Artemis Fowl: The Ivory Files
By Caspian Nyghtvision
And the plot roars on.
Brief Note to Ensure Accuracy -- In response to crazygirly's really good insight that fairies are nocturnal (How did I miss that? HOW? .!!) I imagine their average workday to be from about 9 in the morning to 9 or 10 at night. Accurate, maybe not. Good hours though, for night owls like me. In response to Kitty Rainbow's helpful ice cream insight, Our Bible says that "fairies fear cold so much, some of them won't even eat ice cream" and I'm cheerfully putting all blame on Colfer. Try telling that to Holly; I think you're right, taking away her Moose Tracks would result in possible disembowelment. Also, I had NO idea that you can get Moose Tracks in England! We went to Florida and they didn't have it! (Oh, yes, Florida's not technically part of Earth.) *Happy!* Whoa, wait a minute. People in Europe are reading this? o.O I'm international... O_o
Chapter Four: The Nameless Songless Quoteless Chapter
______________________
Saturday Morning
Fowl Manor
______________________
Angeline Fowl quietly lay back in her bed, leafing pensively through a book, staring at page after page of print without really reading it. Her husband's incredibly quick typing rattled through the room like machine-gun fire. He was hunched over his laptop, fingers dashing across the ultrathin ergonomic keyboard without ever seeming to touch a key. Probably transferring some more of their money from discreet Swiss bank accounts into legitimate ventures. She did approve of him taking an interest in legal business, but wished it wouldn't occupy his time so much.
Their son was growing up right before their eyes, and while they remained affectionate, it seemed now more than ever that Artemis the Second had his own agenda. Slipping out at night, dodging questions so skillfully it took Angeline a few hours to realize she'd been duped, and putting up such incredibly complex firewalls around his personal computer that not even his father -- one hell of a hacker in his own right -- could get past them. The senior Fowls convinced each other that this was normal teenage behavior, and apologized sincerely when their son demanded to know why his mother was sewing button cameras into his shirt buttons.
"Tem, dear..." she began, sliding a beaten-copper bookmark between the pages so she wouldn't lose her place. There was a distinct problem with having a husband and son both named Artemis. She'd worked it out: Artemis Senior was nicknamed "Tem," Artemis Junior was "Arty." Neither of them liked this at all.
"Mnh?" He made a half-listening noise with his nose.
"I have something important to tell you. Put down the computer, please?"
"Mnh." So he hadn't been half-listening at all, more like quarter-listening. Angeline tried to get his attention.
"I've decided to become an international terrorist."
"Mnh."
"There's a radiation leak. We're moving the house to Monkey's Eyebrow, Illinois."
"Mnh."
"I'm pregnant."
"Mnh."
"Butler's pregnant."
"Mnh."
"Juliet has found religion and is leaving to live a chaste, isolate life on Mount Everest."
"Mnh?"
"I thought it would be a nice change to have some Russian Mafiya dons over for dinner tonight."
"Mnh."
"Butler's giving Artemis driving lessons." (This was true, but she wasn't supposed to know about it.)
"Mnh?"
"Arty got arrested by Interpol today."
"WHAT?"
"Oh, so you were listening. Good man."
"ARTEMIS got ARRESTED?!" The elder Fowl spun around in his expensive swivel chair, almost falling off it.
"No, dear, of course not. The psychiatrist did phone us today, something about manic-depressiveness, but otherwise he's behaving exceptionally well."
"Artemis didn't get arrested?" He clung to the buttery leather arms of the chair as if it was a liferaft.
Angeline sighed. For a crime lord with an off-the-chart IQ and extraordinary cunning, he was rather short on common sense. "No. He didn't. He's doing very well, making himself productive during vacation. I was trying to get your attention, dear."
"Oh. Wasn't there some other way to do that?"
"Eh, no, Tem, I'm afraid there wasn't. What were you doing?"
He waved his hand dismissively -- "Those buggers at Enron were getting annoying anyway..." and trailed off. Angeline didn't want to press him further. "Artemis, I'm pregnant."
"You're WHAT?"
"Pregnant, dear."
"With a baby?"
"No, dear, with a Pekignese."
His scarred face relaxed. "Oh, you're joking. Angeline, you don't need to do things like that just to get my attention." He got up from the chair with difficulty, stumped with his one good leg to the bed, sat down and took her hand. "You were joking, right?"
"No. It's a baby. We're going to have another child."
His brain, brilliant as it was, had trouble with this concept. As a result, it shut down completely, slinking off to a far corner of his consciousness to figure out 634 ways to win a game of chess in five moves. Without the brain to guide them, his mouth fell open like a drawbridge without a gatekeeper, and his blue eyes went on vacations to seperate corners of his head and took on a glazed look.
"Artemis, dear?"
"What- when- HOW?"
"A baby," she answered, straight-faced. "About a month ago, and you should know, because you were there."
______________________________
Saturday Morning
226 Acorn Avenue
Haven City, Lower Elements
_____________________________
The alarm clock buzzed. Mutedly. It wasn't doing a very good job, or a very loud job, because it was muffled beneath several layers of clothing, blankets, papers, music disks and good old-fashioned dust.
Strange lifeforms mutated quietly from the old socks gathered under the bed.
There was a grunt, and a hand emerged from a slightly less junk-encrusted area that looked something like a bed. The hand felt around, but the alarm clock was lost forever, buzzing away forlornly in a dark corner that would never be found again. The hand came in contact with a shoe, and threw it in the general direction of the buzzing. There was a "NOIK!" sound, as if a mutating lifeform had been squashed just as it evolved into a sentient being. The buzzing stopped. Blessed silence.
Then the poking began.
Trouble Kelp stood in the doorway of the catastrophe that was his brother's bedroom, carefully not touching anything that might result in contamination. His features were an oil painting entitled "Disgust." He held a long poker in one hand, made of an old mop handle, some wooden spoons and a few random sticks taped together. He used this to poke at a largish mound that he assumed to be Grub's bed.
"Get up."
"Naw, ish Shattaday." Came a muffled, sleepy voice from within the Depths.
Poke. Poke. "Get up, Grub."
There was a small landslide, and several blankets and an old team jacket fell off the largish mound. A sleepy face with bright magenta hair poked out of the Cavern.
