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chapter-2-killing-the-past

The Deeps, Atlantis

Opal Koboi was making a futile attempt to levitate when the guards came for her. It was something she had been able to do as a child before her chosen life of crime had stripped the magic from her synapses, the tiny junctions between nerve cells where most experts agreed magic originated. Her power might have regenerated if it hadn’t been for the human pituitary gland she’d had briefly attached to her hypothalamus. Levitation was a complicated art, especially for pixies with their limited powers, and usually a state only achieved by Hey-Hey Monks of the Third Balcony; but Opal had managed it while still in diapers, which had been her parents’ first sign that their daughter was a little bit special.

Imagine it, she thought. I wished to be human. That was a mistake for which I will eventually find someone to blame. The centaur, Foaly—he drove me to it. I do hope he is killed in the explosion.

Opal smirked in self-satisfaction. There had been a time when she’d whiled away the prison monotony by concocting ever more elaborate death traps for her centaur nemesis, but now she was content to let Foaly die with the rest in the imminent explosions. Granted, she had cooked up a little surprise for his wife; but this was merely a side project and not something she had spent too much time on.

It is a measure of how far I have come, Opal thought. I have matured somewhat. The veil has lifted, and I see my true purpose.

There had been a time when Opal had simply been a ruthless business fairy with daddy issues; but somewhere during the years of banned experimentation, she had allowed black magic to fester in her soul and let it warp her heart’s desire until it was not enough to be lauded in her own city. She needed the world to bow down, and she was prepared to risk everything and sacrifice anyone to see her wish fulfilled.

This time it will be different, for I will have fearsome warriors bound to my will. Ancient soldiers who will die for me.

Opal cleared her mind and sent out a probe searching for her other self. All that came back was the white noise of terror.

She knows, Opal realized. Poor thing.

This moment of sympathy for her younger self did not last long, as the imprisoned Opal had learned not to live in the past.

I am merely killing a memory, she thought. That is all.

Which was a convenient way of looking at it.

Her cell door phase-changed from solid to gas, and Opal was unsurprised to see Warden Tarpon Vinyáya, a malleable pen pusher who had never spent a night outside under the moon, fidgeting in her doorway, flanked by two jumbo pixie guards.

“Warden,” she said, abandoning her levitation attempt. “Has my pardon arrived?” Tarpon had no time for pleasantries. “We’re moving you, Koboi. No discussion; just come along.” He gestured to his guards. “Wrap her up, boys.”

The jumbo pixies strode rapidly into the room, wordlessly pinning Opal’s arms to her sides. Jumbo pixies were a breed peculiar to Atlantis, where the particular blend of pressurized environment and algae-based filtration had caused them to pop up with increased regularity over the years. What the jumbo pixies gained in brawn they generally sacrificed in brains, and so they made the ideal prison guards, having no respect for anyone smaller than themselves who did not sign their paychecks.

Before Opal could open her mouth to voice an objection, the pixies had bundled her into a lined anti-radiation suit and clipped three bungee cords around her torso.

The warden sighed, as if he had been expecting Opal to somehow disable his guards. Which he had.

“Good. Good,” he said, mopping his high brow with a handkerchief. “Take her to the basement. Don’t touch any of the pipes, and avoid breathing if possible.” The pixies hefted their captive between them like a rolled rug and double-timed it from Opal’s cell, across the narrow bridge that linked her cell-pod to the main prison, and into the service elevator.

Opal smiled behind the heavy lead gauze of her headpiece.

This certainly is the day for Opal Kobois to be manhandled by burly boys.

She beamed a thought to her younger self on the surface.

I feel for you, sister.

The elevator cube flashed downward through a hundred yards of soft sandstone to a small chamber composed entirely of hyperdense material harvested from the crust of a neutron star.

Opal guessed they had arrived at the chamber, and giggled at the memory of a stupid gnome in her high school who had asked what neutron stars were made of.

Neutrons, boy, Professor Leguminous had snapped. Neutrons! The clue is in the name.

This chamber held the record for being the most expensive room per square inch to construct anywhere on the planet, though it looked a little like a concrete furnace room. At one end was the elevator door; at the other were what looked like four missile tubes; and in the middle was an extremely grumpy dwarf.

“You are bleeping joking me?” he said, belly thrust out belligerently.

The jumbo pixies dumped Opal on the gray floor.

“Orders, pal,” said one. “Put her in the tube.”

The dwarf shook his head stubbornly. “I ain’t putting no one in a tube. Them tubes is built for rods.” “I do believe,” said the second pixie, very proud of himself for remembering the information he was about to deliver, “that one of them reactor sites is depleted so the tube do be empty.” “That sounded pretty good, Jumbo, except for the do be at the end,” said the dwarf, whose name was Kolin Ozkopy. “But even so, I need to know how the consequences of not putting a person in a tube are worse than the consequences of putting them in one?” A sentence of this length would take a jumbo pixie several minutes to digest; luckily, they were spared the embarrassment of being pressed for an explanation when Kolin’s phone rang.

