Artemis Fowl and the Atlantis Complex (12 page)

“I am not up to anything,” said Orion. “I am alive and I am here. That is all. I have Artemis’s memories but not his disposition. I believe that I owe my sudden appearance to what fairies would call an Atlantis Complex.”

Foaly wagged a finger. “Nice try, but Atlantis Complex generally manifests itself through compulsion and delusion.”

“Stage two.”

Foaly took a moment to consult his near photographic memory.

“Atlantis Complex stage two can result in the subject displaying signs of several completely different and distinct personalities.”

“And?” prompted Orion.

“Stage two can be initiated by either or both mental trauma or physical shock, typically electrocution.”

“Holly shot me. So there we go.”

Foaly scraped the snow with a hoof. “That’s the problem with beings of our intellect. We can argue our points of view all day without either gaining a significant advantage. That’s what happens when you’re a genius.” The centaur smiled. “Look, I scraped an
F
for
Foaly
.”

“That is excellent work,” said Orion. “Such straight lines. That takes hoof control.”

“I know,” said Foaly. “It’s a real talent, but there’s no forum for this kind of expression.”

Foaly was well aware that he was babbling about hoof drawings in order to distract himself from the current situation. He had often assisted Holly through one crisis or another. But he had rarely been in the field to actually witness these crises occurring.

The video logs never really capture the emotion, he thought. I am scared out of my wits right now, but no helmet-cam footage can convey that
.

It scared Foaly that someone had managed to hack his space probe and reprogram the amorphobots. It scared him that this person had no regard for life—fairy, human, or animal. And it totally terrified him that if, gods forbid, Holly was injured or worse, then it would be up to him and this simpering alternate Fowl personality to warn Haven, and he hadn’t the first idea how he was qualified for this job, unless the talents of smart-aleckry and rapid V-board manipulation were somehow called for. Artemis would know what to do, but apparently Artemis wasn’t at home right now.

Foaly realized with a jolt that the current situation was quite close to being his own worst nightmare, especially if it eventually led to Caballine shaving him. Control was very important to Foaly, and here he was stuck on a glacier with a damaged human, watching their only hope of salvation fighting an underground river.

His current worst nightmare was suddenly relegated to second place as the escape pod, with Holly inside it, was suddenly swallowed whole by the ice. Loose chunks tumbled quickly to fill the hole, and before Foaly had time to gasp in shock, it was as if the craft had never been there.

Foaly sank to his fore-knees. “Holly!” he called desperately. “Holly.”

Orion was equally distraught. “Oh, Captain Short. There was so much I wanted to tell you, about how we feel, Artemis and I. You were so young, with so much left to give.” Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “Oh, Artemis, poor foolish, Artemis. You had so much and did not know it.”

Foaly felt hollowed out by sudden, wrenching grief. Holly was gone. Their last best chance of warning Haven. How could he hope to succeed aided only by a mooning Mud Boy who began every second sentence with the word “Oh”?

“Shut up, Orion! Shut up. A person is gone. A real person.” The ice was hard beneath Foaly’s knees, and made their situation seem more desperate.

“I don’t have much experience with real people,” admitted Orion, slumping beside the centaur. “Or feelings that translate to the world. But I think I am sad now. And lonely. We have lost a friend.”

These were words from the heart, and Foaly felt he had to be sympathetic. “Okay. It’s not your fault. We have both lost someone special.”

Orion sniffed. “Good. Then, worthy centaur, perhaps you could give me a ride to the village on your back. Then I can make a few pennies with my verses while you build us a shack and perform circus tricks for passersby.”

This was such a surprising statement that Foaly briefly considered jumping into the hole to get away.

“This isn’t Middle Earth, you know. We’re not in a novel. I am not noble, neither do I have a repertoire of circus tricks.”

Orion seemed disappointed. “Can you juggle at least?”

Orion’s idiocy was just what Foaly needed to shake him temporarily from his grief. He jumped to his feet and stomped in a circle around Orion.