Trouble dropped the Wake-Up-Poker in astonishment. "You DYED your hair PINK?"
"Ish na' pink. 'S magenta. Wassa dare." Apparently words were coming hard to this creature, which looked like it had one hell of a sugar-low hangover.
"But -- but -- why?"
"Ya don' wanna know, Trubb." There was another cascade of laundry, and the magenta hair disappeared. "G'way."
Trouble eyed the fallen Poker, which had fallen to Grub's floor, into a puddle of something green and sticky. He picked it up gingerly on his toe and flipped it into his hands. Poke. Poke. "Get up."
"D'Arvit!! Go 'way!"
Poke, poke, poke.
A hand reached out from the disaster, grabbed the end of the Wake-Up-Poker, and broke it. Trouble growled; now he couldn't reach. There was no way he was stepping forth into the Eternal Mess of Grub's Room. He was half afraid a tentacle was going to emerge from a lair of forgotten laundry and grab his ankle, even as he stood in the doorway. Brilliant captain of the LEP, he decided to try a more subtle, psychological tactic.
"Breakfast is ready."
The captain stood aside, wincing, as a smaller, magenta-haired form shot past him hungrily, dressed only in boxers and socks. "Food!" It skidded into the kitchen, sliding on its slippery socks. There was a large crash and several smaller clatters. Like an annoying younger brother getting pummeled by pots and pans falling off a cheap rack. Trouble smirked faintly; perhaps he shouldn't have placed the rack right in the middle of the floor, which he had used two bottles of Gnome Brand Mop 'n' Shine on? No, he lived for moments like these.
"And why do I share an apartment with you?" Trouble wondered as he walked into the kitchen, fully washed and dressed in his LEP uniform. He untaped the various parts of the Wake-Up-Poker and put them away, then started cleaning up the mess.
"Cuzza Mum," Grb slurred through a mouthful of Extra Loaded Sugar Frosted Bogglefish Krispies. His head was in his hands and he shoveled food into his mouth at an amazing pace, although his eyes looked glazed.
"Oh, yes, Mum. Remind me to call her when I get back home." Trouble reached for the box of cereal to put it back.
Grub looked up, eyes smoldering, and growled menacingly.
"Eheheh." His older brother wisely backed off, leaving the cereal alone. Grub returned to eating like a starving troll and looking completely plastered.
Trouble headed towards the door. "Going to work. Don't make more of an ass out of yourself than you already are."
"But it's Saturday," Grub said, suddenly coherent.
"Don't I know it." Trouble opened the door. "D'you hear me? If Mrs. Brackley reports you to Noise Ordinance again, I'm not going to bail you out. Got it?"
"Goosnargh," Grub mumbled incomprehensibly. Apparently his brief bout of coherence had passed. Now he just looked hung over.
Trouble snorted and stormed to work. He didn't care what was waiting for him there, it was good just to get out of the house.
___________________________
Fowl Manor
___________________________
"If a 2-ton train moving 70 miles an hour travels 890 miles in two days and stops at noon to refuel, at what speed will it hit a pickup truck moving 50 miles an hour?" Artemis looked up severely. "This one is easy."
Juliet Butler gaped at him. "Wha--"
"Use your head, Juliet!"
"I- I'm trying, Artemis. I just don't think I'm cut out for college," the teenager pleaded. "I've already got a career bodyguarding your mum. I don't need to get a degree."
Artemis slammed the textbook down on the table and glared at her with those famous blue eyes. Juliet cringed slightly under that glare -- as most people would. "You're almost eighteen. She's thirty-eight. What are you going to do when Mother dies?"
"Bodyguard your kids, I guess," Juliet replied tentatively.
Artemis continued the glare. "And if I don't choose to reproduce?"
"I'll get married to Sean and have my own kids, thank you very much. I don't need to be a bodyguard to have a complete and satisfying life." Juliet slammed her chair back and twirled her hair moodily, intent on ignoring the dagger-shaped looks Artemis was flinging steadily in her direction.
All three Fowls and her own brother were conspiring against Juliet, plotting to get her into college. They said she needed to be mature, to have experience, to build her character. Like Butler. He'd done hundreds of jobs before Master Artemis was born; he'd worked as a mercenary, a sensei, a translator, a boxer; worked out and trained and studied for years; had made enemies, but also allies and connections along the way. Now look at what an accomplished bodyguard he was. Juliet, on the other hand, had lived a sheltered life. Everyone had decided that she needed to realize her full potential, and so they decided -- without her consent, mind you! -- that she was going to get into college at the very least. Now young Master Artemis had agreed to tutor her, "So that this summer won't be a total waste." Feck them, feck all of them. Especially that horrid little dwarf Master Artemis was keeping in the basement, which she wasn't supposed to know about.
Artemis stared at her scathingly, then grabbed the book again. Damned if he was going to be beaten by his mum's bodyguard. He'd grown up with Juliet and loved her almost like a sister, within his own definition of love. Of course he was high above her in every way except age and height, and she was an immature blonde, flirtatious, gullible, easily distracted, even -- dare he think it? -- ditzy. She was going to get into college, though, or he would die in the attempt. "A train is leaving London at 3:20," he gritted. "At what rate--"
"Feck the London trains. They never run on time. It was probably supposed to leave at two. Who cares about all these stupid fecking trains?" Juliet snarled, dropping her chair onto all four feet again. She clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. "Oops. Sorry, Artemis, I--"
He just glared at her viciously. "Fine, then, do it yourself." He threw the book across the table and stormed off.
A voice from under the table chuckled roughly. "Heh heh heh. Look who made the little mastermind snap."
Juliet squeaked and fell out of her chair with a thud. Mulch Diggums emerged from under the library table, cackling to himself. "You? Trying to get into college, eh? Heh, heh, heh-- ACK!"
"YOU KILLED MY KITTY, YOU LITTLE---"
"Juliet, put him DOWN." Butler stood in the doorway like an annoyed bear, massive arms folded against his chest. "What have I told you about strangling the dwarf?"