“Just a sec,” he said, checking caller ID. “It’s the warden.” Kolin answered the phone with a flourish. “Y’ello. Engineer Ozkopy here.” Ozkopy listened for a long moment, interjecting three uh-huhs and two D’Arvits before pocketing the phone.

“Wow,” he said, prodding the radiation suit with his toe. “I guess you’d better put her in the tube.” Police Plaza, Haven City, The Lower Elements

Pip waggled his phone at the camera.

“You hear anything? Because I don’t. No one is calling this number, and I’ve got five bars. One hundred percent planetary coverage. Hell, I once took a call on a spaceship.” Holly swiped the mike sensor. “We’re moving as fast as we can. Opal Koboi is in the shuttle bay right now. We just need ten more minutes.” Pip adopted a singsong voice.

“Never tell a lie, just to get you by.

Never tell a tale, lest you go to jail.”

Foaly found himself humming along. It was the Pip and Kip theme song. Holly glared at him.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Artemis grew impatient with the fruitless wrangling. “This is futile and, frankly, embarrassing. They have no intention of releasing Opal. We should evacuate now, at least to the shuttle bays. They are built to withstand magma flares.” Foaly disagreed. “We’re secure here. The real danger is in Atlantis. That’s where the other Opal is. You said, and I concur, that the serious explosions, theoretical explosions, only occur with living beings.” “Theoretical explosions are only theoretical until the theory is proven,” countered Artemis. “And with so many—” He stopped mid-sentence, which was very unlike him, as Artemis detested both poor grammar and poor manners. His skin tone faded from pale to porcelain, and he actually rapped his own forehead.

“Stupid. Stupid. Foaly, we are both imbeciles. I don’t expect lateral thinking from the LEP, but from you…” Holly recognized this tone. She had heard it during previous adventures, generally before things went catastrophically wrong.

“What is it?” she asked, afraid of the answer, which must surely be terrible.

“Yeah,” agreed Foaly, who always had time to feel insulted. “Why am I an imbecile?” Artemis pointed an index finger diagonally down and southwest in the approximate direction they had come from the J. Argon Clinic.

“The oxygen booth has addled my senses,” he said. “The clone. Nopal. She’s a living being. If she explodes, it could go nuclear.” Foaly accessed the clone’s file on Argon’s Web site, navigating with blurred speed to the patient details.

“No. I think we should be okay there. Opal harvested her own DNA before the time line split.” Artemis was angry with himself all the same for momentarily forgetting the clone.

“We were minutes into this crisis before the clone’s relevance occurred to me,” he said. “If Nopal had been created at a later date, my slow thinking could have cost lives.” “There are still plenty of lives at stake,” said Foaly. “We need to save as many as we can.” The centaur popped a Plexiglas cover on the wall and pressed the red button underneath. Instantly a series of Evac sirens began to wail throughout the city. The eerie sound spread like the keening of mothers receiving the bad news of their nightmares.

Foaly chewed a nail. “There’s no time to wait for Council approval,” he said to Trouble Kelp. “Most should make it to the shuttle bays. But we need to ready the emergency resuscitation teams.” Butler was less than happy with the idea of losing Artemis. “Nobody’s death is impending.” His principal didn’t seem overly concerned. “Well, technically, everybody’s death is impending.” “Shut up, Artemis!” snapped Butler, which was a major breach of his own professional ethics. “I promised your mother that I would look after you, and yet again you have put me in a position where my brawn and skills count for nothing.” “That is hardly fair,” said Artemis. “I hardly think that I can be blamed for Opal’s latest stunt.” Butler’s face blazed a few shades redder than Artemis could remember having seen it. “I do think you can be blamed, and I do blame you. We’re barely clear of the consequences of your last misadventure, and here we are neck deep in another one.” Artemis seemed more shocked by this outburst than by the impending death situation.

“Butler, I had no idea you were harboring such frustration.” The bodyguard rubbed his cropped head.

“Neither had I,” he admitted. “But for the past few years it’s been one thing after another. Goblins, time travel, demons. Now this place where everything is so…so…small.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay. I said it, it’s out there. And I am fine now. So let’s move on, shall we? What’s the plan?” “Keep evacuating,” said Artemis. “No more empowering those hostage-taking nitwits; they have their instructions. Drop the blast doors, which should help absorb some of the shock waves.” “We have our strategies in place, human,” said Trouble Kelp. “The entire population can be at their assembly points in five minutes.” Artemis paced, thinking. “Tell your people to dump their weapons into the magma chutes. Leave anything that might have Koboi technology behind. Phones, games, everything.” “All Koboi weaponry has been retired,” said Holly. “But some of the older Neutrinos might have a chip or two.” Trouble Kelp had the grace to look guilty. “Some of the Koboi weaponry has been retired,” he said. “Budget cuts—you know how it is.” Pip interrupted their preparations by actually rapping on the camera lens.