“What are you?
Who
are you? I thought you shared Artemis’s memories. How can you be so stupid?”

Orion was unperturbed. “I share everything. Memories and movies are as real as each other to me. You, Peter Pan, the Loch Ness Monster, me. It’s all real, maybe.”

Foaly rubbed his forehead. “We are in so much trouble. Gods help us.”

Orion brightened. “I have an idea.”

“Yes?” said Foaly, daring to hope that a spark of Artemis remained.

“Why don’t we look for some magic stones that can grant wishes? Or, if that doesn’t work, you could search my naked body for some mysterious birthmark that means I am actually the prince of somewhere or other.”

“Okay,” sighed Foaly. “Why don’t you get started on the stones thing, and I’ll scrape some magical runes in the snow.”

Orion clapped his hands sharply. “Excellent notion, noble creature.” And he began kicking over stones to see if any of them were magical.

The complex is progressing, realized Foaly. He wasn’t this deluded only minutes ago. The more desperate the situation becomes the further from reality he gets. If we can’t get Artemis back soon, he will be gone forever.

“I found one!” Orion shouted suddenly. “A magic stone!” He bent to examine his discovery. “No. Wait. It’s a shellfish of some kind.” He smiled apologetically at Foaly. “I saw it scuttling and so I assumed . . .”

Foaly thought a thought he had thought he would never think.

I would prefer to be with Mulch Diggums.

This notion caused him to shudder.

Orion yelped loudly and scuttled backward. “I found it. Really, this time. Look, Foaly. Look!”

Foaly looked, in spite of himself, and was amazed to see that a stone actually did seem to be dancing.

“That’s not possible,” he said, and wondered, Is he somehow sucking me into his delusion?

Orion was jubilant. “Everything is real. I am abroad in the world.”

The stone flipped high into the air, spinning off across the frozen lake. Where it had been, the black hull of the escape pod punctured the ice. It rose and rose above a bass rumbling of engines that set the ice plates vibrating themselves to pieces.

It took Foaly a moment to realize what was happening, but then he too was jubilant.

“Holly!” he called. “You made it. You didn’t leave us.”

The escape pod lurched to the surface, then toppled on its side. The for’ard porthole was winched open, and Holly’s face appeared in the frame. She was pale and bleeding from a dozen minor cuts, but her eyes were bright and determined.

“Took a while for the fuel block to dissolve,” she explained over the engine noise. “Get inside, both of you, and buckle up. We have to catch that fire-breathing monster.”

This was a simple order, and both Foaly and Orion could obey without their realities clashing.

Holly is alive, thought Foaly.

My princess lives, exulted Orion. And we’re chasing a dragon.

“Foaly,” he called after the centaur. “I really think we should search for my secret birthmark. Dragons love that sort of thing.”

Artemis Fowl’s Brain; Now

Artemis was not gone completely. He was confined to a small virtual room in his own brain. The room was similar to his Fowl Manor office, but there were no screens on the situations wall. In fact, there was no wall. Where his selection of gas screens and digital televisions had been mounted, there now floated a window into his body’s reality. He could see what the fool Orion saw, and hear the ridiculous sentences dripping from his own mouth, but he could not control the actions of the romantic nincompoop who seemed to be in the driver’s seat, to use a motorcar reference that Butler and Holly would appreciate.

In Artemis’s room there was a desk and a chair. He wore one of his lightweight Zegna bespoke suits. He could see the weave of threads on his arm and feel the material’s weight as though it were real, but Artemis knew all these things were illusions constructed by his mind to put some order on the chaos in his brain.

He sat upon the chair.

In front of Artemis, on what he had decided to call his mind-screen, events played out in the real world. He winced as the usurper, Orion, rolled out his clumsy charm.

He will utterly destroy my relationship with Holly, he thought
.

Now he appeared to be treating Foaly like some kind of mythical pet.

