His next thought was, Who am I? Shoes, something to do with shoes.
It was always this way when memory-implant subjects first regained consciousness. The old identity hangs around for a few moments trying to assert itself until outside stimuli wash it away.
Loafers sat up and the porcupine went crazy, jamming needles into every square inch of his soft brain tissue.
“Oh,” groaned Loafers, cradling his aching skull. What did all this mean? Where was he? And how did he get here?
Loafers looked at his arms. For a second his brain projected tattoos onto the skin, but the images quickly disappeared. His skin was unblemished. Sunlight rolled across his forearms like white lightening.
All around him was scrubland. Terra-cotta earth stretched off to indigo hills in the distance. A golden disc of sun blasted cracks in the shimmering earth. Two figures ran through the heat waves, elegant as cheetahs.
The men were giants, easily seven feet tall. Each carried an oval, hide-covered shield, a thin spear, and a cell phone. Their hair, necks, and ears were decorated with multicolored beads.
Loafers jumped to his feet. Feet that, he noticed, were clad in leather sandals. The men were wearing Nikes.
“Help,” he cried. “Help me!”
The men altered their course, jogging across to the confused mobster.
“Jambo, brother. Are you lost?” asked one.
“I’m sorry,” said Loafers, in perfect Swahili. “I don’t speak Swahili.”
The man glanced at his partner.“I see. And what is your name?”
Loafers, said Loafers’ brain. “Nuru,” said his mouth.
“Well, Nuru. Unatoka wapi? Where are you from?”
The words were out before Loafers could do anything about it.
“I don’t know where I’m from, but I want to go with you. To your village. That’s where I should be.”
The Kenyan warriors stared down at the little stranger. He was the wrong color, true, but he seemed sane enough.
The taller of the two unhooked a cell phone from his leopard-skin belt. He punched in the village chieftain’s number.
“Jambo, Chief, this is Bobby. The earth spirits have left us another one.”
Bobby laughed, looking Loafers up and down.
“Yes, he’s tiny, but he looks strong and he’s got a smile bigger than a peeled banana.”
Loafers stretched his smile, just in case it was a factor. For some reason, all he wanted in this world was to go to the village and live a productive life.
“Okay, Chief, I’ll bring him in. He can have the missionary’s old hut.”
Bobby clipped the cell phone onto his belt. “Very well, brother Nuru. You’re in. Follow us, and try to keep up.”
The warriors set off at a brisk run. Loafers, henceforth to be known as Nuru, raced after them, his leather sandals flapping beneath his feet. He really would have to see about getting a pair of Nikes.
Fifty meters over their heads, Captain Holly Short hovered, shielded from view, recording the entire incident.
“Relocation complete,” she said into her helmet mike. “The subject has been adopted successfully. No apparent signs of original personality. But he will be monitored at monthly intervals, just in case.”
Foaly was on the other end of the line. “Excellent, Captain. Return to shuttle port E77 immediately. If you open the throttle, you might just make the evening shuttle. We’ll have you back in Ireland in a couple of hours.”
Holly did not need to be told twice. It wasn’t often you got clearance for a speed run. She activated her radar in case of buzzards and set the stopwatch on her visor.
“Now,” he said. “Let’s see if we can’t break the airspeed record.”
A record that had been set eighty years before by Julius Root.
PART 2
COUNTERATTACK
CHAPTER 8
HOOKS, LINES, AND SINKERS
Excerpt from Artemis Fowl’s diary, disk 2 (encrypted)
Today Father was fitted for his prosthetic limb. He joked throughout the entire process, as though he were being measured for a new suit on Grafton Street. I must admit, his good humor was infectious, and I found myself making excuses just to sit in the corner of the hospital room and enjoy his presence.
It wasn’t always this way. In the past, one needed valid grounds to visit my father. Of course he wasn’t generally available, and even when he was, his time was limited. One did not burst into the Fowl study without good reason. But now, I feel welcome at his side. It is a nice feeling.
My father always liked to impart wisdom, but now it is more philosophical that financial. In the old days, he would direct my attention to the latest share prices in the Financial Times.
“Look, Artemis,” he would say. “Everything else falls, but gold stays steady. That is because there is not enough of it. And there never will be. Buy gold, boy, and keep it safe.” I liked to listen to these pearls, but now they are harder to understand.