“Hey, LEP people. I’m getting old here. Somebody say something, anything. Tell us more lies—we don’t care.” Artemis’s eyebrows furrowed and joined. He did not appreciate such flippant posturing when many lives were at stake. He pointed at the microphone.

“May I?”

Trouble barely looked up from his emergency calls and made a vague gesture that was open to interpretation. Artemis chose to interpret it as an affirmative.

He approached the screen. “Listen to me, you lowlife. This is Artemis Fowl. You may have heard of me.” Pip grinned, and his mask echoed the expression.

“Oooh, Artemis Fowl. Wonder boy. We’ve heard of you alright, haven’t we, Kip?” Kip nodded, dancing a little jig. “Artemis Fowl, the Oirish boy who chased leprechauns. Sure and begorra everyone has heard of that smarty-pants.” These two are stupid, thought Artemis. They are stupid and talk too much, and I should be able to exploit those weaknesses.

He tried a ruse.

“I thought I told you to read your demands and say nothing more.” Pip’s face was literally a mask of confusion. “You told us?” Artemis hardened his voice. “My instructions for you two idiots were to read the demands, wait until the time was up, then shoot the pixie. I don’t recall saying anything about trading insults.” Pip’s mask frowned. How did Artemis Fowl know their instructions?

“Your instructions? We don’t take orders from you.”

“Really? Explain to me then how I know your instructions to the letter.” Pip’s mask software was not able to cope with his rapid expression change and froze momentarily.

“I…ah…I don’t…”

“And tell me how I knew the exact frequency to tap into.”

“You’re not in Police Plaza?”

“Of course not, you idiot. I’m at the rendezvous point waiting for Opal.” Artemis felt his heart speed up, and he waited a second for his conscious mind to catch up with his subconscious and tell him what he recognized onscreen.

Something in the background.

Something familiar.

The wall behind Pip and Kip was nondescript gray, rendered with roughly finished plaster. A common finish for farm walls worldwide. There were walls like this all over the Fowl Estate.

Ba boom.

There went his heart again.

Artemis concentrated on the wall. Slate-gray, except for a network of jagged cracks that sundered the plasterwork.

A memory presented itself of six-year-old Artemis and his father walking the estate. As they passed the barn wall on the upper pasture, young Artemis pointed to the wall and commented. “See, Father? The cracks form a map of Croatia, once part of the Roman, Ottoman, and Austrian Habsburg empires. Were you aware that Croatia declared its independence from Yugoslavia in 1991?” There it was. On the wall behind Pip and Kip. A map of Croatia, though fifteen-year-old Artemis saw now that the Dalmatian coastline was truncated.

They are on the Fowl Estate, he realized.

Why?

Something Dr. Argon had said resurfaced.

Because the residual magic there is off the scale. Something happened on the Fowl Estate once. Something huge, magically speaking.

Artemis decided to act on his hunch. “I’m at the Fowl Estate, waiting for Opal,” he said.

“You’re at Fowl Manor too?” blurted Kip, prompting Pip to turn rapidly and shoot his comrade in the heart. The gnome was punched backward into the wall, knocking clouds of dust from the plaster. A narrow stream of blood oozed from the hole in his chest, pulsing gently down his breastplate, as undramatic as a paint drip running down a jar. His kitty-cat cartoon face seemed comically surprised, and when the heat from his face faded, the pixels powered down, leaving a yellow question mark.

The sudden death shocked Artemis, but the preceding sentence had shocked him more.

He had been correct on both counts: not only was Opal behind this, but the rendezvous point was Fowl Manor.

Why? What had happened there?

Pip shouted at the screen. “You see what you did, human? If you are human. If you are Artemis Fowl. It doesn’t matter what you know, it’s too late.” Pip pressed the still smoking barrel to Opal’s head, and she jerked away as the metal burned her skin, pleading through the tape over her mouth. It was clear that Pip wished to pull the trigger, but he could not.

He has his instructions, thought Artemis. He must wait until the allotted time has run out. Otherwise he cannot be certain that Opal is secure in the nuclear reactor.

Artemis deactivated the microphone and was moving toward the door when Holly caught his arm.

“There’s no time,” she said, correctly guessing that he was headed for home.

“I must try to save my family from the next stage of Opal’s plan,” said Artemis tersely. “There are five minutes left. If I can make it to a magma vent, we might be able to outrun the explosions to the surface.” Commander Kelp quickly weighed his options. He could order Artemis to remain underground, but it would certainly be strategically advantageous to have someone track Opal Koboi if she somehow escaped from Atlantis.

“Go,” he said. “Captain Short will pilot you and Butler to the surface. Stay in contact if…” He did not finish the sentence, but everyone in the room could guess what he had been about to say.

Stay in contact if…there is anything left to contact.