Orion was right about one thing: he was in the second stage of Atlantis Complex, a mental illness he had brought on himself through a combination of reckless dabblings in fairy magic and feelings of guilt.

I brought the guilt on myself too, exposing my mother to Opal Koboi.

Artemis realized suddenly that while he was trapped in his own mind, numbers held no sway over him. Neither did he feel any compulsion to rearrange the objects on his desk.

I am free.

A metaphorical weight lifted from his allegorical chest, and Artemis Fowl felt himself again. Vital, sharp, focused, for the first time in months. Ideas fluttered from his mind like bats from the mouth of a cave.

So much to do. So many projects. Butler . . . I need to find him.

Artemis felt energized and potent. He surged from his chair toward the mind-screen. He would push his way through, force his way out, and send this Orion character back to where he came from. Next on his to-do list would be to apologize to Foaly and Holly for his rudeness and then get to the bottom of this space-probe hijack. His Ice Cube had been torn to pieces by the subterranean river, but it could be rebuilt. In months the project could be operational.

And when the glaciers were safe, perhaps he would submit to a little regression therapy from one of the People’s less flamboyant psychotherapists. Certainly not that Cumulus fellow who had his own talk show.

When Artemis reached the screen, he found it to be less solid than it had first appeared. In fact, it was deep and gloopy, reminding Artemis of the plasma conduit he had crawled through at Opal Koboi’s lab all those years ago. Nevertheless, he forged ahead and soon found himself submerged in a cold, viscous gel that pushed him backward with floppy fingers.

“I will not be deterred,” shouted Artemis, finding that he could shout inside the mind-screen. “I am needed in the wide world
.”

And then.

Deterred? Wide world? I am beginning to sound like that idiot Orion.

This thought gave him strength, and he tore at the curtains of gunk that kept him a prisoner. It felt good being active and positive. Artemis felt like the Fowl heir of old. Unstoppable.

Then he spotted something in the air before him. Bright and fizzling like a Halloween sparkler. There were more, dozens, all around him, sinking slowly through the gel.

What were they? What could those things mean?

I made them, thought Artemis. I should know.

A moment later he did know. The fizzling sparklers were actually tiny golden numbers. All the same number.

All fours. Death.

Artemis recoiled, but then rallied.

No. I will not be a slave. I refuse.

A tiny number four grazed his elbow, sending a shock through his entire body.

This is a memory, nothing more. My mind is reconstructing the plasma conduit. None of this is real.

But the shocks felt real. Once the tiny fours realized that he was there, they gathered like a shoal of malignant fish, herding Artemis back to the safety of his office.

He fell backward to the floor, panting.

I need to try again, he thought.

But not yet. The fours seemed to watch him, matching his movements.

Five, thought Artemis. I need five to stay alive. I will try again soon. Soon.

Artemis felt a weight settle on his chest that seemed too heavy to be just his imagination.

I will try soon. Hold on, my friends
.

The Deeps, Atlantis; Now

Prisoner 42 checked the LEP’s official site and was amused to see that he was no longer on the Top Ten Most Dangerous list.

They forget what I have done, he thought with some satisfaction. Which is exactly as I planned.

Turnball sent a quick V-mail to Leonor, one of the dozen he sent daily.

Prepare yourself for travel, darling. I shall be with you soon.

He waited breathlessly for the reply, and it soon came. A single word.

Hurry.

Turnball was cheered by the prompt response: even after all these years they hung on each other’s words.

But he was a little worried too. Lately, all of Leonor’s messages had been brief, often no more than a phrase. He did not believe that his darling wife was not inclined to write more—he believed that she grew too weak, the effort was too painful.

Turnball sent a second mail to Ark Sool, an LEP turncoat he had recently employed to make sure his wife and affairs were well looked after.

Leonor grows weaker without my fairy magic beside her, Mr. Sool. Take special care.

Turnball grew suddenly impatient.