The blonde reluctantly unclasped her fingers from Mulch's neck, and the dwarf fell to the expensively carpeted floor with an oddly metallic sound. A few spoons fell out of his pockets, which he tried to hide by scooting over and sitting on them innocently. Juliet and Mulch looked at each other, then turned as one and gave Butler puppy dog eyes. He looked back at them stonily. "Stealing spoons, Diggums? Strangling coworkers, Juliet? I'm very disappointed in you both."
Childishly, they pointed the fingers of blame at each other.
"He started it."
"She's insane."
"Oh, yeah? You're the one with the collection of--"
"ENOUGH!" Butler raised his voice slightly, which had the effect of a minor earthquake. "Is it impossible for there to be any normalcy in this house?"
"Yes." Artemis the Second had returned from his brief temper tantrum, and stood in the hall behind Butler. "It is Fowl Manor, after all. Juliet, Mother wants you."
She grunted ungracefully and left in a huff. Artemis turned to the other three. "I've decided to drop the bank idea. The stakeout isn't going well. It's too well-guarded; trying anything will just cause too much disturbance. Time for a new plan of action."
"We don't need a new plan of action, Fowl." Mulch stood up, subtly tucking the spoons back into his pocket. "You've got plenty of money. Especially now that your dad's back. What's the point? We're financially secure."
Artemis eyed him levelly. "And that's why you're quietly stockpiling the family silver?" He held up a handful of matching spoons. "If you need to keep in practice, do so on someone else's valuables."
"Didn't do it."
"I'm sure."
"What did you have in mind, Artemis?" Butler asked quickly before another argument could start. How ironic that he was always playing the peacemaker.
"An idea of an idea," Artemis replied vaguely, but his eyes were sparking. The game was afoot.
__________________________________
Root's Office
Lower Elements
_________________________________
"Quit the theatrics, Foaly! What have you got?"
After five minutes of hearing the centaur rant, rave and squeal ("This is a disaster, Julius, I can't believe you didn't tell me sooner!") Root was losing patience like a cat in a washing machine. "Do you want me to call in a medic and pump you full of tranquilizer?"
Foaly perked up, wiggling his eyebrows. "Which medic?"
"An old, ugly, male one. With nose hair."
"I'm fine, I'm fine. You have no sense of humor, Julius." Slightly calmer, Foaly proudly set what looked like a portable computer on Root's desk. "There you go. All the information you need."
The commander stared at it dubiously. "And what the hell is this?"
"The database! The database of all things dangerous to the People, and how to work against them. We've got a whole section on combating the effects of iron and radiation, thousands of entries on first aid, gigabytes on how to practice safe hex (really, they should be teaching hex education in school these days,) an entire chapter on underground claustrophobia, a hundred and one treatments for frostbite..."
"I only want information on ivory, Foaly."
"Well, there you go!" The technician pushed the computer a little closer. "This menu here has the advanced search engine, which will cut down on cross-referencing and one-word occurences."
Root eyed the device warily, as if it was going to leap forward at any minute and bite the tip off his cigar. "No."
"No?" Foaly whinnied in disbelief. "What do you mean, no? This is the most--"
"No. Just get me information on human ivory, and print it out. Hard copy. I'm not dealing with this all this high-technology stuff, that's your job."
"Julius, computers have been around over five centuries! They're here to stay! It's about time you got used to using them."
"No," Root said firmly, chewing his cigar with a no-nonsense look. "Print it for me, Foaly."
"But, Julius, that's grunt work!"
"Congratulations, you're a grunt. Print it. Hard copy. Now take this computer thing away before it catches a virus, or whatever they do when they aren't wanted."
Foaly gathered up the rejected computer with a deeply wounded look, like it was a poor little puppy that Root had just brutally kicked. Shooting the commander several dirty looks, which were completely ignored, the centaur clopped slowly to the doorway. Halfway there, he turned and shot back, "Think of all the trees you're killing."
"The paper's been recycled five times, Foaly. Besides, it's in a good cause. Now get out."
There was an equine snort as Foaly stomped off, muttering. "Technician of my caliber, being asked to print a piddling document like some unskilled, underpaid little fairy secretary. No offense," he told an extremely offended-looking secretary.
"That's administrative assistant, you donkey-eared fool!" the secretary screamed. Foaly ignored her as he cuddled the computer to his chest and kept walking. Furious, the administrative assistant slouched low in her chair and plotted on how to get her revenge. Next time the smartass technician asked her to staple a document, or better yet, sent her for coffee...
___________________________
3.752 Minutes later
__________________________
"There. All printed, Julius. I hope you're happy." Pouting -- though he would never admit that it was within his dignity to pout -- Foaly dropped a stack of multi-recycled papers onto the desk with a thud. "I'll have you know I got a paper cut doing this."
"Save it for the insurance company." Root leafed through the documents. Certain phrases leapt out at him -- "Human ivory is one of the Five Poisons, the others being rowan, radiation, iron and ice..." "Inhibits the Gift, effectively stripping and blocking healing powers and stopping all magic processing..." "Can be used as a deadly weapon. Wounds caused by human ivory cannot be automatically healed..."
"So what's the big deal?" Root growled, shuffling the papers together. "The five poisons are ancient history."
"Well, not really." Foaly replied confidently, slipping into Lecture Mode. "We've already evolved immunity to rowan and iron; those were on the way out in the sixteenth century. Now they're just annoying. Ice and cold aren't really big killers anymore -- most fairies just instinctively avoid them. Radiation can be countered by gels, suits, the Gift. They're still poison, but we can do something about it."
Root was still scowling. He sensed a flaw in this logic. "This whole bit about human ivory inhibiting the Gift. Can't be right. We can heal humans just fine."
"Part of their natural biology." The Foaly Lecture Mode was in full swing. "When a tooth is connected to the nerves, it's still a living thing, and it isn't dangerous. Once it's dead, it's dangerous. Although there was a case about ninety years ago when a little teething baby bit a sprite in the wing. Sprite died within the week. Freak occurence. It's in the book." Foaly drummed his fingers on the stack. "I realize you want the information, but my abilities are better used elsewhere. Why don't you get your secretary to read it to you?"
Root set his cigar down, leaned forward, and grabbed Foaly by the beard. The commander's mud brown eyes were dangerous, and his face began going red as he growled, "One. She's not my secretary, she works for everyone on this floor. Two. I'm the commander. You're the technician. Three. I'm not in a good mood. Four. I'm the commander. You're the technician."
