“Absolutely. Mulch assures me that copper is very cleansing.”
Artemis did not involve himself in the conversation. It was trivial, and he was deep in visualization mode, picturing every conceivable scenario that would face them when they reached Fowl Manor, and plotting how to emerge from these scenarios as the victor.
In this respect, Artemis’s methodology was similar to that of American chess master Bobby Fischer, who was capable of computing every possible move an opponent could make so that he could counteract it. The only problem with this technique was that there were some scenarios that Artemis simply could not face, and these had to be shuffled to the end of his process, rendering it flawed.
And so he plotted, realizing that it was probably futile, as he did not know most of the constants in this equation, not to mention the variables.
A dark promise drifted below the surface of his logic.
If my loved ones are harmed, then Opal Koboi shall pay.
Artemis tried to banish the thought as it served no useful purpose; but the notion of revenge refused to go away.
Holly had only a few hundred pilot hours logged in the Cupid, far too little for what she was attempting. But then again, there weren’t enough pilot hours in a lifetime for this kind of driving.
The Cupid sped along the canal, its chunky tires finding purchase in the Plexiglas trough, the tiny rocket disguised as an exhaust pipe boiling a short-lived wake in the smart-water. Suitcases were crushed under its treads or popped like mortars along the belt’s scoop, showering those below with fluttering garments, cosmetics, and smuggled human memorabilia. The security guards on duty had had the presence of mind to confiscate most of these artifacts, but nobody ever figured out who had managed to stuff a life-sized Gandalf cardboard cutout into a suitcase.
Holly drove on, concentrating through squinted eyes and gritted teeth. The luggage canal took them out of the terminal into bedrock. Upward they spiraled through archaeological strata, past dinosaur bones and Celtic tombs, through Viking settlements and Norman walls, until the Cupid emerged in a large baggage hall with a transparent roof that opened directly to the elements—a real James Bond supervillain–lair kind of place, complete with spidery metallic building struts and a shuttle rail system.
Generally, the Sky Window would be camouflaged using projectors and shields; but these security measures were out of commission until all Koboi parts could be replaced with technology that hadn’t exploded. On this afternoon, bruised Irish rainclouds drifted across the beveled panes, and the baggage hall would be completely visible from above if anyone cared to photograph the fairy baggage handlers or forklift trucks that stood with smoking holes in their bodywork, as though the victims of a sniper.
Holly asked the computer whether there was another way out besides the one it was suggesting. The onboard avatar informed her dispassionately that indeed there was, but it was three hundred miles away.
“D’Arvit,” muttered Holly, deciding that she wasn’t going to worry about rules anymore, or property damage. There was a bigger picture to consider here, and nobody likes a whiner.
Nobody likes a whiner. Her father had always said that.
She could see him now, spending every free minute in his precious garden, feeding algae to his tubers under the sim-sunlight.
You have to do your share of the housework, Poppy. Your mother and I work long hours to keep this family going. He would stop then and stroke her chin. The Berserkers made the ultimate sacrifice for the People long ago. Nobody’s asking you to go that far, but you could do your chores with a smile on your pretty face. He would stiffen then, playing at sergeant major. So hop to it, Soldier Poppy. Nobody likes a whiner.
Holly caught sight of her reflection in the windshield. Her eyes brimmed with melancholy. Daughters had always carried the nickname Poppy in her family. No one could remember why.
“Holly,” barked Artemis. “Security is closing in.”
Holly jerked guiltily and checked the perimeter. Several security guards were edging toward the Cupid, trying to bluff her with useless Neutrino handguns, using the smoking hulk of a flipped shuttle for cover.
One of the guards snapped off a couple of shots, dinging the front fender.
A custom weapon, Holly realized. He must have built it himself.
The shots had little effect on the Cupid’s plates. But if the guard had gone to the trouble of cobbling together his own backup pistol, perhaps he had thought to bolt on an armor-piercing barrel.
As if reading her mind, the guard fumbled at his belt for a clip of ammunition.
That’s the difference between me and you, thought Holly. I don’t fumble.