Mere hours separate us, my dear. Hold on for me.

The authorities were mistaken, of course. Turnball Root was extremely dangerous. They had forgotten he was the elf who had stolen millions from the LEP’s own weapons’ budget. The elf who had almost managed to destroy half of Haven City just to get rid of a competitor.

I would have done it too, he thought for the thousandth time. If not for my holier-than-thou little brother.

He banished this thought. Thinking about Julius would just get his vitals up, and the jailers might notice.

I should give myself a little treat, he thought, sitting down at his terminal. It could be the last one before I go. Vishby will come for me soon, and then the LEP will realize their mistake. Too late, of course.

He smiled at his reflection on the screen as he typed a brief message for a certain Web site.

One is never too old for mischief, Turnball realized as he pressed
SEND
.

The Sozzled Parrot, Miami; Now

It is a universal law that fugitives flock together. No matter how large the posse on their tail, people on the run always manage to find that one low-down dirty dive, with the cheapest hooch, run by the dodgiest innkeeper, that not even the police know about. These establishments generally have steel doors, paint over their windows, mold in their bathroom stalls, and don’t serve anything with more than two ingredients. The Sozzled Parrot was such a place.

The owner was a certain dwarf called Barnet Riddles who ruled the roost with a certain wheedling panache that made him a likeable host in a sleazy sort of way. And if wheedling panache was not enough to calm a troublemaker down, then Barnet would follow it with a tap from a stolen LEP buzz baton.

The Sozzled Parrot was a dwarf hangout, and the club motto was:
If you are not welcome there, then you are welcome here
, which meant that every exiled criminal or slumming fairy in North America sooner or later turned up at The Sozzled Parrot. Barnet Riddles made the perfect host, as, by some freak of nature, he was one of only a tiny percentage of fairies who were over four feet tall. And so, as long as he wore a bandanna to cover his ears, Barnet was the ideal go-between with the humans, who supplied him with liquor, slightly turned beef for his quesadillas, and as much firepower as he could shift out of the back room.

The early hours of this morning in The Sozzled Parrot were pretty much the same as any other. Dwarfs sat hunched over tankards of ale in one of the booths. A couple of sprites were playing video crunchball on their handhelds, and half a dozen elfin soldiers of fortune were trading war stories by the pool table.

Barnet Riddles was deep in conversation with a dwarf at the bar.

“Come on, Tombstone,” he wheedled in a charming way. “Buy a couple of guns. A grenade at least. All you do is sit there and drink creek water. Isn’t there someone you’d like to shoot a couple of times?”

The dwarf grinned, baring his trademark tombstone teeth. “It’s getting that way, Riddles.”

Barnet was not discouraged—then again this particular dwarf was a born optimist. Who else would set up a bar for photosensitive dwarfs in sunny Miami?

It’s the last place the Leppers will look for us fugitives from justice
, he often explained.
They’re up freezing their LEP tails off in Russia, meanwhile we’re sinking beers here in luxurious air-conditioned surroundings.

Luxurious was a stretch. Even
clean
would have been a stretch. But The Sozzled Parrot was somewhere for fairy soldiers of fortune to meet and exchange war stories day or night, and so they were prepared to put up with Barnet’s exorbitant prices and his constant sales pitches.

“How about a computer implant?” persisted the innkeeper. “Everybody has implants these days. How do you keep tabs on the LEP?”

Tombstone pulled down the brim of his felt hat so that it covered his eyes. “Believe it or not, Riddles, I’m not on the hot list anymore. What you are looking at now is a one hundred percent legit citizen. Heck, I’ve even got a visa to be aboveground.”

“Groomchunks,” said Barnet doubtfully.

Tombstone slid a plastic square across the bar. “Read it and weep.”

Barnet squinted at the Gnommish writing and checked the official hologram.

“Looks pretty real,” he admitted.

“That is because it is real, my beer-watering friend.”

