فصل هشتم

Chapter 8: Randomosity

Artemis Fowl’s Brain; Seconds Before Holly Short Shoots Him for the Second Time Artemis observed and considered from the confines of his own brain, watching through the booby-trapped wall in his imagined office. The scenario was interesting, fascinating, in fact, and almost distracted him from his own problems. Someone had decided to hijack Foaly’s Mars probe and aim it directly at Atlantis. And it could not be coincidence that the probe had stopped off in Iceland to take care of Commander Vinyáya and her finest troops, not to mention the Fairy People’s wiliest, and only, human ally: Artemis Fowl.

There is an elaborate plan being played out in front of us, not just a series of coincdences.

It wasn’t that Artemis didn’t believe in coincidences—he just found a series of them hard to swallow.

There was one main question, as far as Artemis could see: Who benefits?

Who benefits if Vinyáya dies and Atlantis is threatened?

Vinyáya was well known for her zero-tolerance approach to crime—so many criminals would be delighted to have her out of the way—but why Atlantis?

Of course, the prison! It must be Opal Koboi: this is her bid for freedom. The probe triggers an evacuation that gets her outside the dome.

Opal Koboi, public enemy number one. The pixie who had incited the goblins to revolution and murdered Julius Root.

It must be Opal.

Artemis corrected himself: It is probably Opal. Don’t leap to conclusions.

It was infuriating to be stuck inside his own brain when there was so much going on in the world. His nano-wafer prototype, the Ice Cube, had been destroyed, and, more urgently, there was a probe headed for Atlantis that could potentially destroy the city, or at the very least allow a homicidal pixie to effect her escape.

“Let me out, won’t you?” Artemis shouted at the mindscreen, and the shimmering fours marshaled themselves into squares and sent a lattice of glittering wire flashing across the screen.

Artemis had his answer.

I was put in here by electricity, and now it’s barring my way.

Artemis knew that there were many reputable institutes around the world that still used electroshock therapy to deal with various psychotic illnesses. He realized that when Holly had blasted him with her Neutrino, the charge had boosted the Orion personality, making it the dominant one.

It’s a pity Holly wouldn’t shoot me again.

Holly shot him again.

Artemis imagined two jagged forks of white lightning skittering through the air and turning the screen white.

I shouldn’t feel any pain, reasoned Artemis hopefully, as technically I am not conscious at the moment.

Conscious or not, Artemis felt just as much agony as Orion.

Typical of the way my day has been going, he thought as his virtual legs collapsed underneath him.

The North Atlantic Ocean; Now

Artemis woke sometime later with the smell of singed flesh in his nostrils. He knew he was back in the real world because of the harness digging into his shoulders and the choppy motion of the sea, which was making him nau-seated.

He opened his eyes and found himself looking at Foaly’s rump. The centaur’s back leg was kicking spasmodically as he battled sleep demons. There was music playing somewhere. Familiar music. Artemis closed his eyes and thought, That music is familiar because I composed it. “Siren Song” from my unfinished Third Symphony.

And why was it important?

It is important because I set it as my ring tone for Mother. She is calling me.

Artemis did not pat his pockets searching for his phone, because he always kept his phone in the same pocket. Indeed, he always had his tailors sew a leather-flapped zipper into his right breast pocket so that his phone could not be mislaid. For if Artemis Fowl mislaid his modified phone, it would be a little more serious than if Johnny Highschool happened to lose the latest touch-screen model, unless Johnny Highschool’s phone happened to have enough tech inside it to easily hack any government site, a nice little laser pointer that could be focused to burn through metal, and the first draft of Artemis Fowl’s memoirs, which did a little more than kiss and tell.

Artemis’s fingers were cold and numb, but after a few attempts he managed to paw the zipper open and fumble out his phone. On-screen the phone was playing a photo slideshow of his mother while the opening bars of “Siren Song” soared through the tiny speakers.

“Phone,” he said clearly, holding in a button on the casing to activate voice control.

“Yes, Artemis,” said the phone in Lily Frond’s voice, a voice that Artemis had picked simply to annoy Holly.

“Accept the call.”

“Of course, Artemis.”

A moment later the connection was made. The signal was weak, but that did not matter as Artemis’s phone had speech auto-fill software that was ninety-five percent accurate.

“Hello, Mother. How are you?”

“Arty, can you hear me? I’ve got an echo.”

“No. No echo on this end. I can hear you perfectly.”

“I can’t get the video to work, Artemis. You promised we would be able to see each other.” The video-call option was available, but Artemis rejected it, as he did not think his mother would be heartened by the view of her disheveled son hanging from a harness in a crippled escape pod.

Disheveled? Who am I kidding? I must look like a refugee from a war zone, which is what I am.

“There’s no video network in Iceland. I should have checked.” “Hmm,” said his mother, and Artemis knew that syllable well. It meant that she suspected him of something, but didn’t know what, exactly.

“So you are in Iceland?”

Artemis was glad there was no video feed, as it was more difficult to lie face-to-face.

“Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

“I ask because the GPS puts you in the North Atlantic Ocean.” Artemis frowned. His mother had insisted on a GPS function on the phone if she were to allow him to go off alone.

“That’s probably just a bug in the program,” said Artemis as he quickly tapped into the GPS application and manually set his location to Reykjavík. “Sometimes the locator is a little off. Give it another try.” Silence for a moment, but for the tapping of keys, then another hmmm.

“I suppose it’s redundant to ask whether or not you’re up to something? Artemis Fowl is always up to something.” “That’s not fair, Mother,” protested Artemis. “You know what I’m trying to achieve.” “I do know. My goodness, Arty, it’s all you can talk about. THE PROJECT.” “It is important.”

“I know that, but people are important too. How’s Holly?”

Artemis glanced at Holly, who was curled around the leg of a bench, snoring quietly. Her uniform looked very battered, and there was blood leaking from one ear.

“She’s . . . em . . . fine. A little tired from the journey, but totally in control of the situation. I admire her, Mother, really I do. The way she handles whatever life throws at her and never gives up.” Angeline Fowl drew a surprised breath. “Well, Artemis Fowl the Second, that is about the longest nonscientific speech I have ever heard you make. Holly Short is lucky to have a friend like you.” “No she isn’t,” said Artemis miserably. “No one is lucky to know me. I can’t help anyone. I can’t even help myself.” “That’s not true, Arty,” said Angeline strictly. “Who saved Haven from the goblins?” “A few people. I suppose I had a part in it.”

