The Artemis Fowl Files (Artemis Fowl 0.50)

“Jealousy,” proclaimed Turnball, spreading his arms. “This has always been about jealousy. I am better than you in every way, and you can’t handle it.” The madness was in his eyes now, and flecks of spittle spattered onto his chin and cheeks.

Root managed two words: “You’re insane.”

“No,” said Turnball. “What I am is fed up. I am fed up with running away from my own brother. The whole thing is too melodramatic. So, much as it pains me to do it, I am going to take your edge away from you. I am going to take your magic. Then you will be like me. I’ve already started, would you like to know how?”

Turnball took a tiny remote control from the pocket of his great coat. He pressed a button, and glass walls shimmered into view all round the brothers. They were no longer outside in the garden, they were inside a conservatory. Root had entered through open double doors. “Naughty, Commander,” admonished Turnball. “You entered a human dwelling without an invitation. That is against the rules of our religion. You do that a few more times, and your magic will be gone forever.”

Root’s head hung lower. He had waltzed into Turnball’s trap, like a raw recruit two days out of the Academy. His brother had rigged a few sheets of cam foil and some projectors to disguise the conservatory, and he had fallen for it. His only hope now was Holly Short. And if Turnball had outwitted Captain Kelp and himself, what chance did a girl have?

Turnball grabbed Root by the scruff of the neck, dragging him toward the house. “You don’t look so well,” he said, his voice loaded with false concern. “We’d better get you inside.”

CHAPTER 5: CAREER OR COMRADES?

HOLLY watched the commander’s capture from the ridge. When Root went down, she jumped to her feet and sprinted down the hillside, fully prepared to disobey her orders and go to the commander’s aid. Then the conservatory shimmered into view, stopping Holly in her tracks. She would be of no use inside the house boundaries, unless she could somehow save the commander by vomiting. There had to be another way.

Holly turned, crawling back uphill on all fours, digging her fingers into the earth, dragging herself toward the wood. Once under cover, she activated the locator in the shuttle’s starter chip. Her orders were to return to the craft and send a distress signal. Eventually it would penetrate the jammer’s waffle. Though by then, it would probably be too late.

She ran across the wild fields, rough grass grabbing at her boots. Birds circled overhead, their desperate cackling somehow echoing her own mood. The wind pushed in her face, slowing her pace. Even nature seemed to be against the LEP on this day.

The locator beep led her across a thigh-high stream. The freezing waters slashed through gaps in Holly’s suit, pouring over her legs. She ignored it, and a trout the size of her arm who seemed very interested in the material of her suit. She battled on, over a human-size stile and up a steep hill. Low-lying fog sat on the hilltop like whipped cream on a wedge of cake.

Holly could smell the fog before she reached it. It was chemical. Manufactured. The shuttle was obviously inside the cloud bank.

With the last vestiges of her strength, Holly batted aside sheets of clinging fake fog and remote-activated the shuttle door. She collapsed inside, lying prone on the bay doors for a brief moment, drawing in huge breaths. Then she clambered to her feet and slapped the emergency button on the dash, activating the emergency beam.

The beam icon winked on, followed by a huge anticlimax. All Holly could do was sit there watching failure messages flash onto the plasma screen. Here she was, sitting on millions of ingots’ worth of technology, and her orders were to do nothing.

Captain Kelp and Commander Root were in mortal danger, and her orders were to twiddle her thumbs. If she flew the shuttle she would be in breach of a direct order, and her career in Recon would be over before it began. But if she didn’t fly it, then her comrades were dead. Which was more important, career or comrades?

Holly stuffed the starter chip into the ignition slot and strapped herself in.

Turnball Root was enjoying himself immensely. Finally the moment he had dreamed about for so many decades had arrived. His baby brother was at his mercy.

“I thought I might keep you here for the next twenty-four hours until your magic is completely gone. Then we will become true brothers again. A real team. Perhaps you will decide to join me. If not, you certainly won’t be leading the chase. The LEP do not employ personnel without magic.”

Root was curled up in a ball on the floor, his face greener than a sprite’s behind. “Dream on,” he grunted. “You’re no brother of mine.”

Turnball pinched his cheek. “You’ll warm to me, little brother. It’s amazing who a fairy turns to in times of desperation. Believe me, I know.”

“In your dreams.”

Turnball sighed. “Still obstinate. You are probably entertaining notions of escape. Or perhaps you believe that in the end, I could never hurt my baby brother. Is that it? You believe that I have a heart? Perhaps a small demonstration …”

Turnball lifted Captain Kelp’s head from his chest. Trouble was barely conscious. He had been in the house for too long. He would never run at a hundred percent of his magical potential again. Not without an infusion from a team of warlocks. And soon. Turnball held a small cage up to Trouble’s face. Inside, a Tunnel Blue spider scratched at the mesh.

“I like these creatures,” said Turnball gently. “They will go through anything to survive. They remind me of myself. This little one will make short work of the captain here.”

Root tried to raise a hand. “Turnball, don’t.”

“I must,” said Turnball. “Think of it as already done. There is nothing you can do.”

“Turnball. It’s murder.”

“Murder is a word. Just another word.”