Barnet shook his head. “I don’t get it. If you can be anywhere, why are you here?”

Tombstone tossed a handful of beezel nuts into his cavernous mouth, and Barnet swore that after each crunch there was an echo.

“I am here,” said Tombstone eventually, “because of the clientele.”

Barnet was even more befuddled. “What? Thieves, mercenaries, extortionists, and forgers?”

Tombstone’s grin was wide and bright. “Yep. My kind of people.”

Barnet checked on a pitcher of toad sludge that he was fermenting for the pixies.

“You are a riot, Tombstone. Do you know that?”

Before Tombstone could answer, a plastic parrot on the bar opened its beak and squawked.

“New post,” squawked its animatronic mouth. “New post on the message board.”

“Excuuuuuse me,” said Barnet Riddles, with exaggerated politeness, “while I check this extremely handy implant I have in my head.”

“Handy, until you pass a microwave and lose ten years of memory,” commented Tombstone. “Then again, you spend so much time in here that you probably wouldn’t miss the odd decade.”

Barnet was not listening. His eyes fogged over as he checked the illegal implant that had been hotwired directly into his cortex by a disbarred doctor. After a couple of “
hmmms
” and one “
really
,” he returned to the here and now.

“How are the brain cells?” enquired Tombstone mildly. “I hope the message was worth it.”

“Don’t you worry about it, Mr. Hundred Percent Legit,” said Barnet briskly. “This one is for us criminals.”

He pounded the bar with his buzz baton, sending sparks rippling across the length of the brass rail.

“Cruik,” he called across the room. “You have a ship? Right?”

One of the dwarfs at the end booth raised a grizzled head. Beer foam fell in blobs from his beard. “Yeah. I got a gyro. A bit of a crock, but she runs okay.”

Barnet clapped his hands, already counting his commission. “Good. A job came in on the board. Two humans, kill ’em dead.”

Cruik shook his head slowly. “No killing dead. We may be criminals but we’re not humans.”

“The client will accept a full wipe. Can you stomach that?”

“Full wipe?” interrupted Tombstone. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Barnet sniggered. “Not if you keep your fingers away from the electrodes. Two humans, brother and sister by the name of Butler.”

Tombstone twitched. “Butler? Brother and sister?”

Barnet closed one eye, consulting his implant. “Yeah. I’m shooting the details across to your gyro, Cruik. This is a rush job. Top dollar, as the Mud Men would say.”

The dwarf called Cruik checked the charge in an old-fashioned blunderbuss Neutrino.

“These Mud Men won’t be saying much of anything by the time I’m finished with them.” He pounded the table to summon his warriors. “Let’s go, my fine fellows. We have brains to suck.”

Tombstone stood quickly. “Do you guys have room for one more?”

“I knew it,” chuckled Barnet Riddles. “One hundred percent legit, I don’t think so. As soon as I laid eyes on you, ‘This guy has history,’ I said.”

Cruik was buckling on a belt loaded with spikes, shells, and dangerous-looking implements with fuses and capacitors.

“Why should I take you, stranger?”

“You should take me because if your pilot gets killed to death by these Butler humans, then I can take his place.”

An uncharacteristically skinny dwarf looked up from the romance novel he was reading. “Killed to death?” he said, lip trembling slightly. “I say, Cruik, is that likely?”

“I’ve had experience with the Butlers,” said Tombstone. “They always go for the pilot first.”

Cruik sized up Tombstone, taking in his powerful jaws and muscled legs.

“Okay stranger. You take the copilot’s chair. You get a junior share and no quibbling.”

Tombstone grinned. “Why quibble now when we can quibble later?”

Cruik thought about this statement for a moment until his brain ached.

“Okay. Whatever. Everybody take a sober pill and mount up. We have some humans to wipe.”

Tombstone followed his new captain across the bar floor. “How good is your mind-wiping equipment?”

Cruik shrugged. “Who cares?” he said simply.