“And who found his father in the Arctic when everyone else had given him up for dead?” “That was me.”

“Well, then, never say you can’t help anyone. You’ve spent most of your life helping. Yes, you’ve made a few mistakes, but your heart is in the right place.” “Thank you, Mother. I feel better now.”

Angeline cleared her throat—a little nervously, Artemis thought.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. There’s just something I need to tell you.”

Artemis felt suddenly nervous. “What is it, Mother?”

A dozen possible revelations ran through his head. Had his mother found out about some of his shadier operations? She knew all about his various fairy-related schemes, but there was plenty of human stuff he hadn’t confessed to.

That’s the problem with being a semi-reformed criminal: you are never free from guilt. Exposure is always just a phone call away.

“It’s about your birthday.”

Artemis’s shoulders drooped with relief. “My birthday. Is that all?” “I got you something . . . different, but I want you to have them. It would make me happy.” “If they make you happy, I am sure they will make me happy.”

“So, Arty, you have to promise me you’ll use them.”

Artemis’s nature made it hard for him to promise anything. “What are they?” “Promise me, honey.”

Artemis glanced out of the porthole. He was stuck in a burned-out escape pod in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Either they would sink, or some Scandinavian navy would mistake them for aliens and blow their tub out of the water.

“Very well, I promise. So, what did you get for me?”

Angeline paused for a beat. “Jeans.”

“What?” croaked Artemis.

“And a T-shirt.”

Artemis knew that he shouldn’t really be upset, in the circumstances, but he couldn’t help himself. “Mother, you tricked me.” “Now, I know you don’t really do casual.”

“What do you mean? Last month at that cake sale I rolled up both sleeves.” “People are afraid of you, Arty. Girls are terrified of you. You’re a fifteen-year-old in a bespoke suit, and nobody died.” Artemis took several breaths. “Does the T-shirt have any writing on it?” A rustling of paper crackled through the phone’s speakers. “Yes. It’s so cool. There’s a picture of a boy who for some reason has no neck and only three fingers on each hand, and behind him in a sort of graffiti style is the word RANDOMOSITY. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds really current.” Randomosity, thought Artemis, and he felt like weeping. “Mother, I . . .” “You promised, Arty. That’s what you did.”

“Yes. I did promise, Mother.”

“And I want you to call me Mum.”

“Mother! You’re being unreasonable. I am who I am. T-shirts and jeans are not me.” Angeline Fowl played her trump card. “Well, you know, Arty dear, sometimes people are not who they think they are.” This was a none-too-subtle dig at Artemis for mesmerizing his own parents, something Angeline had only become aware of when Opal Koboi had occupied her body and all the secrets of the fairy world had become known to her.

“That’s hardly fair.”

“Fair? Wait, let me call the gentlemen of the press. Artemis Fowl just used the word fair.” Artemis realized that his mother was not quite over the mesmerizing thing yet.

“Very well. I consent to wearing the jeans and T-shirt.”

“Excuse me?”

“Very well. I will wear the jeans and T-shirt . . . Mum.”

“I am so happy. Tell Butler to put by two days a week. Jeans and Mums. Get used to it.” What’s next? Artemis wondered. Baseball hats worn back to front?

“Butler is taking good care of you, I trust?”

Artemis colored. More lies. “Yes. You should see his face at this meeting. He is bored out of his mind with all the science.” Angeline’s voice changed, became warmer, more emotional.

“I know it’s important, Arty, what you’re doing. Important for the planet, I mean. And I believe in you, son. Which is why I am keeping your secret and letting you gallivant across the globe with fairy folk, but you have to promise me that you’re safe.” Artemis had heard the expression to feel like a real heel, but now he actually understood it.

“I am the safest human in the world,” he said jauntily. “I have more protection than a president. I’m better armed too.” Yet another hmmm. “This is the last solo mission, Arty. You promised me. ‘I just have to save the world,’ you said. ‘Then I can spend more time with the twins.’” “I remember,” said Artemis, which wasn’t really agreeing.

“See you tomorrow morning, then. The dawn of a new day.”

“See you tomorrow morning, Mum.”

Angeline hung up, and her picture disappeared from Artemis’s screen. He was sorry to see it go.

On the deck, Foaly suddenly flipped onto his back.

“Not the stripy ones,” he blurted. “They’re just little babies.” Then he opened his eyes and saw Artemis watch-ing him.

“Did I say that out loud?”

Artemis nodded. “Yes. Something about the stripy ones being babies.” “Childhood memory. I’m pretty much over it now.”

Artemis stretched out a hand to help the centaur to his hooves.

“No help from you,” Foaly moaned, slapping at the hand as though it were a wasp. “I have had enough of you. If you even think the phrase goodly beast, I am going to kick you straight in the teeth.” Artemis slapped the buckle on his chest, opening the harness, stretching his hand out farther.

“I am sorry about all of that, Foaly. But I’m fine now. It’s me, Artemis.” Now Foaly accepted the steadying hand. “Oh, thank the gods. That other guy was really getting on my nerves.” “Not so fast,” said Holly, appearing fully conscious between the two.

“Whoa,” said Foaly, rearing. “Don’t you moan and groan a bit when you regain consciousness?” “Nope,” said Holly. “LEP ninja training. And this guy isn’t Artemis. He said Mum. I heard him. Artemis Fowl doesn’t say Mum, Mummy, Mom, or Momsy. This is Orion trying to pull a fast one.” “I realize how it sounded,” said Artemis. “But you have to believe me. My mother extorted that term of endearment from me.” Foaly tapped his long chin. “Extorted? Endearment? It’s Artemis, all right.” “Thanks for shooting me the second time,” said Artemis, touching the burn marks on his neck. “The charge set me free from the fours, for the time being. And I’m sorry about all that rubbish Orion was spouting. I have no idea where that came from.” “We need to talk about that at great length,” said Holly, brushing past him to the dashboard. “But later. First, let’s see if I can raise Haven.” Foaly tapped a button on his phone’s screen. “Already on it, Captain.” After all the drama of the previous few hours, it seemed impossible that they could simply phone Haven and get a connection just like that, but that’s exactly what happened.

Commander Trouble Kelp picked up on the first ring, and Foaly put the video call on speaker.

“Holly? Is that you?”

“Yes, Commander. I have Foaly with me, and Artemis Fowl.”