Turnball Root began wiggling the tiny bolt. Barely an inch of metal was left to hold the hatch, when a spearlike communications spike punctured the roof, embedding itself in the floorboards. Holly’s amplified voice boomed from the speaker in the shaft, shaking the entire house.

“Turnball Root,” said the voice. “Release your prisoners and surrender.”

Turnball reset the bolt, pocketing the cage. “The girl is dead, eh? When are you going to stop lying to me, Julius?” Julius was too weak to respond. The world had become a bad dream. He was breathing treacle.

Turnball turned his attention to the com spike. He knew that the instrument would broadcast his words to the shuttle above.

“The pretty corporal, alive and well. Ah well, no matter. You cannot come in, and I will not go out. If you do enter, I will go free. Not only that, but I will have gained a shuttle. If you try to detain me when I am ready to leave, then my arrest will be illegal and my lawyer will carve you up like a whale in a human boat.”

“I will blast that house to kingdom come,” warned Holly, through the com spike.

Turnball spread his arms. “Blast away. You will put me out of my misery. But when the first bolt hits, I will feed my spider to the commander. The Root brothers will not be surviving this assault. Face it, Corporal. You cannot win as long as this house stands.”

Overhead in the shuttle, Holly realized that Turnball had all the angles covered. He knew the LEP rulebook better than she did. Even though she was the one with the aircraft, Turnball was the one with the upper hand. If she broke the rules, then he simply walked away and took off in his own shuttle, which was no doubt concealed somewhere close by.

“You cannot win as long as this house stands.”

He was right. She couldn’t win as long as a human dwelling surrounded her fellow LEP officers. But what if there were no dwelling?

Holly quickly checked the shuttle’s specs. It had the standard docking clamps prow and aft. The clamps allowed the shuttle to be reeled in for landing on uneven terrain, but could also be used to tow vehicles, or possibly for other more unconventional operations.

“You cannot win as long as this house stands.”

Holly felt sweat break out on th

e nape of her neck. Was she crazy? Could what she had planned ever stand up in court? It didn’t matter, she decided. Lives were at stake.

She flipped the safety covers from the prow clamps, angling the shuttle so that the nose was pointing at the fisherman’s cottage.

“Final warning, Turnball,” Holly said into the com spike. “Are you coming out?”

“Not just yet, my dear,” came the cheerful reply. “But do feel free to come in and join us.”

Holly did not bother with more conversation. She deployed the prow clamps with the flick of a switch. The clamps on this particular model were operated by opposing magnetic fields, and there was a slight pulse in the readouts as the two cylindrical clamps rocketed from the belly of the shuttle and straight through the roof of the cottage.

Holly set the cable for twenty yards so the clamps would not reach head height. Gripper claws extended from the clamps, grasping wooden joists, floorboards, and plaster. Holly retracted the clamps, discarding the detritus. Most of the roof was gone, and the south wall teetered dangerously. Holly took a quick photo and ran it through the computer for analysis.

“Computer,” she said. “Verbal query.”

“Proceed,” said the computer in the tones of Foaly, the LEP’s technical wizard.

“Locate load-bearing points.”

“Locating.” In seconds the computer had reduced the photograph to a 3D line representation. Four red dots pulsed gently on the drawing. If she could hit any one, the entire house would collapse. Holly looked closer. Demolition had been one of her favorite classes at the Academy, and she could see that if she took out the first-floor crossbeam on the gable end, then what was left of the house would collapse outward.

Turnball was ranting into the com spike. “What are you playing at?” he roared. “You can’t do this. It’s against regulations. Even if you tear off the roof, you can’t come into this house.”

“What house?” said Holly, and fired the third clamp.

The clamp grabbed the beam and ripped it right out of the brickwork. The house groaned like a mortally wounded giant, then shuddered and collapsed. The collapse was almost comical in its suddenness, and barely a brick fell inward. Turnball Root was left with nowhere to hide.

Holly put a laser dot on Turnball’s chest. “Take one step,” she said, “and I will blast you into the ocean.”

“You can’t shoot me,” Turnball retorted. “You’re not certified for combat.”

“No,” said a voice beside him. “But I am.”

Trouble Kelp was on his feet, dragging the enormous chair behind him. He launched himself at Turnball Root, and they went down in a tangle of wooden and flesh-and-bone legs.

Overhead in the shuttle, Holly slapped the dash. She had been quite prepared to knock out Turnball Root with a laser sting; after all, it was a little late to start worrying about regulations. She piloted the shuttle to a safe distance, and swooped in for landing.

In the cottage ruins, Commander Root’s strength was slowly returning. Now that the human dwelling was effectively destroyed, the magic sickness was receding fast. He coughed, shook his head, and climbed to his knees.

Trouble was fighting with Turnball in the rubble. Fighting and losing. Turnball might be older, but he was possessed and lucid. He smashed blow after blow into the captain’s face.

Julius picked up a rifle from the floor. “Give it up, Turnball,” he said tiredly. “It’s over.”

Turnball’s shoulders sagged, and he turned slowly. “Ah, Julius. Little brother. It’s come to this, once more. Brother against brother.”