The Arctic Incident (12 page)

“No plasma tiles,” continued Cudgeon. “And no voice-activated laser. You really are slipping, Foaly. Not that I’m surprised. I always knew you’d be exposed for the donkey you are.”

The lieutenant settled into a swivel chair, propping his feet on the computer bank. “So have you figured it out yet?”

Foaly thought. Who could it be? Who could beat him at his own game? Not Cudgeon, that was for sure. A techno fool if there ever was one. No, there was only one person with the know-how to deactivate the booth’s safety measures.

“Opal Koboi,” he breathed.

Cudgeon patted his head. “That’s right. Opal did a little reprogramming during the upgrading work. And the funny thing is, the Council footed the bill. She even charged for the spy cameras. Even now, the B’wa Kell are preparing to launch their attack on the city. LEP weapons and communications are down, and the best thing is that you, my horsy friend, will be held responsible. After all, you have locked yourself in the Operations Booth in the middle of a crisis.”

“Nobody will believe it!” protested Foaly.

“Oh, yes they will, especially when you disengage the LEP security, including the DNA cannons.”

“Which I won’t be doing anytime soon.”

Cudgeon twirled a matte-black remote between his fingers. “I’m afraid it’s not up to you anymore. Opal took your little operation apart, and wired the whole lot into this little beauty.”

Foaly swallowed. “You mean . . .”

“That’s right,” said Cudgeon. “Nothing works unless I press the button.”

He pressed the button. And even if Foaly had had the reactions of a sprite, he would never have had time to draw up all his hooves before the plasma shock blasted him right out of his specially modified swivel chair.

Butler instructed everyone to attach themselves to the Moonbelt, one per link. Floating slightly in the buffeting wind, the group maneuvered itself to the carriage doorway like a drunken crab.

It’s simple physics, Artemis told himself. Reduced gravity will prevent us being dashed against the Arctic ice. In spite of all his logic, when Root launched the group into the night, Artemis couldn’t hold back a single gasp. Later, when he replayed the incident in his mind’s eye, Artemis would edit out the breath.

The slipstream spun them beyond the railway sleepers, into a drift. Butler turned off the antigravity belt a second before impact. Otherwise they could have bounced away like men on the moon.

Root was first to detach, scooping handfuls of snow from the surface until his fingers reached the compacted ice below. He heard a click behind his shoulder.

“Stand back,” advised Butler, taking aim with his handgun. Root obliged, shielding his eyes with a forearm. Ice slivers could blind you just as efficiently as six-inch nails. Butler put a full clip into a three-inch spread, blasting a shallow hollow in the frozen surface. Instant sleet drenched the already sodden group. Root was checking the results before the smoke cleared. They had seconds left before Holly’s time ran out. After a certain time it mightn’t be wise to attempt a graft. Even if they could.

The commander jumped into the dip, sweeping aside layers of loose ice. There was a disk of brown among the white.

“Yes,” he crowed. “Earth!”

Butler lowered Holly’s twitching form into the hole. She seemed like a doll in his powerful hands. Tiny and limp. Root curled Holly’s fingers around the illegal acorn, thrusting her left hand deep into the shattered soil. He pulled a role of tape from his belt, crudely securing the finger to roughly its original position.

The elf and two humans gathered around and waited.

“It mightn’t take,” muttered Root nervously. “This sealed acorn thing is new. Never been tested. Foaly and his ideas. But they usually work. They usually do.”

Artemis laid a hand on his shoulder. It was all he could think to do. Giving comfort was not one of his strong points.

Five seconds. Ten. Nothing.

Then ...

“Look,” cried Artemis. “A spark.”

A solitary blue spark traveled lazily along the length of Holly’s arm, winding along the veins. It crossed her chest, climbed her pointed chin and sank into the flesh right between the eyes.

“Stand back,” advised Root. “I saw a two-minute healing in Tulsa one night. Damn near destroyed an entire shuttle port. I’ve never even heard of a four-minuter.”

They backpedaled to the lip of the crater, and not a moment too soon. More sparks erupted from the earth, targeting Holly’s hand as the area most in need of assistance. They sank into her finger joint like plasma torpedoes, melting the plastic tape.

Holly shot upright, arms swinging like a puppet. Her legs began to jerk, kicking invisible enemies. Then from her vocal cords came a high-pitched keening that cracked the thinner sheets of ice.

“Is this normal?” whispered Artemis, as though Holly could hear.

“I think so,” answered the commander. “The brain is running a systems check. It’s not like fixing cuts and bruises, if you know what I mean.”