Trouble grunted. “Artemis Fowl. Why am I not surprised? We should have sucked that Mud Whelp’s brain out through his ear when we had the chance.” Trouble Kelp was famous for his gung-ho attitude—that and the fact that he had chosen Trouble as his graduation name. There was an honest-to-gods true story going around the Academy that, as a lowly street cop, young Officer Kelp drove his riot scooter down an alley in Boolatown during the solstice and PAed to a dozen or so scrapping goblins the immortal line: If you’re looking for trouble, you’ve come to the right place. After the goblins had finished laughing, they gave Trouble a hiding he did not soon forget. The scars made him a little more cautious, but not much.

Trouble sat at his desk in Police Plaza, ramrod straight in his blue commander’s jumpsuit, acorn cluster glittering on his chest. His dark hair was close-cropped over impressive pointed ears, and deep purple eyes glared out from under brows that jinked like lightning bolts as he spoke.

“Hello, Commander,” said Artemis. “Nice to be appre-ciated.”

“I appreciate armpit lice more than I’m ever likely to appreciate you, Fowl. Get over it.” Artemis could think of half a dozen withering responses to this comment off the top of his head, but he kept these put-downs to himself for the greater good.

I am fifteen now; time to behave maturely.

Holly cut through the male posturing. “Commander, is Atlantis safe?” “Most of it,” said Trouble. “Half a dozen evac ships took a pasting. One shuttle suffered a direct hit, buried deeper than hell itself. It’s going to take months to put the pieces together.” Holly’s shoulders drooped. “Casualties?”

“Definitely. We don’t know how many yet, but dozens.” Trouble’s brow was heavy with the weight of command. “It’s a dark day for the People, Captain. First Vinyáya and her troops, now this.” “What happened?”

Trouble’s gaze shifted to a point offscreen as his fingers tapped a V-board. “One of Foaly’s brainers did a simulation. I’m sending it to you now.” Seconds later, a message icon pulsed on the screen of Foaly’s phone. Holly selected it, and a simple 2-D video played, depicting an outlined probe entering the Earth’s atmosphere over Iceland.

“Can you see that, Captain?”

“Yes, it’s up.”

“Good. Let me talk you through it. So, Foaly’s Martian probe shows up just below the Arctic Circle. We’re taking your word for this since we didn’t detect it, thanks to our own cloaking technology. Shields, stealth ore, all turned against us. I don’t have to tell you what happened next.” On-screen the probe sent a laser burst into a small target on the surface, then jettisoned a few bots to deal with survivors. The craft barely slowed down before plowing through the ice, taking a southwesterly course toward the Atlantic.

“Again, this part of the simulation was done without computer data. We took what you told us and also extrapolated backward from our own readings.” Artemis interrupted. “You had readings? At what point did you start to get readings?” “It was the strangest thing,” said Trouble, frowning. “We heeded Captain Short’s warning and ran a scan. Nothing. Then, five minutes later, up the probe pops on our screens. No shields, nothing. In fact, she was blowing heat out the vents, so we couldn’t miss her. She even blew her engine plates off. The thing was shining brighter than the North Star. And just in case we missed it, we got a tip-off from a bar in Miami, of all places. We had time enough to evacuate.” “But not enough to reach her,” mused Artemis.

“Exactly,” said Trouble Kelp, who wouldn’t have agreed if it had occurred to him that he was agreeing with arch-criminal Artemis Fowl. “All we could do was pump up the water cannons, empty the city, and wait until the probe came into range.” “And then?” prompted Artemis.

“Then I authorized a few practice shots along the trajectory before the probe was really in range. There shouldn’t have been enough power in them to cause any damage—the water shells dissipate over distance—but one must have held on to a bit of punch, because the probe spun off course and nose-dived straight into the seabed, taking a shuttle down with it.” “Opal Koboi was on that shuttle, wasn’t she?” said Artemis urgently. “This is all her doing. This reeks of Opal.” “No, Fowl, if it reeks of anyone, it reeks of you. This all started with your conference in Iceland, and now some of our best people are dead, and we have an underwater rescue mission on our hands.” Artemis’s face was red. “Forget how you feel about me. Was Opal on the shuttle?” “She was not,” thundered Trouble, and the pod’s speakers vibrated. “But you were in Iceland, and now you’re here.” Holly stepped in to defend her friend. “Artemis had nothing to do with this, Commander.” “That may be, but there are too many coincidences here, Holly. I need you to detain the Mud Boy until I can get a rescue bird up to you. It could be a few hours, so take on some ballast in the tanks and drop your buoyancy a little. You shouldn’t be spotted below the surface.” Holly was not happy with this course of action. “Sir, Commander, we know what happened. But Artemis is right—we need to think about who made it happen.” “We can talk about that in Police Plaza. For now, my priority is to keep people alive, simple as that. There are fairies still trapped in Atlantis. Everything watertight we have is headed there right now. We can discuss the Mud Boy’s theories tomorrow.” “Maybe we can construct a bivouac while we’re at it,” muttered Holly.

Trouble Kelp was not one to swallow insubordination. He leaned close to the camera, his forehead stretching wide in the pinhole lens.

“Did you say something, Captain?”

“Whoever did this is not finished,” said Holly, doing a little leaning in herself. “This is part of a bigger plan, and detaining Artemis is the worst possible thing you could do.” “Oh, really,” said Trouble, chuckling unexpectedly. “Odd you should say that, because in the message you sent earlier, you commented that Artemis Fowl had lost it. Your exact words were—” Holly glanced guiltily at Artemis. “No need for the exact words, sir.” “Sir now, is it? Your exact words were, and I quote—obviously since they are your exact words—you said that Artemis Fowl was ‘crazier than a salt-water-drinking troll with ringworm.’ ” Artemis shot Holly a recriminating look that said: Ringworm? Really?

Holly brushed the comment aside with a hand. “That was earlier. I have shot Artemis twice since then, and he’s fine now.” Trouble grinned. “You shot him twice. That’s more like it.”

“The point is,” Holly persisted, “we need Artemis to help figure this out.” “Like he figured out Julius Root and Commander Raine Vinyáya.” “That is not fair, Trouble.”