"Point --- taken ----!" Foaly squeaked.
Root released the beard. "The boys and girl will be coming in soon. I'm going to the ward. Have fun printing more intel, Foaly boy."
He left the centaur sputtering like a lawnmower refusing to start.
______________________________
Holly's Apartment
_____________________________
Holly groaned as she dragged her clothes on. "Bob?"
The fish burped.
"Remind me never to eat Moose Tracks with Great Aunt Mathilda's jalapeno-pepper-peanut pickle relish during times of awful stress, okay?"
The fish looked at the wall.
"And if it be at all possible, stop me from washing the lot down with a drink made of a mixture of everything in the fridge, because I was stupidly trying to recreate Trouble's drink?"
The fish looked at his seaweed.
"And then, please use physical force to keep me from watching 'Blackadder' for three hours afterward while eating nachos, strawberries and cheese?"
The fish ate a piece of food.
"And then, never, under any circumstances allow me to go to work the next morning."
The fish spit the food out.
"Thank you for your support, Bob." Holly went to work. A piece of metal fell off her door as she slammed it behind her.
______________________________
Emergency Medical Ward
______________________________
Junior Medic Janisha Silver was catching a much-needed nap. Thin tendrils of her dark purple hair had worked their way out of her ponytail, and hung lifelessly around her swept-back ears and sleeping features. Her intern's uniform was stained and dirty, and there was a spot of her patient's blood drying on the side of her face. She was curled up in an uncomfortable position on the hard plastic chair outside the ward.
"Wake up, intern," a voice ordered, shaking her shoulder. The young warlock awoke with a start, pale green eyes snapping open. "Sir?" She sat bolt upright, gasping as she realized who was talking to her. "Commander Root. I--"
"Fell asleep."
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, I---"
"Leaving a potentially dangerous patient alone and unguarded, in critical condition."
"I've been working all night and morning, sir. I think I've run dry."
Suspicious, Root looked down at the scared-looking warlock. If she stood up, she might be even taller than him; they were a tall species, full of the healing Gift. It would take a lot of work to make a warlock run dry. "Hold out your hand, intern."
She did, tentatively. Without warning, Root pulled a small knife from his pocket and pricked his finger. As blood welled up into the cut, he took Silver's long blue gray fingers and pressed them to the tiny wound. A single tiny blue spark leapt from her fingers and sluggishly tried to repair the damage, and the medic's whole body slumped. She really was dry, to the point of near collapse.
A faint, almost fatherly smile barely carved itself on Root's features. "Go plant an acorn, intern. And call in for reinforcements next time."
"Yes, sir." Silver smiled back weakly and stood up to her full height, a whopping four foot one. Slightly unsteady on her feet, she saluted half-heartedly and started down the hall.
______________________________________
It was starting to get a little boring, so...
______________________________________
Bob was in rapture.
He had Discovered something.
A three-month-old piece of seaweed was in his tank.
He felt very proud of himself.
He tried to eat it, but that didn't work. He tried to fall on his knees and worship it, but he didn't have knees. He burped, and that seemed to settle it. The bubble he burped was a new thing to worship, so he did that. It got a little boring after a while, so he decided to escape.
Bob's Escape Plan was very simple. However, he couldn't remember it for the life of him, so he just settled for swimming very fiercely in one direction. The bogglefish was only slightly hindered by the fact that there was a sudden astonishing plastic wall in front of him, and he kept bumping his nose against it. Eventually he floated backwards and bumped into the other wall. Then he turned upside down, and Discovered the Ceiling.
What WAS that? Was it a grapefruit? Bob didn't know what a grapefruit was; it just seemed like an intelligent thing to wonder. Was HE a grapefruit? Maybe it wasn't a grapefruit. Maybe it was food! Was it something to worship? How do you worship a ceiling? Why is it upside down? If he swam into it, would he bump his nose? Are grapefruits bumpy? What is a grapefruit anyway? My God! What IS it?
This kept him busy for the next two hours. Then he Discovered the Mysterious Secret of Gulping, and was amused for the whole day.
_______________________________
Howler's Peak
High Maintenance Goblin Prison
Arctic Core
_______________________________
Alone in her small bleak cell, a pixie meditated, a little catlike smile on her face. Every once in a while she would look up and hum along with the constant screams and howls of the Arctic wind outside, muffled by tons of concrete and steel.
She looked up uninterestedly as a guard went by. It cast a slim shadow through the tiny window of her cell door. Strange, most of the guards were built like crunchball players -- heavy and thick. The guard paused and looked in at her, the unflattering prison light coldly pouring over features that could only be described as Gothic. Pale skin, dark hair, shadowed eyes, scrawny figure, giving off the general aura that at any moment this person would slink off to read depressing novels or post angsty poetry on the Internet.
"Hello, Opal," the Gothic person said in a voice that completely suited them. "Do have time for a quick question?"
______________
*drags self to keyboard, collapses completely*
Have you noticed that whenever we writers paint ourselves into a corner, we use one of five things to explain us out?
1. "It was all a dream!"
2. Blatant plothole
3. Reinforcements bursting down the door, just in time
4. A convenient heating duct, air vent or titanium rod
5. Foaly, to arrogantly explain our troubles away.
Hell, if Colfer does it, so will I.
Was it way too short? Didn't answer all the questions or tie up any loose ends? Still got gaping plotholes to Spackle? Please, tell these things to Joe the Bouncer. *nods to him* No, really. I'm so sorry, I've been really pressed for time. The drinks mixer down at the Flamingo exploded, because the idiot elf I hired couldn't grasp the simple concept of "you don't EVER put this in water, especially not if it's still turned on and running." You are all hugely appreciated and as soon as I repair the damages everyone can have free drinks. But please review. Right now, I'm too tired to beg you, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate it.
Yrs in the Netherworld, Caspian Nyghtvision
PS What do you think of Janisha Silver? I thought she was neat to have. You don't hear about the warlocks much. I drew a picture of her -- just email me or let me know in a review and I'll send you it, it's 26 KBs. Now I'm going to crawl into a hole and sleep for like sixteen hours.
