Leaning in close, Artemis began to speak softly so he could not possibly be overheard, even though his own sensors assured him that his was the only warm body of significant mass within twenty feet.
“Good morning, Foaly. I know there is not so much as an atom of Koboi technology in this little mutation, so in theory it can transmit, and I hope you are still alive to receive the transmission. Things are bad up here, my friend, very bad. Opal has opened the Berserker Gate and is working on the second lock. If she succeeds, a wave of coded earth magic will be released to destroy humanity utterly. This, in my opinion, is a bad thing. To stop this disaster from happening I need you to send me a couple of items in one of your drone mining eggs. There is no time for permits and committees, Foaly. These items must be in Fowl Manor in less than two hours, or it will be too late. Get what I need, Foaly.”
Artemis leaned in even closer to the tiny living camera and whispered urgently.
“Two things, Foaly. Two things to save the world.”
And he told the little bug what he needed and where exactly he needed them sent.
Police Plaza, Haven City, the Lower Elements
The color drained from Foaly’s face.
Koboi was working on the second lock.
This was catastrophic—though there were many fairies in Haven who would dance in the streets to celebrate the eradication of humanity, but no rational ones.
Two items.
The first wasn’t a problem. It was a toy, for heaven’s sake.
I think I have one in my desk.
But the second. The second.
That is a problem. A major problem.
There were legal issues and moral issues. If he even mentioned it to the Council, they would want to form a taskforce and a subcommittee.
What Artemis asked was technically possible. He did have a prototype mining egg in the testing area. All he had to do was program the coordinates into the navigation system, and the egg would speed toward the surface. Built to transport miners from cave-ins, the egg could withstand huge pressures and fly at the speed of sound three times around the world. So, Artemis’s time limit shouldn’t be a problem.
Foaly chewed a knuckle. Should he do what Artemis asked? Did he want to?
The centaur could ask himself questions until time had run out, but there was really only one question that mattered.
Do I trust Artemis?
Foaly heard breathing behind him and realized that Mayne was in the room.
“Who else has been in here?” he asked the technician.
Mayne snorted. “In here? You think the alpha fairies are going to hang around dork central when there’s a big old crisis going down? No one has been in here, and no one has seen this video. Except me.”
Foaly paced the length of his office. “Okay. Mayne, my young friend, how would you like a full-time job?”
Mayne squinted suspiciously. “What would I have to do?”
Foaly grabbed item number one from his desk drawer and headed for the door.
“Just your usual,” he replied. “Hang around the lab and be useless.”
Mayne made a copy of Artemis’s video just in case he was being implicated in some kind of treason.
“I could do that,” he said.
Fowl Manor; Ninety-Eight Minutes Later
Artemis was making final preparations in his office, updating his will and trying to master his feelings, tamping down a flat gray sky of sadness that threatened to cloud his resolve. He knew that Dr. Argon would advise him against bottling up his emotions as it would lead to psychological scarring in the long term.
But there will be no long term, Doctor, he thought wryly.
After so many adventures, Artemis felt he should have known that things never turned out exactly as planned, but still he felt surprised at the finality of this step he was being forced to take—and also that he was willing to even consider taking it.
The boy who kidnapped Holly Short all those years ago would never have entertained the notion of sacrificing himself.
But he was no longer that boy. His parents were restored to him, and he had brothers.
And dear friends.
Something else Artemis had never anticipated.
Artemis watched his hand shake as he signed his last will and testament. How valid many of his bequests were in this new age, he was not sure. The banking system was almost definitely irretrievably damaged, as were the world’s stock exchanges. So there went the stocks, bonds, and shares.
All that time spent accumulating wealth, Artemis thought. What a waste.
Then:
Come, now. You are simply being maudlin. You love gold almost as much as Mulch Diggums loves chicken. And, given the chance, you would probably do the same again.
It was true. Artemis didn’t believe in deathbed conversions. They were far too opportunistic. A man must be what he is and take whatever judgments were forthcoming on the chin.
If there is a Saint Peter, I will not argue with him at the Pearly Gates, he promised his subconscious, though Artemis knew that, if his theory was correct, he could be stuck on this plane as a spirit, just as the Berserkers were.