Kelp was unrepentant. “You can call me Trouble in the officers’ club on the weekend. Until then it’s Commander. And I order you, no, I command you to detain the human Artemis Fowl. We’re not arresting him—I just want him down here for a little chat. What I certainly do not want is for us to act on any of his notions. Understood?” Holly’s face was wooden and her voice dull. “Understood, Commander.” “Your pod has enough juice to power the locator, no more, so don’t even think about making for the shore. You look a shade paler than death, Captain, so I’m guessing you don’t have any spare magic for shielding.” “Paler than death? Thanks, Trubs.”

“Trubs, Captain? Trubs?”

“I meant Trouble.”

“That’s better. So all I want you to do is sit on the Mud Boy. Got it?” Holly’s words were so honeyed that they could have charmed a bear. “I’ve got it good, Trouble. Captain Holly Short, babysitter extraordinaire, at your service.” “Hmmm,” said Trouble, in a tone that Angeline Fowl’s son understood very well.

“Hmmm, indeed,” said Holly.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” said Trouble, with a flicker of one eyelid that could be interpreted as a wink. “I, as your superior, am telling you to stay put and not make any attempt to get to the bottom of what’s really going on here, especially not with the help of a human, especially especially not that particular human. Do you read me?” “I read you loud and clear, Trouble,” said Holly, and Artemis understood that Trouble Kelp was not forbidding Holly to investigate further—he was actually covering himself on video in case Holly’s actions resulted in a tribunal, which they often did.

“I read you loud and clear too, Commander,” said Artemis. “If that makes any difference.” Trouble snorted. “Remember those armpit lice, Fowl? Their opinions make more difference to me than yours.” And he was gone before Artemis could trot out one of his pre-prepared retorts. And in years to come, when Professor J. Argon published the best-selling Artemis Fowl biography, Fowl and Fairy, this particular exchange would be deemed significant as one of the few times anyone got the last word over Artemis Fowl II.

Holly made a sound that was a little like a shriek, but not as girly and with more frustration.

“What’s the matter?” asked Foaly. “I thought that went pretty well. It seemed to me that Commander Trouble Kelp, aka your boyfriend, gave us the green light to investigate.” Holly turned her mismatched eyes on him. “First of all, he’s not my boyfriend—we went on one date, and I told you that in confidence because I thought you were a friend who wouldn’t trot it out at the first opportunity.” “It’s not the first opportunity. I held it back the time when we had that lovely tea.” “Irrelevant!” shouted Holly, through funneled hands.

“Don’t worry, Holly, it stays in this room,” said Foaly, thinking it would be a bad time to mention that he had posted the gossip on his Web site www.horsesense.gnom.

“And secondly,” continued Holly, “maybe Trouble did give me the backhanded go-ahead, but what good is that to us in the middle of the Atlantic in a dead lump of metal?” Artemis glanced skyward. “Ah, you see, I might be able to help you there. Any second now.” Several seconds passed by without any significant change in their situation.

Holly raised her palms. “Any second? Really?”

Artemis couldn’t help being a little peeved. “Not literally. It might take a minute or so. Perhaps I should call him.” Fifty-nine seconds later, something bonged against the pod’s hatch.

“Aha,” said Artemis, in a way that made Holly feel like punching him.

Over the Atlantic; Two Hours Earlier

“This is not a bad ship, as it happens,” said Mulch Diggums, pushing a couple of buttons on the stolen mercenaries’ ship just to see what they did. When one caused the contents of the sewage recycler to be dumped on an innocent Scottish deep-sea trawler below, the dwarf decided to stop pushing.

(One of the fishermen happened to be making a video of gulls for his university media course and caught the entire descending blob of waste matter on film. It seemed to anyone who saw the tape as though the ponging mass just appeared in the sky then dropped rapidly onto the unfortunate sailors. Sky News ran the video with the headline: Panic on the Poop Deck. The segment was largely dismissed as a student prank.) “I should have guessed that one,” Mulch said, without a trace of guilt. “There’s a little picture of a toilet on the button.” Juliet sat hunched over on one of the passenger benches that ran along one side of the cargo bay, her head tipping the ceiling, and Butler lay flat on the other one, as it was the most practical way for him to travel.

“So Artemis has been shutting you out?” she asked her brother.

“Yes,” replied Butler dejectedly. “I’d swear he doesn’t trust me anymore. I’d swear he doesn’t even trust his own mother.” “Angeline? How could anyone not trust Mrs. Fowl? That’s ridiculous.” “I know,” said Butler. “And I’ll go one better. Artemis doesn’t trust the twins.” Juliet started, bumping her head on the metal ceiling. “Oww. Madre de dios. Artemis doesn’t trust Myles and Beckett? That’s just ridiculous. What terrible acts of sabotage are three-year-olds supposed to commit?” Butler grimaced. “Unfortunately, Myles contaminated one of Artemis’s petri dishes when he wanted a sample for his own experiments.” “That’s hardly industrial espionage. What did Beckett do?”

“He ate Artemis’s hamster.”

“What?”

“Well, he chewed on its leg for a bit.” Butler shifted in the cramped space. Fairy crafts were not built to accommodate giant, shaven-headed, human bodyguards. Not that the shaved head made much difference.

“Artemis was livid, claimed there was a conspiracy against him. He installed a combination lock on his lab door to keep his brothers out.” Juliet grinned, though she knew she shouldn’t. “Did that work?” “No. Myles stayed at the door for three days straight, tapping away until he came across the correct combination. He used several rolls of toilet paper writing down the possibilities.” Juliet was almost afraid to ask. “What did Beckett do?”

Butler grinned back at his sister. “Beckett dug a bear trap in the garden, and when Myles fell in, he swapped him a ladder for the code.” Juliet nodded appreciatively. “That’s what I would have done.” “Me too,” said Butler. “Maybe Beckett will end up as Myles’s bodyguard.” The light moment didn’t last long. “Artemis isn’t taking my calls. Imagine that. I think he’s changed his SIM, so I can’t track him.” “But we are tracking him, right?”

Butler checked his touch-screen phone. “Oh yes. Artemis isn’t the only one with Foaly’s phone number.” “What did that sneaky centaur give you?”

“An isotope spray. You just spray it on a surface, then track it with one of Foaly’s mi-p’s.” “Meepees?”

“Mini-programs. Foaly uses it to keep an eye on his kids.”

“Where did you spray it?”

“Artemis’s shoes.”

Juliet giggled. “He does like ‘em shiny.”

“Yes, he does.”

“You’re starting to think like a Fowl, brother.”

Mulch Diggums called back from the cockpit. “Gods help us all. That’s what the world needs, more Fowls.” They all shared a guilty laugh at that.