By Caspian Nyghtvision
And the plot roars on.
Brief Note to Ensure Accuracy -- In response to crazygirly's really good insight that fairies are nocturnal (How did I miss that? HOW? .!!) I imagine their average workday to be from about 9 in the morning to 9 or 10 at night. Accurate, maybe not. Good hours though, for night owls like me. In response to Kitty Rainbow's helpful ice cream insight, Our Bible says that "fairies fear cold so much, some of them won't even eat ice cream" and I'm cheerfully putting all blame on Colfer. Try telling that to Holly; I think you're right, taking away her Moose Tracks would result in possible disembowelment. Also, I had NO idea that you can get Moose Tracks in England! We went to Florida and they didn't have it! (Oh, yes, Florida's not technically part of Earth.) *Happy!* Whoa, wait a minute. People in Europe are reading this? o.O I'm international... O_o
Chapter Four: The Nameless Songless Quoteless Chapter
______________________
Saturday Morning
Fowl Manor
______________________
Angeline Fowl quietly lay back in her bed, leafing pensively through a book, staring at page after page of print without really reading it. Her husband's incredibly quick typing rattled through the room like machine-gun fire. He was hunched over his laptop, fingers dashing across the ultrathin ergonomic keyboard without ever seeming to touch a key. Probably transferring some more of their money from discreet Swiss bank accounts into legitimate ventures. She did approve of him taking an interest in legal business, but wished it wouldn't occupy his time so much.
Their son was growing up right before their eyes, and while they remained affectionate, it seemed now more than ever that Artemis the Second had his own agenda. Slipping out at night, dodging questions so skillfully it took Angeline a few hours to realize she'd been duped, and putting up such incredibly complex firewalls around his personal computer that not even his father -- one hell of a hacker in his own right -- could get past them. The senior Fowls convinced each other that this was normal teenage behavior, and apologized sincerely when their son demanded to know why his mother was sewing button cameras into his shirt buttons.
"Tem, dear..." she began, sliding a beaten-copper bookmark between the pages so she wouldn't lose her place. There was a distinct problem with having a husband and son both named Artemis. She'd worked it out: Artemis Senior was nicknamed "Tem," Artemis Junior was "Arty." Neither of them liked this at all.
"Mnh?" He made a half-listening noise with his nose.
"I have something important to tell you. Put down the computer, please?"
"Mnh." So he hadn't been half-listening at all, more like quarter-listening. Angeline tried to get his attention.
"I've decided to become an international terrorist."
"Mnh."
"There's a radiation leak. We're moving the house to Monkey's Eyebrow, Illinois."
"Mnh."
"I'm pregnant."
"Mnh."
"Butler's pregnant."
"Mnh."
"Juliet has found religion and is leaving to live a chaste, isolate life on Mount Everest."
"Mnh?"
"I thought it would be a nice change to have some Russian Mafiya dons over for dinner tonight."
"Mnh."
"Butler's giving Artemis driving lessons." (This was true, but she wasn't supposed to know about it.)
"Mnh?"
"Arty got arrested by Interpol today."
"WHAT?"
"Oh, so you were listening. Good man."
"ARTEMIS got ARRESTED?!" The elder Fowl spun around in his expensive swivel chair, almost falling off it.
"No, dear, of course not. The psychiatrist did phone us today, something about manic-depressiveness, but otherwise he's behaving exceptionally well."
"Artemis didn't get arrested?" He clung to the buttery leather arms of the chair as if it was a liferaft.
Angeline sighed. For a crime lord with an off-the-chart IQ and extraordinary cunning, he was rather short on common sense. "No. He didn't. He's doing very well, making himself productive during vacation. I was trying to get your attention, dear."
"Oh. Wasn't there some other way to do that?"
"Eh, no, Tem, I'm afraid there wasn't. What were you doing?"
He waved his hand dismissively -- "Those buggers at Enron were getting annoying anyway..." and trailed off. Angeline didn't want to press him further. "Artemis, I'm pregnant."
"You're WHAT?"
"Pregnant, dear."
"With a baby?"
"No, dear, with a Pekignese."
His scarred face relaxed. "Oh, you're joking. Angeline, you don't need to do things like that just to get my attention." He got up from the chair with difficulty, stumped with his one good leg to the bed, sat down and took her hand. "You were joking, right?"
"No. It's a baby. We're going to have another child."
His brain, brilliant as it was, had trouble with this concept. As a result, it shut down completely, slinking off to a far corner of his consciousness to figure out 634 ways to win a game of chess in five moves. Without the brain to guide them, his mouth fell open like a drawbridge without a gatekeeper, and his blue eyes went on vacations to seperate corners of his head and took on a glazed look.
"Artemis, dear?"
"What- when- HOW?"
"A baby," she answered, straight-faced. "About a month ago, and you should know, because you were there."
______________________________
Saturday Morning
226 Acorn Avenue
Haven City, Lower Elements
_____________________________
The alarm clock buzzed. Mutedly. It wasn't doing a very good job, or a very loud job, because it was muffled beneath several layers of clothing, blankets, papers, music disks and good old-fashioned dust.
Strange lifeforms mutated quietly from the old socks gathered under the bed.
There was a grunt, and a hand emerged from a slightly less junk-encrusted area that looked something like a bed. The hand felt around, but the alarm clock was lost forever, buzzing away forlornly in a dark corner that would never be found again. The hand came in contact with a shoe, and threw it in the general direction of the buzzing. There was a "NOIK!" sound, as if a mutating lifeform had been squashed just as it evolved into a sentient being. The buzzing stopped. Blessed silence.
Then the poking began.
Trouble Kelp stood in the doorway of the catastrophe that was his brother's bedroom, carefully not touching anything that might result in contamination. His features were an oil painting entitled "Disgust." He held a long poker in one hand, made of an old mop handle, some wooden spoons and a few random sticks taped together. He used this to poke at a largish mound that he assumed to be Grub's bed.
"Get up."
"Naw, ish Shattaday." Came a muffled, sleepy voice from within the Depths.
Poke. Poke. "Get up, Grub."
There was a small landslide, and several blankets and an old team jacket fell off the largish mound. A sleepy face with bright magenta hair poked out of the Cavern.
