The Time Paradox (Artemis Fowl 6)

He steepled his fingers, allowing the moment to build, then began his presentation.

“Every year we put a rare animal on trial.”

There were a few hoots from the audience, which Kronski waved away good-naturedly.

“A real trial, where the host prosecutes, and one of you lucky people gets to defend. The idea is simplicity. If you can convince a jury of your unprejudiced peers . . .”

More hooting.

“. . . that the creature in this cage contributes positively to human existence on this planet, then we will free the creature, which, believe it or not, did happen once in 1983. A little before my time, but I am assured that it actually happened. If the defense counsel’s peers are not convinced of the animal’s usefulness, then I press this button.” And here, Kronski’s bulbous fingers twiddled playfully with an oversize red button on his remote control. And the animal drops from its cage into the pit, passing the laser eye beam, which activates the gas-powered flame jets. Voilà, instant cremation.

“Allow me to demonstrate. Indulge me; it’s a new pit. I’ve been testing it all week.”

He nodded at one of the staff, who yanked up a section of the grid with a steel hook. Kronski then picked a melon from a fruit platter and tossed it into the pit. There was a beep followed by an eruption of blue-white flame gouts from nozzles ranged around the pit walls. The melon was burned to black floating crisps.

The display drew an impressed round of applause, but not everyone appreciated Kronski’s grandstanding.

Jeffrey Coontz-Meyers cupped both hands around his mouth. “Come on, Damon. What have we got tonight?

Not another monkey. Every year it’s monkeys.”

Generally interruptions would irritate Kronski, but not tonight. On this night all hectoring, however witty, would be swept from people’s memories the second that curtain was drawn aside.

“No, Jeffrey, not another monkey. What if—”

Jeffrey Coontz-Meyers groaned vocally. “Please, no more what if’s. We had half a dozen with the fish. Show us the blasted creature.”

Kronski bowed. “As you wish.”

He thumbed a button on his remote control, and a large view screen descended from the rafters, covering the back wall. Another button pushed, and the curtain concealing the caged creature swished smoothly to one side.

Holly was revealed, cuffed to the baby chair, her eyes darting and furious.

At first the main reaction was puzzlement.

Is it a little girl?

It’s just a child.

Has Kronski gone mad? I knew he sang to himself, but this?

Then the Extinctionists’ eyes were drawn to the screen, which was displaying a feed from a camera clamped to the cage.

Oh my lord. Her ears. Look at her ears.

She’s not human.

What is that? What is it?

Tommy Kirkenhazard stood. “This’d better not be a hoax, Damon. Or we’ll string you up.”

“Two points,” said Kronski softly. “First, this is no hoax. I have unearthed an undiscovered species; as a matter of fact, I believe it to be a fairy. Second, if this was a hoax, you would not be stringing anyone up, Kirkenhazard. My men would cut you down before you could wave that ridiculous hat of yours and shout ‘Yee-haw.’”

Sometimes it was good to send a shiver down people’s spines. Remind them where the power was.

“Of course, your skepticism is to be expected, welcomed, in fact. To put your minds at rest, I will need a volunteer from the audience. How about you, Tommy? How’s that backbone of yours?”

Tommy Kirkenhazard gulped down half a glass of whiskey to bolster his nerves, then made his way to the cage.

Good performance, Tommy, thought Kronski. It’s almost as if we hadn’t arranged this little confrontation to give me a bit more credibility.

Kirkenhazard stood as close to Holly as he dared, then reached in slowly to tweak her ear.

“My saints, it’s no fake. This is the real deal.” He stood back, and the truth of what was happening filled his face with joy. “We got ourselves a fairy.”

Kirkenhazard rushed across to Kronski’s podium and pumped his hand, clapping his back.

And so my biggest critic is converted. The rest will follow like sheep. Useful animals, sheep.

Kronski silently congratulated himself.

“I will prosecute the fairy, as is the tradition,” Kronski told the crowd. “But who will defend? What unlucky member will draw the black ball. Who will it be?”

Kronski nodded at the maître d’.

“Bring the bag.”

Like many ancient organizations, the Extinctionists were bound by tradition, and one of these traditions was that the creature on trial could be defended by any member of the assembly, and if no member was willing, one would be chosen by lottery. A bag of white balls, with one black. The spherical equivalent of the short straw.

“No need for the bag,” said a voice. “I will defend the creature.”

Heads turned to locate the speaker. It was a slender young man with a goatee and piercing blue eyes. He was wearing tinted glasses and a lightweight linen suit.

Kronski had noticed him earlier, but could not put a name to the face, which disturbed him.

“And you are?” he asked, while swiveling his laptop so that the built-in camera was aimed at this stranger.

The young man smiled. “Why don’t we give your identification software a moment to whisper the answer to you.”

Kronski thumbed ENTER, the computer captured an image, and five seconds later it plucked membership details from the Extinctionists’ file.

Malachy Pasteur. Young French-Irish heir to an abattoir empire. Made a sizeable donation to the Extinctionists’coffers. His first conference. As with all attendees, Pasteur was thoroughly vetted before his invitation was issued. A valuable addition to the ranks.

Kronski was all charm.

“Mr. Pasteur. We are delighted to welcome you to Morocco. But tell me, why would you wish to defend this creature? Her fate is almost certainly sealed.”

The young man walked briskly to the podium. “I enjoy a challenge. It is a mental exercise.”

“Defending vermin is an exercise?”

“Especially vermin,” retorted Pasteur, lifting the lid on his laptop. “It is easy to defend a servile, useful animal like the common cow. But this? This will be a hard-fought battle.”

“A pity to be crushed in battle so young,” said Kronski, his lower lip hanging with mock sympathy.

Pasteur drummed his fingers on the podium. “I have always liked your style, Dr. Kronski. Your commitment to the ideals of Extinctionism. For years I have followed your career, since I was a boy in Dublin, in fact. Lately, however, I feel that the organization has lost its way, and I am not the only one with this feeling.”

Kronski ground his teeth. So that was it. A naked challenge to his leadership.

“Be careful what you say, Pasteur. You tread on dangerous ground.”

Pasteur glanced at the floor below him where ice water still sloshed in the pit beneath. “You mean I could sleep with the fishes? You would kill me, Doctor? A mere boy? I don’t think that would bolster your credibility much.”

He’s right, fumed Kronski. I can’t kill him. I must win this trial.

The doctor forced his mouth to smile. “I don’t kill humans,” he said. “Just animals. Like the animal in this cage.”

Kronski’s many supporters applauded, but that still left many silent.