The mercenary gyro tracked the Gulf Stream north to the coast of Ireland, moving at slightly more than twice the speed ever achieved by the Concorde, then swung in a long northwesterly arc into the North Atlantic as its computer zeroed in on Artemis’s footwear.

“Artemis’s shoes are walking us right to him,” said Mulch, chortling at his own joke. The Butlers did not join in the mirth, not from any loyalty to their employer, who enjoyed the occasional joke, but because Mulch’s mouth was packed with the contents of the shuttle’s cooler box, and they had no idea what he had just said.

“Please yourselves,” said Mulch, spattering the inside of the windshield with chewed sweet corn. “I make the effort to speak in humanese, and you two joke snobs won’t even laugh at my efforts.” The shuttle rocketed along, six feet above the wave tops, its anti-grav pulses burrowing periodic cylinders into the ocean’s surface. The engine noise was low and could have been mistaken for a whistling wind, and to any smart mammals below who could see through the shields, the shuttle could be mistaken for a very fast humpback with an extra-wide tail and a loading bay.

“We really lucked out with this bucket,” commented Mulch, his mouth mercifully empty. “She’s more or less flying herself. I just put your phone into the dock, opened the mi-p, and off she went.” The craft behaved a little like a tracker dog, suddenly coming to a dead stop whenever it lost the scent, then casting its prow about furiously until the isotope showed up again. At one point it had plunged into the ocean, burrowing straight down until pressure cracked the fuselage plates, and they lost a square foot of shielding.

“Don’t worry, Mud Men,” Mulch had reassured them. “All fairy craft have sea engines. When you live underground, it makes sense to build watertight ships.” Juliet had not ceased to worry: from what she remembered, reassurance from Mulch Diggums was about as reliable as a cocktail from the Pittsburgh Poisoner.

Fortunately, the underwater jaunt hadn’t lasted too long, and soon they were flitting across the wave tops once more without incident, except for the time when Mulch forgot his promise not to press mysterious buttons and almost crashed them into the sun-flecked seas by releasing the emergency-brake mini-parachute cluster.

“It was calling me, that button,” he offered as his excuse. “I couldn’t resist.” The jolting stop had shunted Butler along the bench. He slid the entire length of the fuselage into the cockpit divider. Only his lightning reactions stopped him from getting his head jammed in the railings.

Butler rubbed his crown, which he had clipped on a bar. “Take it easy, or there will be consequences. You said it yourself: we don’t need you to fly the ship.” Mulch guffawed, giving a nasty view of his cavernous food pipe. “That’s true, Butler, my freakishly large friend. But you certainly need me to land it.” Juliet’s laugh was high and sweet and seemed to ricochet off the curved metal walls.

“You too, Juliet?” said Butler reproachfully.

“Come on, brother. That was funny. You’ll laugh too when Mulch plays back the video.” “There’s video?” said Butler, which just set the other two laughing again.

All of this laughing did nothing to delay Butler’s reunion with his Principal, Artemis Fowl. A Principal who no longer trusted him and who had probably lied to him, sending Butler to another continent and using Juliet to ensure that he would travel.

I believed that my own baby sister was in danger. Artemis, how could you?

There would be tough questions asked when he finally caught up with Artemis. And the answers had better be good or, for the first time in the history of their families’ centuries-long relationship, a Butler might just walk away from his duties.

Artemis is ill, Butler rationalized. He’s not responsible.

Maybe Artemis was not responsible. But he soon would be.

The mercenaries’ shuttle finally jerked to a halt over a spot of open ocean just above the sixtieth parallel. It was a spot that seemed no different than the square gray miles that stretched away on all sides, until the anti-grav pillar plowed through six feet of water below, revealing the arrowhead escape pod.

“I love this ship,” Mulch crowed. “It makes me look smarter-er than I am.” The surrounding waters churned and boiled as the invisible pulses tested the surface and compacted the waves enough to keep the ship hovering in place. Down below, the pulses would sound like bell clappers on the pod’s skin.

“Hello,” called Mulch. “We’re up here.”

Butler stuck his head and shoulders into the cockpit, which was about all of him that could fit.

“Can’t we radio them?”

“Radio?” said the dwarf. “You don’t know much about being a fugitive, do you? The first thing you do when you steal an LEP ship is strip out anything that could carry a signal to Police Plaza. Every wire, every fuse, every lens. All gone. I’ve known guys who got caught because they left the sound system in. That’s an old Foaly trick. He knows bad boys love their loud music, so he installs a set of speakers to kill for in every LEP bird, each one loaded with tracer gel. There’s hardly any tech left in here.” “So?”

“So what?” said Mulch, as if he had no idea what they were talking about.

“So how do we communicate with that ship down there?”

“You have a phone, don’t you?”

Butler’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Artemis is not taking my calls. He’s not himself.” “That’s terrible,” said Mulch. “But do you think they have food? Some of those escape pods have emergency rations. A little chewy, but okay with a nice bottle of beer.” Butler was wondering whether this change of subject warranted a clip on the ear, when his phone rang.

“It’s Artemis,” he said, seeming a little more shocked than when he’d been surrounded by luchador zombies.

“Butler?” said Artemis’s voice.

“Yes, Artemis.”

“We need to talk.”

“You’d better make it good,” said Butler, and severed the connection.

It took mere moments to winch down a bucket seat to the pod below, and another few minutes for the pod’s occupants to clamber into the mercenaries’ shuttle. Holly was the last up as she pulled the scuttle cord and opened the escape pod’s ballast tanks wide before she left, sinking the craft.

As soon as her elbow crabbed over the doorway’s lip, Holly began giving orders.

“Monitor LEP channels on the radio,” she barked. “We need to find out how the investigation is proceeding.” Mulch grinned from the pilot’s chair. “Aha, you see that might be a problem, this being a stolen ship and all. Not much in the way of communications. And hello, by the way. I’m fine, still alive, and all that. Happy to be able to save your life. Also, what investigation are we talking about?” Holly pulled herself all the way inside, glancing regretfully down at the sinking pod with its—until recently—functional communications array.

“Ah well,” she sighed. “You work with whatever limited resources you have.” “Thanks a bunch,” said Mulch, miffed. “Did you bring any food? I haven’t eaten for, wow, it must be minutes.” “No, no food,” said Holly. She hugged Mulch tightly, one of perhaps four people in the world who would voluntarily touch the dwarf, then pushed him out of the pilot’s chair, taking his place. “That will have to do for niceties. I’ll buy you an entire barbecue hamper later.” “With real meat?”