Trouble dropped the Wake-Up-Poker in astonishment. "You DYED your hair PINK?"
"Ish na' pink. 'S magenta. Wassa dare." Apparently words were coming hard to this creature, which looked like it had one hell of a sugar-low hangover.
"But -- but -- why?"
"Ya don' wanna know, Trubb." There was another cascade of laundry, and the magenta hair disappeared. "G'way."
Trouble eyed the fallen Poker, which had fallen to Grub's floor, into a puddle of something green and sticky. He picked it up gingerly on his toe and flipped it into his hands. Poke. Poke. "Get up."
"D'Arvit!! Go 'way!"
Poke, poke, poke.
A hand reached out from the disaster, grabbed the end of the Wake-Up-Poker, and broke it. Trouble growled; now he couldn't reach. There was no way he was stepping forth into the Eternal Mess of Grub's Room. He was half afraid a tentacle was going to emerge from a lair of forgotten laundry and grab his ankle, even as he stood in the doorway. Brilliant captain of the LEP, he decided to try a more subtle, psychological tactic.
"Breakfast is ready."
The captain stood aside, wincing, as a smaller, magenta-haired form shot past him hungrily, dressed only in boxers and socks. "Food!" It skidded into the kitchen, sliding on its slippery socks. There was a large crash and several smaller clatters. Like an annoying younger brother getting pummeled by pots and pans falling off a cheap rack. Trouble smirked faintly; perhaps he shouldn't have placed the rack right in the middle of the floor, which he had used two bottles of Gnome Brand Mop 'n' Shine on? No, he lived for moments like these.
"And why do I share an apartment with you?" Trouble wondered as he walked into the kitchen, fully washed and dressed in his LEP uniform. He untaped the various parts of the Wake-Up-Poker and put them away, then started cleaning up the mess.
"Cuzza Mum," Grb slurred through a mouthful of Extra Loaded Sugar Frosted Bogglefish Krispies. His head was in his hands and he shoveled food into his mouth at an amazing pace, although his eyes looked glazed.
"Oh, yes, Mum. Remind me to call her when I get back home." Trouble reached for the box of cereal to put it back.
Grub looked up, eyes smoldering, and growled menacingly.
"Eheheh." His older brother wisely backed off, leaving the cereal alone. Grub returned to eating like a starving troll and looking completely plastered.
Trouble headed towards the door. "Going to work. Don't make more of an ass out of yourself than you already are."
"But it's Saturday," Grub said, suddenly coherent.
"Don't I know it." Trouble opened the door. "D'you hear me? If Mrs. Brackley reports you to Noise Ordinance again, I'm not going to bail you out. Got it?"
"Goosnargh," Grub mumbled incomprehensibly. Apparently his brief bout of coherence had passed. Now he just looked hung over.
Trouble snorted and stormed to work. He didn't care what was waiting for him there, it was good just to get out of the house.
___________________________
Fowl Manor
___________________________
"If a 2-ton train moving 70 miles an hour travels 890 miles in two days and stops at noon to refuel, at what speed will it hit a pickup truck moving 50 miles an hour?" Artemis looked up severely. "This one is easy."
Juliet Butler gaped at him. "Wha--"
"Use your head, Juliet!"
"I- I'm trying, Artemis. I just don't think I'm cut out for college," the teenager pleaded. "I've already got a career bodyguarding your mum. I don't need to get a degree."
Artemis slammed the textbook down on the table and glared at her with those famous blue eyes. Juliet cringed slightly under that glare -- as most people would. "You're almost eighteen. She's thirty-eight. What are you going to do when Mother dies?"
"Bodyguard your kids, I guess," Juliet replied tentatively.
Artemis continued the glare. "And if I don't choose to reproduce?"
"I'll get married to Sean and have my own kids, thank you very much. I don't need to be a bodyguard to have a complete and satisfying life." Juliet slammed her chair back and twirled her hair moodily, intent on ignoring the dagger-shaped looks Artemis was flinging steadily in her direction.
All three Fowls and her own brother were conspiring against Juliet, plotting to get her into college. They said she needed to be mature, to have experience, to build her character. Like Butler. He'd done hundreds of jobs before Master Artemis was born; he'd worked as a mercenary, a sensei, a translator, a boxer; worked out and trained and studied for years; had made enemies, but also allies and connections along the way. Now look at what an accomplished bodyguard he was. Juliet, on the other hand, had lived a sheltered life. Everyone had decided that she needed to realize her full potential, and so they decided -- without her consent, mind you! -- that she was going to get into college at the very least. Now young Master Artemis had agreed to tutor her, "So that this summer won't be a total waste." Feck them, feck all of them. Especially that horrid little dwarf Master Artemis was keeping in the basement, which she wasn't supposed to know about.
Artemis stared at her scathingly, then grabbed the book again. Damned if he was going to be beaten by his mum's bodyguard. He'd grown up with Juliet and loved her almost like a sister, within his own definition of love. Of course he was high above her in every way except age and height, and she was an immature blonde, flirtatious, gullible, easily distracted, even -- dare he think it? -- ditzy. She was going to get into college, though, or he would die in the attempt. "A train is leaving London at 3:20," he gritted. "At what rate--"
"Feck the London trains. They never run on time. It was probably supposed to leave at two. Who cares about all these stupid fecking trains?" Juliet snarled, dropping her chair onto all four feet again. She clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. "Oops. Sorry, Artemis, I--"
He just glared at her viciously. "Fine, then, do it yourself." He threw the book across the table and stormed off.
A voice from under the table chuckled roughly. "Heh heh heh. Look who made the little mastermind snap."
Juliet squeaked and fell out of her chair with a thud. Mulch Diggums emerged from under the library table, cackling to himself. "You? Trying to get into college, eh? Heh, heh, heh-- ACK!"
"YOU KILLED MY KITTY, YOU LITTLE---"
"Juliet, put him DOWN." Butler stood in the doorway like an annoyed bear, massive arms folded against his chest. "What have I told you about strangling the dwarf?"
