.

“We’ve got a big hole.”

“Good. Then let’s go visit an old friend.”

Holly’s thumbs hovered over the thrusters. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”

The Atlantean shuttle disappeared into the supply tunnel faster than a carrot down Foaly’s gullet. And for those who don’t know, that’s pretty fast.





The Crowley Hotel, Beverly Hills, Los Angeles


Mulch made it back to his hotel undetected. Of course, this time he didn’t have to scale the walls. It would have been more of a challenge than Maggie V’s building. The walls here were brick, very porous. His fingers would have leeched the moisture from the stone and lost their suction.

No, this time Mulch used the main foyer. And why wouldn’t he? As far as the doorman was concerned, he was Lance Digger, reclusive millionaire. Short, maybe. But short and rich.