The Artemis Fowl Files (Artemis Fowl 0.50)

Artemis is quite perceptive and extremely intellectual. He can answer the questions on any psychological profile perfectly, but this is only because he knows the perfect answers. I fear that Artemis feels that the other boys are too childish. He refuses to socialize, preferring to work on his various projects during free periods. The more he works alone, the more isolated he becomes, and if he does not change his habits soon, he may isolate himself completely from anyone wishing to be his friend, and, ultimately, from his family too. Must try harder.

CHAPTER 1: LADY FEI FEI’S TIARA

Below the Fleursheim Plaza, Manhattan, New York City

DWARFS dig tunnels. That’s what they are born to do. Their bodies have adapted over millions of years to make them efficient tunnelers. A dwarf male’s jaw can be unhinged so that he can unhook it at will in order to excavate a tunnel with his mouth. The waste is jettisoned at the rear end to make way for the next mouthful.

The dwarf that concerns us is the notorious fairy felon Mulch Diggums. Mulch found burglary much more suited to his personality than mining. The hours were shorter, the risks were less severe, and t

he precious metals and stones that he took from the Mud Men were already processed, forged, and polished.

Tonight’s target was the tiara of Lady Fei Fei, a legendary Chinese diplomat. The tiara was a masterpiece of intricate jade-and-diamond arrangements in a white-gold setting. It was priceless, though Mulch would sell it for much less.

The tiara was currently on tour as the centerpiece of an Asian art exhibition. On the evening our story begins, it was overnighting in the Fleursheim Plaza on its way to the Metropolitan Museum. For one night only, Fei Fei’s tiara was vulnerable and Mulch did not intend to miss his chance.

Incredibly, the original geological planning survey for the Fleursheim Plaza was freely available on the Internet, allowing Mulch to plot his route from the comfort of the East Village, where he was holed up. The dwarf discovered, to his delight, that a narrow vein of compacted clay and loose shale ran right up to the basement wall. The basement where the Fei Fei tiara was being stored. At that moment, Mulch was closing his jaws around five pounds of earth per second as he burrowed ever closer to the Fleursheim basement. His hair and beard resembled an electrified halo as each sensitive fiber tested the surface for vibrations.

It wasn’t bad clay, Mulch mused as he swallowed, taking shallow breaths through his nostrils. Breathing and swallowing simultaneously is a skill lost by most creatures once they leave infancy, but for dwarfs it is essential for survival.

Mulch’s beard hair detected vibration close by; the steady thrumming that usually indicated air-conditioning units or a generator. That didn’t necessarily mean he was nearing his target. But Mulch Diggums had the best internal compass in the business, plus he’d programmed the precise coordinates into the stolen Lower Elements Police helmet in his knapsack. Mulch paused long enough to check the 3D grid in the helmet’s visor. The Fleursheim basement was forty-eight degrees northeast, ten yards above his present position. A matter of seconds for a tunnel dwarf of his caliber. Mulch resumed his munching, scything through the clay like a fairy torpedo. He was careful to expel only clay at the lower end, and not air. The air might be needed if he encountered any obstacles. Seconds later he encountered the very barrier he had been saving up for. His skull collided with six inches of basement cement. Dwarf skulls may be tough, but they cannot crack half a foot of concrete.

“D’Arvit!” swore Mulch, blinking concrete flakes from his eyes with long dwarf lashes. He reached up, rapping a knuckle against the flat surface.

“Five or six inches, I reckon,” he said to no one, or so he thought. “Should be no problem.”

Mulch backed up, compacting the earth behind him. He was about to employ a maneuver known in dwarf culture as the cyclone. This move was generally used for emergency escapes or for impressing dwarf females. He jammed the unbreakable LEP helmet over his wild hair, drawing his knees to his chin.

“I wish you could see this, ladies,” he muttered, allowing the gas in his insides to build. He had swallowed a lot of air in the past few minutes, and now individual bubbles were merging to form an increasingly difficult-to-contain tube of pressure.

“A few more seconds,” grunted Mulch, the pressure bringing a glow to his cheeks.

Mulch crossed his arms over his chest, drew in his beard hair, and released the pent-up wind.

The result was spectacular and would have earned Mulch the girlfriend of his choice, if anyone had been around to see it. If you imagine the tunnel to be the neck of a champagne bottle, then Mulch was the cork. He shot up that passageway at over a hundred miles per hour, spinning like a top. Ordinarily when bone meets concrete, the concrete wins, but Mulch’s head was protected by a stolen fairy Lower Elements Police helmet. These helmets are made from a virtually indestructible polymer.

Mulch punched through the basement floor in a flurry of concrete dust and spinning limbs. The dust was whipped into a dozen mini-whirlwinds by his jet stream. His momentum took him a full six feet into the air before he flopped to the floor, and lay there panting. The cyclone took a lot out of a person. Who said crime was easy?

After a quick breather, Mulch sat up and re-hinged his jaw. He would have liked a longer rest but there could be cameras pointed at him right now. There was probably a scrambler on the helmet, but technology had never been his strong point. He needed to nab the tiara, and escape underground.