Every pore in Holly’s body started to steam, venting trace radiation. She thrashed and steamed, sinking in a pool of slush. Not a pretty sight. The water evaporated, shrouding the LEP captain in mist. Only her left hand was visible, fingers a desperate blur.

Holly suddenly stopped moving. Her hand froze, then dropped through the mist. The Arctic night rushed in to reclaim the silence.

They inched closer, leaning into the fog. Artemis wanted to see, but he was afraid to look.

Butler took a breath, batting aside sheets of mist. All was quiet below. Holly’s frame lay still as the grave.

Artemis peered at the shape in the hole.

“I think she’s awake. . . .”

He was cut short by Captain Short’s sudden return to consciousness. She bolted upright, icicles coating her eyelashes and auburn hair. Her chest ballooned as she swallowed huge gulps of air.

Artemis grabbed her shoulders, for once abandoning his shell of icy composure. “Holly. Holly, speak to me. Your finger. Is it okay?”

Holly wiggled her fingers, then curled them into a fist.

“I think so,” she said, and whacked Artemis right between the eyes. The surprised boy landed in a snowdrift for the third time that day.

Holly winked at an amazed Butler.

“Now we’re even,” she said.

Commander Root didn’t have many treasured memories. But in future days, when things were at their grimmest, he would conjure up this moment and have a quiet chuckle.

Foaly woke up sore, which was unusual for him. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d experienced actual pain. His feelings had been hurt a few times by Julius’s barbed comments, but actual physical discomfort was not something he cared to endure when he could avoid it.

The centaur was lying on the Operations Booth floor, tangled in the remains of his office chair.

“Cudgeon,” he growled, and what followed was about two minutes’ worth of unprintable obscenity.

When he had finally vented his anger the centaur’s brain kicked in, and he hauled himself from the plasma tiles. His rump was singed. He was going to have a couple of bald spots on his hindquarters. Very unattractive on a centaur. It was the first thing a prospective mate looked for in the nightclubs. Not that Foaly had ever been much of a dancer. Four left hooves.

The booth was sealed. Tighter than a gnome’s wallet, as the saying went. Foaly typed in his exit code.

“Foaly. Doors.”

The computer remained silent. He tried verbal.

“Foaly. One-twenty-one override. Doors.”

Not a peep. He was trapped. A prisoner of his own security devices. Even the windows were set to blackout, blocking his view of the Operations room. Completely locked out, and locked in. Nothing worked.

Well, that wasn’t completely accurate.
Everything
worked, but his precious computers wouldn’t respond to his touch. And Foaly was only too well aware that there was no way out of the booth without access to the mainframe.

Foaly plucked the tinfoil hat from his head, crunching it into a ball.

“A lot of good you did me!” he said, tossing it into the waste recycler. The recycler would analyze the chemical makeup of the item, then divert it to the appropriate tank.

A plasma monitor crackled into life on the wall. Opal Koboi’s magnified face appeared, grinning the widest grin the centaur had ever seen.

“Hello, Foaly. Long time no see.”

Foaly returned the grin, but his wasn’t quite as wide.

“Opal. How nice to see you. How are the folks?”

Everyone knew how Opal had bankrupted her father. It was a legend in the corporate world.

“Very well, thanks. Cumulus House is a lovely asylum.”

Foaly decided he would try sincerity. It was a tool he didn’t use very often. But there was a first time for everything.

“Opal. Think about what you’re doing. Cudgeon is insane, for pity’s sake. Once he has what he wants, he will dispose of you in a heartbeat!”

The pixie shook a perfectly manicured finger.

“No, Foaly, you’re wrong. Briar needs me. He really does. He’d be nothing without me and my gold.”

The centaur looked deep into Opal’s eyes. The pixie actually believed what she was saying. How could someone so brilliant be so deluded?

“I know what this is all about, Opal.”

“Oh, you do?”

“Yes. You’re still sore because I won the science medal back in university.”

For a second Koboi’s composure slipped, and her features didn’t seem quite so perfect.

“That medal was mine, you stupid centaur. My wing design was far superior to your ridiculous iris-cam. You won because you were a male. And that’s the only reason.”

Foaly grinned satisfied. Even with the odds so hugely against him, he hadn’t lost the ability to be the most annoying creature under the world when he wanted to be.

“So what do you want, Opal? Or did you just call to chat about our school days?”

Opal took a long drink from a crystal glass.