Holly shuddered. “Of course not. Don’t be disgusting.”

Butler sat up and spared a moment to nod at Holly, then turned his full attention on Artemis, who carried himself like the Artemis of old but without the customary cock-iness.

“Well?” said Butler, the single syllable laden with implication. If I do not like what I hear, it could be the end of the road for us.

Artemis knew that the situation merited at least a hug, and some day in the future, after years of meditation, he might feel comfortable spontaneously hugging people, but at this moment it was all he could do to lay a hand on Juliet’s shoulder and another on Butler’s forearm.

“I am so sorry, my friends, to have lied to you.”

Juliet covered the hand with her own, for that was her nature, but Butler raised his as though he were being arrested.

“Juliet could have died, Artemis. We were forced to fight off a horde of mesmerized wrestling fans and a shipload of dwarf mercenaries. We were both in grave danger.” Artemis pulled away, the moment of emotion past. “Real danger? Then someone has been spying on me. Someone who knew our movements. Possibly the same someone who sent the probe to kill Vinyáya and target Atlantis.” Over the next few minutes, while Holly ran a systems check and plotted a course for the crash site, Artemis brought Butler and Juliet up to speed, saving the diagnosis of his own illness for last.

“I have a disorder which the fairies call an Atlantis Complex. It is similar to obsessive-compulsive disorder but also manifests as delusional dementia and even multiple personality.” Butler nodded slowly. “I see. So when you sent me away, you were in the grips of this Atlantis Complex.” “Exactly. I was in stage one, which involves a large dose of paranoia as one of its symptoms. You missed stage two.” “Lucky for you,” Holly called back from the cockpit. “That Orion guy was a little too friendly.” “My subconscious built the Orion personality as my alter ego. Artemis, I’m sure you remember, was the goddess of the hunt, and legend has it that Orion was Artemis’s mortal enemy, so she sent a scorpion to kill him. In my mind Orion was free from the guilt I harbored from my various schemes, especially the guilt of mesmerizing my parents, kidnapping Holly, and, crucially, seeing my mother possessed by Opal. Perhaps had I not dabbled in magic I might have developed a slight personality disorder, maybe even Child Genius Syndrome, but with my neural pathways coated with stolen magic I know now that it was inevitable I would succumb to Atlantis.” Artemis dropped his eyes. “What I did was shameful. I was weak and I will carry regret for the rest of my life.” Butler’s face softened. “Are you well now? Did the electrocution do the trick?” Foaly was getting a little tired of Artemis doing all the lecturing, so he cleared his throat and volunteered some information. “According to my phone’s mi-p almanac, shock treatment is an archaic treatment and rarely permanent. Atlantis Complex can be cured, but only through extended therapy and the careful use of psychoactive drugs. Soon, Artemis’s compulsions will return and he will feel an irresistible urge to complete his mission, to number things, and to avoid the number four, which I believe sounds like the Chinese word for death.” “So, Artemis is not cured?”

Artemis was suddenly glad that there were five other people in the shuttle. A good omen for success.

“No. I am not cured yet.”

Omens? It begins again.

Artemis actually wrung his hands, a physical sign of his determination.

I will not be beaten by this so soon.

And to prove it, he deliberately composed a sentence with four words.

“I will be fine.”

“Oooh,” said Mulch, who always had trouble grasping the gravity of situations. “Four. Scary.” The first thing was to get them down to the crash site, as it seemed obvious to everyone except Mulch that the space probe did not navigate its way through the atmosphere with pinpoint accuracy just to accidentally crash into a prison shuttle. With Holly at the controls, the stolen ship was soon slicing through the Atlantic depths, trailing intertwining streams of air bubbles.

“There’s something afoot here,” mused Artemis, gripping the fingers of his left hand tightly to stop them from shaking. “Vinyáya was taken out to hobble the LEP, then the probe gives up its own position, and someone phones in a tip allowing the Atlantis authorities just enough time to evacuate, and then the probe lands on a shuttle. Bad luck for the occupants?” “Is that one of those rhetorical questions?” wondered Mulch. “I can never get the hang of those. Also, while we’re on the subject, what’s the difference between a metaphor and a simile?” Holly snapped her fingers. “Somebody wanted everybody in the shuttle dead.” “Somebody wanted us to think that everyone in the shuttle was dead,” corrected Artemis. “What a way to fake your own death. It will be months before the LEP can put the pieces together, if ever. That’s a nice head start for a fugitive.” Holly turned to Foaly. “I need to know who was on that prison shuttle. Do you have an inside guy in Police Plaza?” Butler was surprised. “Inside guy? I thought you guys were the inside guys.” “We’re a little on the outside at the moment,” admitted Holly. “I’m supposed to be detaining Artemis.” Juliet clapped her hands. “Have you ever actually obeyed an order?” “It was kind of a non-order, and anyway I only obey orders when they are sound. In this case, it would be ridiculous to sit around for an hour in a burned-out pod while our enemy, whoever it is, gets on with phase two.” “I agree,” said Artemis, keeping his voice level.

“How can we be sure there is a phase two?” Butler asked.

Artemis smiled grimly. “Of course there is a phase two. Our opponent is fiendish and clever—there will never be a better time to drive home his advantage. It’s what I would have done, a few years ago.” His normal calm shattered for a moment, and he snapped at Foaly. “I need that list, Foaly. Who was on that prison shuttle?” “Okay, okay, Mud Boy. I’m working on it. I need to go the long way around so my inquiries don’t land on Trouble’s desk. This is technical, complicated stuff.” What the centaur would never admit was that he was actually asking his gifted nephew Mayne to hack into the police live site and text him the list in return for an extra-large ice-cream cone when he returned home.

“Okay. I have it, from my . . . eh . . . source.”

“Just tell me, Foaly.”

Foaly projected a screen from his phone to the wall. Beside each name there was a link to a data charge that would tell you everything about the prisoner right down to the color of his underpants, if that’s what you really wanted to know, and fairy psychologists were becoming more and more convinced that undergarment coloring was a vital part of a person’s development.

Mulch spotted a name he knew, and it wasn’t a criminal.

“Hey, look. Old Vishby was piloting. They must have given him his license back.” “Do you know him, Mulch?” asked Holly sharply.