The blonde reluctantly unclasped her fingers from Mulch's neck, and the dwarf fell to the expensively carpeted floor with an oddly metallic sound. A few spoons fell out of his pockets, which he tried to hide by scooting over and sitting on them innocently. Juliet and Mulch looked at each other, then turned as one and gave Butler puppy dog eyes. He looked back at them stonily. "Stealing spoons, Diggums? Strangling coworkers, Juliet? I'm very disappointed in you both."
Childishly, they pointed the fingers of blame at each other.
"He started it."
"She's insane."
"Oh, yeah? You're the one with the collection of--"
"ENOUGH!" Butler raised his voice slightly, which had the effect of a minor earthquake. "Is it impossible for there to be any normalcy in this house?"
"Yes." Artemis the Second had returned from his brief temper tantrum, and stood in the hall behind Butler. "It is Fowl Manor, after all. Juliet, Mother wants you."
She grunted ungracefully and left in a huff. Artemis turned to the other three. "I've decided to drop the bank idea. The stakeout isn't going well. It's too well-guarded; trying anything will just cause too much disturbance. Time for a new plan of action."
"We don't need a new plan of action, Fowl." Mulch stood up, subtly tucking the spoons back into his pocket. "You've got plenty of money. Especially now that your dad's back. What's the point? We're financially secure."
Artemis eyed him levelly. "And that's why you're quietly stockpiling the family silver?" He held up a handful of matching spoons. "If you need to keep in practice, do so on someone else's valuables."
"Didn't do it."
"I'm sure."
"What did you have in mind, Artemis?" Butler asked quickly before another argument could start. How ironic that he was always playing the peacemaker.
"An idea of an idea," Artemis replied vaguely, but his eyes were sparking. The game was afoot.
__________________________________
Root's Office
Lower Elements
_________________________________
"Quit the theatrics, Foaly! What have you got?"
After five minutes of hearing the centaur rant, rave and squeal ("This is a disaster, Julius, I can't believe you didn't tell me sooner!") Root was losing patience like a cat in a washing machine. "Do you want me to call in a medic and pump you full of tranquilizer?"
Foaly perked up, wiggling his eyebrows. "Which medic?"
"An old, ugly, male one. With nose hair."
"I'm fine, I'm fine. You have no sense of humor, Julius." Slightly calmer, Foaly proudly set what looked like a portable computer on Root's desk. "There you go. All the information you need."
The commander stared at it dubiously. "And what the hell is this?"
"The database! The database of all things dangerous to the People, and how to work against them. We've got a whole section on combating the effects of iron and radiation, thousands of entries on first aid, gigabytes on how to practice safe hex (really, they should be teaching hex education in school these days,) an entire chapter on underground claustrophobia, a hundred and one treatments for frostbite..."
"I only want information on ivory, Foaly."
"Well, there you go!" The technician pushed the computer a little closer. "This menu here has the advanced search engine, which will cut down on cross-referencing and one-word occurences."
Root eyed the device warily, as if it was going to leap forward at any minute and bite the tip off his cigar. "No."
"No?" Foaly whinnied in disbelief. "What do you mean, no? This is the most--"
"No. Just get me information on human ivory, and print it out. Hard copy. I'm not dealing with this all this high-technology stuff, that's your job."
"Julius, computers have been around over five centuries! They're here to stay! It's about time you got used to using them."
"No," Root said firmly, chewing his cigar with a no-nonsense look. "Print it for me, Foaly."
"But, Julius, that's grunt work!"
"Congratulations, you're a grunt. Print it. Hard copy. Now take this computer thing away before it catches a virus, or whatever they do when they aren't wanted."
Foaly gathered up the rejected computer with a deeply wounded look, like it was a poor little puppy that Root had just brutally kicked. Shooting the commander several dirty looks, which were completely ignored, the centaur clopped slowly to the doorway. Halfway there, he turned and shot back, "Think of all the trees you're killing."
"The paper's been recycled five times, Foaly. Besides, it's in a good cause. Now get out."
There was an equine snort as Foaly stomped off, muttering. "Technician of my caliber, being asked to print a piddling document like some unskilled, underpaid little fairy secretary. No offense," he told an extremely offended-looking secretary.
"That's administrative assistant, you donkey-eared fool!" the secretary screamed. Foaly ignored her as he cuddled the computer to his chest and kept walking. Furious, the administrative assistant slouched low in her chair and plotted on how to get her revenge. Next time the smartass technician asked her to staple a document, or better yet, sent her for coffee...
___________________________
3.752 Minutes later
__________________________
"There. All printed, Julius. I hope you're happy." Pouting -- though he would never admit that it was within his dignity to pout -- Foaly dropped a stack of multi-recycled papers onto the desk with a thud. "I'll have you know I got a paper cut doing this."
"Save it for the insurance company." Root leafed through the documents. Certain phrases leapt out at him -- "Human ivory is one of the Five Poisons, the others being rowan, radiation, iron and ice..." "Inhibits the Gift, effectively stripping and blocking healing powers and stopping all magic processing..." "Can be used as a deadly weapon. Wounds caused by human ivory cannot be automatically healed..."
"So what's the big deal?" Root growled, shuffling the papers together. "The five poisons are ancient history."
"Well, not really." Foaly replied confidently, slipping into Lecture Mode. "We've already evolved immunity to rowan and iron; those were on the way out in the sixteenth century. Now they're just annoying. Ice and cold aren't really big killers anymore -- most fairies just instinctively avoid them. Radiation can be countered by gels, suits, the Gift. They're still poison, but we can do something about it."
Root was still scowling. He sensed a flaw in this logic. "This whole bit about human ivory inhibiting the Gift. Can't be right. We can heal humans just fine."
"Part of their natural biology." The Foaly Lecture Mode was in full swing. "When a tooth is connected to the nerves, it's still a living thing, and it isn't dangerous. Once it's dead, it's dangerous. Although there was a case about ninety years ago when a little teething baby bit a sprite in the wing. Sprite died within the week. Freak occurence. It's in the book." Foaly drummed his fingers on the stack. "I realize you want the information, but my abilities are better used elsewhere. Why don't you get your secretary to read it to you?"
Root set his cigar down, leaned forward, and grabbed Foaly by the beard. The commander's mud brown eyes were dangerous, and his face began going red as he growled, "One. She's not my secretary, she works for everyone on this floor. Two. I'm the commander. You're the technician. Three. I'm not in a good mood. Four. I'm the commander. You're the technician."