“I just called, Foaly, to let you know I’m watching, so don’t try anything. I also wanted to show you something from the security cameras downtown. This is live footage by the way, and Briar is with the Council right now, blaming you for it. Happy viewing.”

Opal’s face disappeared to be replaced by a high-angle view of downtown Haven. A tourist district, outside Spud’s Spud Emporium. Generally, this area would be thronged with Atlantean couples taking photos of each other in front of the fountain. But not today, because today the square was a battleground. The B’wa Kell were waging open war with the LEP, and by the looks of things, it was a one-sided battle. The goblins were firing their softnose weapons, but the police were not shooting back. They just huddled behind whatever shelter they could find. Completely helpless.

Foaly’s jaw dropped. This was disastrous. And he was being blamed for everything. Of course, the thing about stool pigeons was, they could not be left alive to protest their innocence. He had to get a message to Holly, and fast, or they were all dead fairies.

CHAPTER 10

Spud’s Spud Emporium was not a place you wanted to be on the best of days. The fries were greasy, the meat was mysterious, and the milk shakes had gristly lumps. Nevertheless, the emporium did a roaring trade, especially during the solstice.

At this precise moment, Captain Trouble Kelp would almost have preferred to be inside the fast-food joint choking down a rubbery burger than outside it dodging lasers. Almost.

With Root out of the picture, field command fell to Captain Kelp. Usually this was a responsibility he would have relished. But then again,
usually
he would have had the benefit of transport and weapons. Thankfully, they still had communications.

Trouble and his patrol had been scouring B’wa Kell hot spots when they were bushwhacked by a hundred members of the reptilian triad. The goblins had positioned themselves on the rooftops, catching the LEP squad in a deadly crossfire from softnose lasers and fireballs. Pretty complex thinking for the B’wa Kell. The average goblin found simultaneous scratching and spitting a challenge. They had to be getting their orders from someone.

Trouble and one of his junior corporals were pinned down behind a photo booth, while the remaining officers had managed to take cover in Spud’s Emporium.

For the moment they were keeping the goblins at bay with lasers and buzz batons. The lasers had a range of ten yards, and the buzz batons were only good for close quarters. Both ran on electric batteries and would run out eventually. After that they were down to rocks and bare fists. They didn’t even have the advantage of shielding, since the B’wa Kell were equipped with LEP combat helmets. Older models certainly, but still fitted with anti-shield filters.

A fireball arced over the booth, melting through the asphalt at their feet. The goblins were wising up. Relatively speaking. Instead of trying to blast through the booth, they were lobbing missiles over it. Time was short now.

Trouble tapped his mike. “Kelp to base. Anything on weapons?”

“Not a thing, Cap’,” came the reply. “Plenty of officers, with nuthin’ to shoot ’cept their fingers. We’re charging up the old ’lectric guns, but that’s gonna take eight hours minimum. There are a coupla body armor suits over in recon, I’m having ’em double-timed over there right now. Five minutes. Tops.”

“D’Arvit,” swore the captain. They were going to have to move. Any second now this booth would fall apart, and they would be sitting ducks for goblin fire.

Beside him the corporal was quivering in terror.

“For heaven’s sake,” snapped Trouble. “Pull yourself together.”

“You shut up,” retorted his brother Grub through wobbly lips. “You were supposed to look out for me. Mommy said.”

Trouble waved a threatening finger. “It’s
Captain
Kelp while we’re on duty, Corporal. And for your information, I am looking out for you.”

“Oh, this is looking out for me, is it?” pouted Grub.

Trouble didn’t know who annoyed him more, his kid brother or the goblins.

“Okay, Grub. This booth isn’t going to last much longer. We’ve got to make a break for the emporium. Understand?”

Grub’s wobbling lip suddenly stiffened considerably.

“No chance. I’m not moving. You can’t make me. I don’t mind if I stay here for the rest of my life.”

Trouble raised his visor. “Listen to me. If you stay, the rest of your life is going to be about thirty seconds. We have to go.”

“But the goblins, Troub’.”

Captain Kelp grabbed his brother by the shoulders. “Don’t you worry about the goblins. You worry about my foot connecting with your behind if you slow down.”

Grub winced. He’d had that experience before.

“We’re going to be all right, aren’t we, brother?”

Trouble winked. “Of course we are. I’m the captain, aren’t I?”

His little brother nodded, lip losing its stiffness.

“Good. Now you point your nose at the door, and go when I say. Got it?”

More nodding. Grub’s chin was bobbing faster than a woodpecker’s beak.