For such a hardened ex-criminal, Mulch had a soft center. “Hey, why so crabby? I’m trying to help out here. Of course I know him. It would be pretty weird me saying ‘Hey, look, old Vishby, they gave him his license back’ if I didn’t know him.” Holly took a breath, reminding herself how Mulch had to be handled. “You’re right, of course. So how do you know old Vishby?” “Funny story, really,” replied Mulch, smacking his lips, wishing he had a chicken leg to go along with the story. “I escaped from him a few years ago when you were in the frame for murdering Julius. He never got over it. He still hates me, hates the LEP too for taking his license. Sends me abusive mails occasionally. I send him back little vid boxes of myself laughing. Drives him crazy.” “Someone with a grudge,” said Artemis. “Interesting. The perfect inside man. But who’s running him?” Holly turned to study the projected list.

“This sprite, Unix. I took him in. He’s one of Turnball Root’s boys. A cold-blooded killer.” Holly paled. “Bobb Ragby is on here too. And Turnball himself. All these guys are Turnball’s. How in the name of the gods did he get his entire gang on one shuttle? This would have raised a dozen flags on the computer.” “Unless . . .” said Artemis, scrolling down the list on Foaly’s screen. He tapped the data charge beside Bobb Ragby. His picture and file opened on a separate window, and Artemis quickly scanned it. “Look, there’s no mention of Turnball Root. According to this, Ragby was arrested for mail fraud and has no known affiliations or accomplices.” He tapped another link and read aloud. “’File updated by . . . Mr. Vishby.’” Holly was in shock. “It’s Turnball Root. He set this up.”

Holly herself had been responsible for the capture of Julius’s brother during her Recon initiation exercise. It was a story she had told Foaly many times.

“It would appear that Turnball is our adversary, which is not good news. But even taking his intellect and his hold over this Vishby person into account, we still don’t know how he commandeered a space probe.” “It’s just not possible,” said Foaly, adding an equine harrumph to lend weight to a statement that even he did not believe.

“Possible or not, we’ll have to talk about it later,” said Holly, leveling the craft to just off horizontal. “We’re at the crash site.” Everyone was relieved that the stolen ship had made it down in one piece. The mercenaries had probably stripped out much of what they didn’t need, to save weight, and, more than likely, they had been a little reckless with the crowbars as they’d gone about it. One loose rivet or cracked weld line would have been enough to allow a few atmospheres to squirt out, and the ship would have been crushed like a soda can in the hand of a giant who was immensely strong and didn’t like soda cans.

But the ship held its integrity in spite of an ominous rippling along the fuselage, which appeared suddenly.

“Who cares?” said Mulch, as usual failing to see the big picture. “It’s not even our ship. What are those mercenaries going to do, sue?” But even as he spoke, Mulch’s humor was tinged with loss.

I can never go back to the Sozzled Parrot again, he realized. And they served great curry. Real meat too.

Outside and below, Atlantis rescue ships buzzed around the distressed shuttles, working hard to build a pressure dome so the crews could get some magic to the injured. Sea workers in pressure exo-armor hammered through rocks and debris on the seabed to lay a foam seal to build the dome upon. Nobody was too concerned about the crash site itself, for the time being. The living came first.

“I should call in this Turnball Root theory,” said Holly. “Commander Kelp will act on it.” “We have to act first,” said Artemis. “Haven won’t have its ships here for at least an hour. By then it will be too late. We need to find evidence so that Trouble can make a case to the Council.” Holly’s fingers hesitated over Foaly’s phone. There wasn’t time to get into a strategy discussion with the commander. She knew Trouble’s mind well: it didn’t take that long to get to know. If she called him now, he would suggest a strategy that involved them waiting until he arrived, and possibly some form of bivouac.

So instead of making a vid-call, she sent a brief text highlighting Turnball Root’s name on the passenger list they weren’t supposed to have, and switched off the phone.

“He’s bound to call back,” she explained. “I’ll switch it on again when we have something to tell him.” Foaly glowered at her. “I’m going to miss my crunchball league updates,” he said; then, “I know that sounds petty, but I pay a subscription.” Artemis was concentrating on a problem to take his mind off the wall of sparkling fours that had followed him from his mind-screen and seemed to be hovering all around.

Not there, he told himself. Focus on the Houdini act.

“How did Turnball get out of the ship alive?” he wondered aloud. “Foaly, can we access local CCTV?” “Not with this ship. This was once a beautiful emergency vehicle. I helped design the model. Talk about high spec—you could run an entire disaster-site cleanup from this beauty, once upon a time. Now there’s barely enough tech in here to stop us from crashing into a wall.” “So there’s no way of telling if any ships rendezvoused with the prison shuttle?” “Not from here,” said Foaly.

“I need to know how Turnball escaped,” shouted Artemis, losing his cool again. “How else am I supposed to find him? Doesn’t anyone else see this? Am I alone in the universe?” Butler shifted until he sat hunched over Artemis, almost enfolding him with his bulk. “You’re the one who sees, Artemis. That’s your gift. We’re the ones who get there eventually.” “Speak for yourself,” said Mulch. “I usually never get there. And when I do, I never like it, especially when Artemis is involved.” A bead of sweat lodged in the frown wrinkle between Artemis’s eyes. “I know, old friend. I just need to work—that is the only thing that can save me.” He thought hard for a moment. “Can we run a scan to detect the ion trail of another ship?” “Of course,” said Foaly. “Even this stripped-back tub can’t do without an omni-sensor.” He opened a program on the screen, and a dark blue filter dropped over their view. The ion trails of the rescue ships showed up as spectral beams following behind their engines like glowworms. One such beam led to the impact site from the direction of Atlantis, and another far more substantial column of light had plowed down from above.