He stood, shaking a few lumps of clay from his bum flap, and took a quick look around. There were no telltale red lights winking on CCTV cameras. There were no safety-deposit boxes for valuable artifacts. There wasn’t even a particularly secure door. It seemed an odd place for a priceless tiara to be stored even for one night. Humans were inclined to protect their treasures, especially from other humans.

Something winked at him from the darkness. Something that gathered in and reflected the minuscule amount of light available in the base-ment. There was a plinth among the statues, storage crates, and mini-skyscrapers of stacked chairs. And atop the plinth was a tiara, and the spectacular blue diamond at its center glittered even in almost total darkness.

Mulch burped in surprise. The Mud Men had left Fei Fei’s tiara out in the open? Not likely. This must be a setup.

He approached the plinth cautiously, wary of any traps on the ground. But there was nothing, no motion sensors, no laser eyes. Nothing. Mulch’s instinct screamed at him to flee, but his curiosity pulled him toward the tiara like a swordfish on a line.

“Moron,” he said to himself, or so he thought. “Get out while you can. Nothing good can come of this.” But the tiara was magnificent. Mesmerizing.

Mulch ignored his misgivings about the situation, admiring the jeweled item in front of him.

“Not half bad,” he said, or maybe it was. The dwarf leaned closer.

The stones had an unnatural sheen to them. Oily. Not clean like real gems. And the gold was too shiny. Nothing a human eye would notice. But gold is life to a dwarf. It is in their blood and dreams. Mulch lifted the tiara. It was too light. A tiara of this size should weigh at least two pounds.

There were two possible conclusions to be drawn from all this. Either this was a decoy and the real tiara was safely hidden elsewhere, or this was a test, and he had been lured here to take that test. But lured here by whom? And for what purpose?

These questions were answered almost immediately. A giant Egyptian sarcophagus popped open in the deepest of the shadows, revealing two figures who were most definitely not mummies.

“Congratulations, Mulch Diggums,” said the first, a pale boy with dark hair. Mulch noticed that he wore night-vision goggles. The other was a giant bodyguard who Mulch had humiliated recently enough for it to still smart. The man’s name was Butler, and he did not look in the best of moods.

“You have passed my test,” continued the boy, in confident tones. He straightened his suit jacket and stepped from the sarcophagus, extending a hand.

“A pleasure to meet you. Mister Diggums, I am your new business partner. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is …”

Mulch shook the hand. He knew who this boy was. They had battled before, just not face-to-face. He was the only human to ever have stolen fairy gold, and managed to keep it. Whatever he had to say, Mulch was certain that it would be interesting.

“I know who you are, Mud Boy,” said the dwarf. “Your name is Artemis Fowl.”

CHAPTER 2: HIGH PRIORITY

Police Plaza, Haven City;The Lower Elements

WHEN Mulch Diggums said the name Artemis Fowl, the Mud Boy’s file was automatically shunted to the “hot” pile in Police Plaza. Every fairy Lower Elements Police helmet was fitted with a satellite tracker and could be located anywhere in the world. They also had voice-activated microphones, so whatever Mulch said was heard by a surveillance intern. The case was immediately removed from the intern’s desktop when Artemis’s name was mentioned. Artemis Fowl was fairy enemy number one, and anything related to the Irish boy was sent immediately to the LEP’s technical adviser, the centaur, Foaly.

Foaly listened

to the live transmission from Mulch’s helmet, and cantered into LEP Commander Root’s office.

“We have something here, Julius. It could be important.”

Commander Julius Root looked up from the fungus cigar he was clipping. The elf did not look happy, but then he rarely did. His complexion was not as rosy as usual, but the centaur had a feeling that was about to change.

“A few words of advice, pony boy,” snapped Root, tearing the tip from the cigar. “One, don’t call me Julius. And two, there is a protocol in place for speaking to me. I’m the commander here, not one of your polo buddies.”

He leaned back in his chair, lighting the cigar. Foaly was unimpressed by all the posturing.

“Whatever. This is important. Artemis Fowl’s name has come in on a sound file.”

Root sat up abruptly, protocol forgotten. Less than a year previously Artemis Fowl had kidnapped one of his captains, and extorted half a ton of gold from the LEP ransom fund. But more important than the gold itself was the knowledge inside the Irish boy’s head. He knew of the People’s existence, and might decide to exploit them again.

“Talk quickly, Foaly. No jargon, just Gnommish.”

Foaly sighed. Half the fun of delivering vital news was explaining how his technology had made gathering the news possible.

“Okay. I think Fowl has somehow got hold of an LEP helmet. You know that a certain amount of LEP hardware goes missing every year.”

“Which is why we can remote-destruct it.”

“In most cases, yes.”

The commander’s cheeks flushed angrily. “Most cases, Foaly? You never said anything about ‘most cases’ during the budget meeting.”

Foaly raised his palms. “Hey, you try to remote-destruct this helmet if you like. See what happens.”

The commander glared at him suspiciously. “And why shouldn’t I just press the button right now?”