“I like your attitude,” said Tombstone.

Cancún, Mexico; Now

The Butlers in question were of course the very same Butlers who had escaped the
mesmerized
wrestling fans, and who were now, thirty minutes after Cruik took on his new copilot, taking a moment to catch their breath in the morning sunshine on the shore of Cancún’s lagoon. These two were being pursued by Turnball Root more for his own entertainment than the possibility that they could actually interfere with his plans. Though it was possible that opponents as formidable as the Butlers had proved themselves to be troublesome. And Turnball’s plans were delicate enough without adding troublesome humans to the mix. Better to wipe them, at least. Also, they had escaped the first time, so Turnball was irked, which he did not like.

Juliet squatted just above the waterline, listening to the sounds of party laughter and the tinkling of champagne flutes stream across the water from a passing yacht. “I have an idea, brother,” she said. “Why don’t we ask Artemis for a million dollars and just retire? Well, I could retire. You could be
my
butler.”

Butler sat beside her. “Frankly, I don’t think Artemis has a million dollars. He’s put everything into this latest project.
THE PROJECT
, as he calls it.”

“What’s he stealing now?”

“Nothing. Artemis has moved on from crime. These days he’s saving the world.”

Juliet’s arm froze halfway through the motion of throwing a pebble. “Artemis Fowl has moved on from crime?
Our
Artemis Fowl? Isn’t that against Fowl family law?”

Butler didn’t exactly smile, but his scowl definitely grew less pronounced. “This is hardly the time for jokes, sister.” He paused. “But if you must know, the Fowl statutes actually state that a family member caught straying onto the straight and narrow can have his Doctor Evil manual and suction cups confiscated.”

Juliet snickered. “Suction cups.”

Butler’s customary scowl quickly reasserted itself. “Seriously, sister. This is a sinister situation we find ourselves in. Pursued by fairy agents and on the far side of the world from my principal.”

“What are you even doing here? Who sent you on this wild-goose chase?”

Butler had been thinking about this. “Artemis sent me. He must have been coerced, though it didn’t seem so. Perhaps he was tricked.”

“Tricked? Artemis Fowl? He has changed.”

Butler frowned, patting the spot where his shoulder holster would normally hang. “Artemis has changed. You would barely recognize him now, he is so different.”

“Different? How?”

Butler’s frown deepened, a slash between his eyebrows. “He counts everything. Steps, words, everything. I think five is the big number. Also, rows. He groups all the stuff around him into little rows. Usually five per row, or ten.”

“I’ve heard about stuff like that. Obsessive-compulsive disorder. OCD.”

“And he’s paranoid. He doesn’t trust anyone.” Butler’s head dropped to his chest. “Not even me.”

Juliet tossed the pebble far into the lagoon. “It sounds like Artemis needs help.”

Butler nodded. “How about you? You’ve had quite a bit sprung on you in the past hour.”

Juliet raked the shoreline with her fingers, gathering pebbles. “What? You mean little things like being chased by a
mesmerized
horde? And the fact that fairies do exist? Those tiny things?”

Butler grunted. He had forgotten how much his sister made fun of him and how he, for some reason, put up with it. “Yes, those
tiny
things,” he said, elbowing her fondly.

“Don’t worry about me, brother. I’m a modern woman. We’re tough and smart, hadn’t you heard?”

“I get it. You’re
coping
, is that it?”

“No, brother. I feel fine. The Butlers are together, and nothing can stand against us.”

“The new memories aren’t freaking you out?”

Juliet laughed, and the sound did Butler’s heart good. “
Freaking me out
? Where are we, the 1970s? And, no, the memories aren’t freaking me out. As a matter of fact, they feel . . .” She thought about her next sentence for a while. “They feel right in my head. They belong where they are. How could I have forgotten Holly? Or Mulch?”

Butler pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket. They were a little clunkier than the current style, and had tiny solar panels on the arms.