"Point --- taken ----!" Foaly squeaked.
Root released the beard. "The boys and girl will be coming in soon. I'm going to the ward. Have fun printing more intel, Foaly boy."
He left the centaur sputtering like a lawnmower refusing to start.
______________________________
Holly's Apartment
_____________________________
Holly groaned as she dragged her clothes on. "Bob?"
The fish burped.
"Remind me never to eat Moose Tracks with Great Aunt Mathilda's jalapeno-pepper-peanut pickle relish during times of awful stress, okay?"
The fish looked at the wall.
"And if it be at all possible, stop me from washing the lot down with a drink made of a mixture of everything in the fridge, because I was stupidly trying to recreate Trouble's drink?"
The fish looked at his seaweed.
"And then, please use physical force to keep me from watching 'Blackadder' for three hours afterward while eating nachos, strawberries and cheese?"
The fish ate a piece of food.
"And then, never, under any circumstances allow me to go to work the next morning."
The fish spit the food out.
"Thank you for your support, Bob." Holly went to work. A piece of metal fell off her door as she slammed it behind her.
______________________________
Emergency Medical Ward
______________________________
Junior Medic Janisha Silver was catching a much-needed nap. Thin tendrils of her dark purple hair had worked their way out of her ponytail, and hung lifelessly around her swept-back ears and sleeping features. Her intern's uniform was stained and dirty, and there was a spot of her patient's blood drying on the side of her face. She was curled up in an uncomfortable position on the hard plastic chair outside the ward.
"Wake up, intern," a voice ordered, shaking her shoulder. The young warlock awoke with a start, pale green eyes snapping open. "Sir?" She sat bolt upright, gasping as she realized who was talking to her. "Commander Root. I--"
"Fell asleep."
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, I---"
"Leaving a potentially dangerous patient alone and unguarded, in critical condition."
"I've been working all night and morning, sir. I think I've run dry."
Suspicious, Root looked down at the scared-looking warlock. If she stood up, she might be even taller than him; they were a tall species, full of the healing Gift. It would take a lot of work to make a warlock run dry. "Hold out your hand, intern."
She did, tentatively. Without warning, Root pulled a small knife from his pocket and pricked his finger. As blood welled up into the cut, he took Silver's long blue gray fingers and pressed them to the tiny wound. A single tiny blue spark leapt from her fingers and sluggishly tried to repair the damage, and the medic's whole body slumped. She really was dry, to the point of near collapse.
A faint, almost fatherly smile barely carved itself on Root's features. "Go plant an acorn, intern. And call in for reinforcements next time."
"Yes, sir." Silver smiled back weakly and stood up to her full height, a whopping four foot one. Slightly unsteady on her feet, she saluted half-heartedly and started down the hall.
______________________________________
It was starting to get a little boring, so...
______________________________________
Bob was in rapture.
He had Discovered something.
A three-month-old piece of seaweed was in his tank.
He felt very proud of himself.
He tried to eat it, but that didn't work. He tried to fall on his knees and worship it, but he didn't have knees. He burped, and that seemed to settle it. The bubble he burped was a new thing to worship, so he did that. It got a little boring after a while, so he decided to escape.
Bob's Escape Plan was very simple. However, he couldn't remember it for the life of him, so he just settled for swimming very fiercely in one direction. The bogglefish was only slightly hindered by the fact that there was a sudden astonishing plastic wall in front of him, and he kept bumping his nose against it. Eventually he floated backwards and bumped into the other wall. Then he turned upside down, and Discovered the Ceiling.
What WAS that? Was it a grapefruit? Bob didn't know what a grapefruit was; it just seemed like an intelligent thing to wonder. Was HE a grapefruit? Maybe it wasn't a grapefruit. Maybe it was food! Was it something to worship? How do you worship a ceiling? Why is it upside down? If he swam into it, would he bump his nose? Are grapefruits bumpy? What is a grapefruit anyway? My God! What IS it?
This kept him busy for the next two hours. Then he Discovered the Mysterious Secret of Gulping, and was amused for the whole day.
_______________________________
Howler's Peak
High Maintenance Goblin Prison
Arctic Core
_______________________________
Alone in her small bleak cell, a pixie meditated, a little catlike smile on her face. Every once in a while she would look up and hum along with the constant screams and howls of the Arctic wind outside, muffled by tons of concrete and steel.
She looked up uninterestedly as a guard went by. It cast a slim shadow through the tiny window of her cell door. Strange, most of the guards were built like crunchball players -- heavy and thick. The guard paused and looked in at her, the unflattering prison light coldly pouring over features that could only be described as Gothic. Pale skin, dark hair, shadowed eyes, scrawny figure, giving off the general aura that at any moment this person would slink off to read depressing novels or post angsty poetry on the Internet.
"Hello, Opal," the Gothic person said in a voice that completely suited them. "Do have time for a quick question?"
______________
*drags self to keyboard, collapses completely*
Have you noticed that whenever we writers paint ourselves into a corner, we use one of five things to explain us out?
1. "It was all a dream!"
2. Blatant plothole
3. Reinforcements bursting down the door, just in time
4. A convenient heating duct, air vent or titanium rod
5. Foaly, to arrogantly explain our troubles away.
Hell, if Colfer does it, so will I.
Was it way too short? Didn't answer all the questions or tie up any loose ends? Still got gaping plotholes to Spackle? Please, tell these things to Joe the Bouncer. *nods to him* No, really. I'm so sorry, I've been really pressed for time. The drinks mixer down at the Flamingo exploded, because the idiot elf I hired couldn't grasp the simple concept of "you don't EVER put this in water, especially not if it's still turned on and running." You are all hugely appreciated and as soon as I repair the damages everyone can have free drinks. But please review. Right now, I'm too tired to beg you, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate it.
Yrs in the Netherworld, Caspian Nyghtvision
PS What do you think of Janisha Silver? I thought she was neat to have. You don't hear about the warlocks much. I drew a picture of her -- just email me or let me know in a review and I'll send you it, it's 26 KBs. Now I'm going to crawl into a hole and sleep for like sixteen hours.