“There’s the prison shuttle and there’s the probe. Nothing else. How did he do it?” “Maybe he didn’t do it,” suggested Juliet. “Maybe his plan went wrong. A lot of geniuses have been totally screwing up lately, if you see what I am trying to say, Artemis.” Artemis half-smiled. “I see what you are trying to say, Juliet. Mainly because you are saying it clearly and bluntly with no attempt to spare my feelings.” “In fairness, Artemis,” said Juliet, “we were almost crushed to death by mesmerized wrestling fans, so I feel you can put up with a little ribbing. Also, I don’t work for you, so you can’t order me to shut up. You could dock Butler’s salary, I suppose, but I can live with that.” Artemis nodded at Holly. “I don’t suppose you two could be related?” Then he jumped to his feet, almost bashing his head on the ship’s low ceiling. “Foaly, I need to go down there.” Holly tapped the depth gauge. “No problem. I can come around behind that ridge and keep us hidden from the rescue ships. Even if they do see us, they’ll assume we’ve been sent by Haven. Worst-case scenario, they order us to back away from the crime scene.” “I meant I need to go outside,” clarified Artemis. “There’s a pressure suit in that cubby, and I need to take Foaly’s phone and search for clues the old-fashioned way.” “The old-fashioned way,” repeated Mulch. “With a futuristic pressure suit and a fairy phone.” A raft of vocal objections followed:

“You can’t go—it’s too dangerous.”

“I shall go in your place.”

“Why does it have to be my phone?”

Artemis waited until the clamor had died down, then dealt with the protests in his usual terse, patronizing manner.

“I must go because the next stage of Turnball’s plan obviously involves further loss of life, and the lives of many are more important than the lives of the few.” “I saw that on Star Trek,” said Mulch.

“It must be me,” continued Artemis. “Because there is only one suit, and it appears to be approximately my size. And, if I’m not mistaken—and it would be highly unusual that I would be—a correct fit is vital, where pressure suits are concerned, unless you want your eyeballs popping out of their sockets.” If someone else had said this, it might be considered a joke to lift the atmosphere, but from the mouth of Artemis Fowl it was a simple statement of fact.

“And finally, Foaly, it has to be your phone because, knowing your build standards as I do, it was made to withstand great pressures. Am I correct?” “You are,” said Foaly, accepting the compliment with a nod of his long face. “About the fit of the suit too. These things won’t even seal properly if they don’t like your dimensions.” Butler was not pleased, but in the end he was the employee, though Artemis did not play that card. “I must go, Butler,” said Artemis firmly. “My mind is eating me alive. I think the guilt is the main problem. I must do whatever I can to atone.” “And?” said Butler, unconvinced.

Artemis held his arms out so that Foaly could drape the suit sleeves over them.

“And I will not be beaten by that jackass.”

“Jackass?” said Foaly, wounded. “My favorite uncle is a jackass.” The pressure suit was actually two suits. The inner layer was a one-piece membrane threaded with life support, and the outer shell was body armor with a volatile surface that absorbed the water pressure and used it to power the servo mechanisms. Very clever, as you would expect from Koboi Laboratories.

“Koboi,” muttered Artemis, dismayed when he saw the logo. Even a person not obsessed with omens would be a little put out by his nemesis’s signature etched into the suit that was supposed to save his life. “I am not buoyed by that.” “You are not supposed to be buoyed,” said Foaly, lowering the transparent helmet bubble. “You are supposed to be equalized.” “I’m pretty sure that both of you just made really horrible jokes,” said Mulch, who was chewing something he had found somewhere. “But I’m not sure because I think you broke my funny bone.” At this point, Mulch’s comments were like background chatter and were almost soothingly constant.

Foaly fixed his phone to an omni-sensor at the front of the helmet. “It would take a swipe from a whale’s tail to knock this loose. It’s good for any depths or pressure you are likely to encounter, and will even pick up the vibrations of your speech and convert them to sound waves. But do try to enunciate.” “You stick close to the rock face,” said Butler, cradling the helmet to make sure Artemis was paying attention. “And at the first sign of trouble, I’m making the call to reel you in, not you. Do you understand, Artemis?” Artemis nodded. The suit was connected to a dock on the ship’s hull by a signature electromagnetic beam, which would zap it back to base in case of emergency.

“Just have a quick look around the site with Foaly’s phone, and back you come. Ten minutes is all you get; then you’ll have to follow another lead. Got it?” Another nod from Artemis, but it seemed more like he was shutting out something than actually listening to Butler’s words.

Butler snapped his fingers. “Focus, Artemis! Time enough for your Atlantis Complex later. We have the Atlantis Trench outside that door and six miles of water above it. If you want to stay alive, you need to stay alert.” He turned to Holly. “This is ridiculous. I’m pulling the plug.” Holly’s mouth was a tight line as she shook her head. “Navy rules, Butler. You’re on my boat, you follow my orders.” “As I remember, I brought the boat.”

“Yes, thanks for bringing my boat.”

Artemis used this exchange to move closer to the rear air lock, a tight space where Butler could not follow.

“Ten minutes, old friend,” he said, his voice robotic through the helmet speaker. “Then you can reel me back in.” Butler suddenly thought about how Angeline Fowl would react when she heard about this latest escapade.

“Artemis, wait. There must be another way. . . .”

But his objection bounced off a wall of Perspex as the air lock dividing wall slid down with a noise like ball bearings rolling around the bottom of a can.

“I don’t like that ball-bearing noise,” said Mulch. “Doesn’t sound very watertight.” No one argued. They knew what he meant.

On the other side of the divider, Artemis was having a few misgivings of his own. He had just noticed the mercenaries’ name for the ship, which was painted on the inside of the ocean door in what was supposed to look like blood but could not be or it would have long since washed off.

Probably some rubber-based solution, thought Artemis, but the base of the mercenaries’ paint was not what bothered him—it was the name itself, which was Plunderer, in Gnommish of course. The verb plunder was pronounced ffurfor, and the er suffix that changes the verb to a noun has, in Gnommish, the sound fer, which would imply that one is derived from the other. Grammar lesson aside, the pronunciation of the word plunderer was more or less fourfourfour.

Four four four, thought Artemis, pale inside his helmet. Death death death.

At which point the hull door slid up with more ball-bearing noises, and the ocean sucked him into its deep dark depths.

Take a moment, thought Artemis as the suit’s outer skin vibrated and activated the glow orbs at his temples, fingertips, and knees. Don’t count, don’t organize, just do as Butler advised and focus.

He did not feel underwater, though he knew he was. His body did not experience the expected resistance from the ocean, there was no dulling of the motor skills, and he felt as though he could move with the same fluency as he always did, though Butler would argue whether his movements were ever fluid.

Which would have been great, had not the giant squid, whose territory he had just invaded, wrapped this glowing intruder in ten fat limbs and whisked him off toward his lair.

Ah, the mythical giant squid. Genus Architeuthis, thought Artemis, strangely calm now that he was faced with a catastrophe worthy of all the worrying he’d been doing. Not so mythical anymore.