“Right Corporal. Standby. On my command . . .”

Another fireball. Closer this time. Black smoke rose from Trouble’s rubber soles. The Captain poked his nose around the wall. A laser burst almost gave him a third nostril.

A steel sandwich board spun around the corner, dancing with the force of a dozen charges.
Photo Finish
the sign said. Or
Phot Finish
to be precise. The
o
had been blasted out of it. Not laserproof, then. But it would have to do.

Trouble snared the revolving board, draping it over his shoulders. Armor, of sorts. The LEP suits were lined with micro filaments that would dissipate neutrino blasts or even sonic bursts, but softnoses hadn’t been used underground for decades. A burst would tear through the LEP uniform as if it were so much rice paper.

He poked his brother in the back.

“Ready?”

Grub may have nodded, or it may have been that his entire body was shaking.

Trouble gathered his legs beneath him, adjusting the sandwich board across his chest and back. It would withstand a couple of rounds. After that, his own body would be providing cover for Grub.

Another fireball. Directly between them and the emporium. In a moment the flame would sink a hole in the tar-mac. They had to go now. Through the fire.

“Seal your helmet!”

“Why?”

“Just seal it, Corporal.”

Grub did. You could argue with a brother, but not a commanding officer.

Trouble placed a hand on Grub’s back and pushed. Hard.

“Go, go, go!”

They went, straight through the white heart of the flame. Trouble heard the filaments in his suit pop as they tried to cope with the heat. Boiling tar sucked at his boots, melting the rubber soles.

Then they were through, stumbling toward the double doors. Trouble scrubbed the soot from his visor. His men were waiting, huddled behind riot shields. Two paramedic warlocks had their gloves off, ready to lay on hands. Ten yards to go.

The goblins found range. A hail of charges sang through the air around them, pulverizing what was left of the emporium’s shop front. Trouble’s crown lurched forward as a slug flattened itself against his helmet.

More charges. Lower down. A tight grouping, between his shoulder blades. The sandwich board held.

The impact lifted the captain like a kite, slapping him into his brother, and carrying them both through the decimated double doors. They were instantly hauled behind a wall of riot shields.

“Grub,” gasped Captain Kelp. Through the pain and noise and soot. “Is he okay?”

“Fine,” answered the senior warlock paramedic, rolling Trouble onto his stomach. “Your back, on the other hand, is going to have some lovely bruises in the morning.”

Captain Kelp waved the warlock away.

“Any word from the Commander?”

The warlock shook his head. “Nothing. Root is missing in action and Cudgeon has been reinstated as commander. Even worse, now they’re saying Foaly is behind this whole thing.”

Trouble paled, and it wasn’t from the pain in his back.

“Foaly! It can’t be true.”

Trouble ground his teeth in frustration. Foaly and the commander. He had no choice, he would have to do it. The one thing he had had nightmares about.

Captain Kelp struggled up onto one elbow. The air above their heads was alive with the buzz of softnose bursts. It was only a matter of time before they were completely overrun. It had to be done.

Trouble took a breath. “Okay, people. Listen up. Retreat to Police Plaza.”

The troops froze. Even Grub caught himself in midsob. Retreat?

“You heard me!” snarled Trouble. “Retreat. We can’t hold the streets without arms. Now move it out.”

The LEP shuffled to the service entrance, unaccustomed to losing. Call it retreat, call it a tactical maneuver. It was still running away. And who would have thought that order would ever come out of Trouble Kelp’s mouth.

Artemis and his fellow travelers took shelter in the shuttleport. Holly made the journey slung over Butler’s shoulder. She protested loudly for several minutes, until the commander ordered her to shut up.

“You’ve just had major magical surgery,” he pointed out. “So just stay quiet and do your exercises.” It was vital that Holly manipulate her finger constantly for the next hour or so, to ensure the right tendons got reconnected. It’s very important to move the index finger the way you intend to move it, especially if you’re firing a weapon.

They huddled around a glow cube in the deserted departures lounge.

“Any water?” asked Holly. “I feel dehydrated after that healing.”

Root winked, something that didn’t happen very often. “Here’s a little trick I learned in the field.” He popped a flat-nosed shell from a clip in his belt. It was transparent and filled with clear liquid.

“You won’t get much of a drink from that,” commented Butler.

“More than you’d think. This is a hydrosion shell. A miniature fire extinguisher. The water is compressed into a tiny space. You fire it into the heart of a fire and the impact reverses the compressor. Half a gallon of water is blasted at the flames. More effective than a hundred gallons poured. We call them fizzers.”

“Very good,” said Artemis dryly. “If you could use your weapons.”

“Don’t need ’em,” said Root, drawing a large knife. “Manual works just as well.”

He pointed the shell’s flat tip at the mouth of a canteen, and popped the lid. A fizzing spray jetted into the container.

“There you are, Captain. Never let it be said that I don’t look after my officers.”

“Clever,” admitted Artemis.

“And the best thing is,” said the commander, pocketing the empty fizzer, “these things are completely reusable: all I have to do is stick it in a pile of snow and the compressor will do the rest, so I won’t even have Foaly on my case for wasting equipment.”

Holly took a long drink, and soon the color surged back to her cheeks. “So we were ambushed by a B’wa Kell hit team,” she mused. “What does that mean?”

“It means you have a leak,” said Artemis holding his hands close to the cube’s warmth. “It was my impression that this mission was top secret. Not even your Council was informed. The only person who isn’t here is that centaur.”

Holly jumped to her feet. “Foaly? It can’t be.”

Artemis raised his palms. “Logic. That’s all it is.”

“This is all very well,” interjected the commander. “But it’s conjecture. We need to assess our situation. What have we got, and what do we know for sure?”

Butler nodded. The commander was a being after his own heart. A soldier.

Root answered his own question. “We’ve still got the shuttle, provided it’s not wired. There’s a locker full of provisions. Atlantean food mostly, so get used to fish and squid.”

“And what do we know?”

Artemis took over. “We know that the goblins have a source in the LEP. We also know if they tried to take out the LEP’s head, Commander Root, then they must be after the body. Their best chance of success would be to mount both operations simultaneously.”

Holly chewed her lip. “So that means . . .”

“That means there is probably some kind of revolution going on underground.”

“The B’wa Kell against the LEP?” scoffed Holly. “No problem.”

“Generally, that may be true,” agreed Artemis. “But if your weapons are out . . .”

“Then so are theirs,” said Root.

Artemis moved closer to the glow cube. “Worst case scenario: Haven has been taken by the B’wa Kell and the Council members are either dead or imprisoned. Quite honestly, things look grim.”

Neither fairy responded.
Grim
hardly did the situation justice.
Disastrous
was closer to the mark. Even Artemis was slightly disheartened. None of this was helping his father.

“I suggest we rest here for a while, pack some provisions, and then proceed toward Murmansk as soon as we get some cloud cover. Butler can search this man Vassikin’s apartment. Perhaps we will be lucky, and my father will be there. I realize that we are at a slight disadvantage without weapons, but we still have surprise on our side.”

No one spoke for several moments. It was an uneasy silence. Everybody knew what should be said, but nobody wanted to say it.

“Artemis,” said Butler eventually, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We’re in no shape to go up against the Mafiya. We don’t have any firepower, and our colleagues need to get underground, so we don’t have any magic. If we go in there now, we’re not coming out. Any of us.”

Artemis stared deep into the heart of the glow cube.

“But my father is so close, Butler. I can’t give up now.”

In spite of herself, Holly was touched by his unwillingness to give up, against all the odds. She was certain that, for once, Artemis wasn’t trying to manipulate anybody. He was simply a boy who missed his father. Maybe her defenses were down, but she felt sorry for him.

“We’re not giving up, Artemis,” she said softly. “We’re regrouping. There’s a difference. We’ll be back. Remember, it’s always darkest before the dawn.”

Artemis looked at her. “What dawn? We’re in the Arctic, remember?”

Foaly was furious with himself. After all the security encryptions he’d built into his systems, Opal Koboi had simply strolled in here and hijacked the entire network. And what’s more, the LEP had paid her for the job. The centaur had to admire her nerve. It was a brilliantly simple plan. Apply for the upgrade contract, submit the lowest estimate. Get the LEP to give you an access-all-areas chip and then piggyback spy-cams on the local systems. Foaly would be willing to bet that Opal had even billed the LEP for the surveillance equipment.

Foaly pushed a few buttons experimentally. No response. Not that he’d expected any. Doubtless Opal Koboi had everything wired down to the last fiber-optic. Perhaps she was watching him at this very moment. He could just imagine her. Coiled up on a Koboi Hoverboy giggling at the plasma screen. His greatest rival, gloating over his destruction.

Foaly growled. She may have caught him off guard once, but it wouldn’t happen again. He would not go to pieces for Opal Koboi’s entertainment. . . . Then again, maybe he would.