ASN: We do not in any way, shape, or form, claim to be Eoin Colfer. Artemis is not ours.
It is a pretty day; I can hear Juliet outside singing as she works in the garden. I do not recognize the tune, but I do not often recognize anything Juliet is involved in. She says it is because I am still a 'child'; however, I believe it is because the things she gets involved in are too bizarre for my tastes.
Mother walks in my room suddenly, interrupting my work. "You should go out, get some fresh air." she says without any preamble. "I know you've been ill, but it would do you some good."
I continue calmly typing. It is an essay I believe I might send in to one of the psychology journals—should I ever get it finished. Mother has been hovering over me too much lately.
"You're so pale!" she exclaims. "That is just not healthy."
I always look like this, Mother, even when I'm not ill. "Perhaps tomorrow, Mother. It is a little chilly today." It's almost 70 degrees.
After fuming for a moment, she relents. "All right, tomorrow." she says, and walks out.
I do not laugh until after she is gone.
Mother disapproves of Father's criminal enterprises, so she ignores them, focusing her attention on me. I love her deeply, but she continues treating me like a child. The very idea of me going outside to 'play' is ludicrous.
So I stay inside today, as I prefer, working on a new crime idea. A minor bank in the US reboots its computers at midnight every second Thursday of the month. I believe that I can hack into the system beforehand. Then, after it is rebooted, while it is loading its programs, I will slip in a program of my own. This program will remove a small amount of money from multiple accounts. I will have thirty seconds to load the program, cover my trail, and exit with a profit of a few thousand dollars. A clichéd notion, true, but most banks never see it coming.
It takes me a long while to hack into the system, longer than I anticipated. I still have plenty of time before having to load the program, but I underestimated the bank's security. Disturbing.
The door opens. A slight wave of panic hits me. I cannot minimize the bank program without losing the link, and I do not have enough time to hack into the system again. I casually turn in my high-backed chair and use it to block the screen.
It is Butler.
Relief.
Butler might not agree with criminal acts or agree with all of Father's acts, but he would not panic and call the police. Or my parents.
"Artemis…why are you still awake?" he asks. "It's late, and your mother is concerned since you are still sick."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I may have a slight fever, but I'm not an invalid.
"I am perfectly fine, Butler. I will not suddenly die from the shock of missing my curfew, I assure you."
Butler's eyes flicker. I was uncommonly harsh in my reply, and I can tell that he is becoming suspicious.
"Artemis, what is wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong. I am…simply occupied with something else." I say, trying to fight down my rising panic. He might not reply my acts to my parents to the police, but what would he do?
"What is it that you are occupied with?" Butler says, moving closer and shutting the door behind him.
I am trapped.
He is too aware of my discomfort to give up the subject. I must tell him—I have no choice.
I unsuccessfully try to hold back a sigh and move away from the computer screen. "I was working on breaking into the security system of an American bank. Do you have any suggestions?"
That makes Butler raise an eyebrow in surprise. He frowns and moves to the screen, inspecting my work.
"You've hacked into the system already?"
"Yes," I say nonchalantly, as if this is perfectly normal behavior for a ten-year-old.
My palms are sweating. Why am I so nervous?
Silence reigns as he stares at the screen. He does not look pleased. My stomach turns.
I realize something.
I wish to impress my father. I want to show him that I am worthwhile, that I am his son. I do this by following in his footsteps, trying to be as clever as he is at anything and everything. But I do not try to impress Butler.
I try not to disappoint him.
And this…seems to disappoint him.
Just as the silence gets to the point where I can feel my tired body wanting to give out from the effort of waiting, Butler turns around and catches my attention.
"Most banks nowadays have trapdoors to catch any hackers. You need to avoid taking the easy way in here," he said, pointing at a line of binary, "And enter in here instead."
There is another pause, and then he looks at me squarely.
"Your father would be pleased."
He understands.
And while he is not bestowing me with his blessing, he is giving me his consent to continue.
I nod blandly, all emotions tucked away. "Thank you Butler, I would not have thought of that. However, I do know of a way to escape from the trapdoor."
"You do?" Butler asks, standing calmly at my side as I slide into my chair. "How so?"
I tell him, and our partnership begins.
There is a large market for people wishing to buy famous monuments. Many rich and foolish snobs wish to buy The Statue of Liberty and have it placed in their backyard—many more than I supposed.
In other words, there are many people in the world who are just waiting for me to fool them.
Butler and I discuss the situation for a week or so, and we decide on an heiress from India who wants the Eiffel Tower. Why does she want it? I'm not sure, and I don't really care. All I care about is the amount of money she's willing to pay for it.
We send secured instant messages to one another to discuss the transaction. It would be more normal for me to meet the heiress somewhere, but I know she would walk out once she saw me. How many adults take a 10 year old seriously, genius or not? Over the Internet, I can easily hide my age.
"How did you get hold of the Eiffel Tower, anyway?" she asks. I glance at Butler, smirking as I draft a reply.
"The government owed me for a…favor, and gave me rights to the Tower. They assumed I would never find anything to do with it."
"Impressive." she responds. "How do I know you aren't lying?"
I send her a zipped file, in which is a photograph of the deed to the Eiffel Tower—a false duplicate with my alias on it, copied from the original deed that I pulled out of the French government files on an extremely boring field trip when I was younger. It is really quite shortsighted to assume that just because an object was once locked up and secure that it remains locked up years later. As far as I knew, the French government had simply never checked to see if the deed was still in their files. That would undoubtedly change when the heiress arrived to claim 'her' tower. If she was taken in by the deception.
After a few minutes, she writes again. "This looks acceptable. How much would you like?"
"Nothing less than 65 million in US currency."
The response was immediate. "What?!"
"The original cost of the Eiffel Tower was 7,799, 401.31 francs." I type calmly. "That is converted into about 2,713,518.7297095 Euros, which is about 3,333,286 US dollars. If you take in the rate of inflation, that makes it about 69,270,621.28, roughly. If anything, 65 million is giving you a discount."
She sends nothing for several minutes, and Butler glances at me. "Do you think she is changing her mind?"
"No, she is trying to decide how much she can safely offer me without me losing interest." I tell him. "Do not worry."
Sure enough, a moment later, she responds. "As logical as that is, it's still a little too high. It cost that much to construct the Tower, but it's old. Rusty. In need of repair. How about…30 million?"
I smirk. A good response. "But the Tower is full of history, and that in itself would raise the value. 55 million."
Another pause. "40 million."
"Miss…"
"45 million."
I let her stew for a moment, then respond. "Agreed. But I want the transaction to place before I send you any documents. And I will not have anything to do with transport; that is all your business."
"All right. You should get your money within two to three hours."
"Until then."
She signs off, and I look at Butler, smiling. Yes, I am smiling. It's not obvious, but my smirk is definitely wider and more pleased than it usually seems. Butler seems as stoic as ever, but his eyes are sparkling. He enjoyed this as well.
We wait for a few hours, not speaking much. When the time comes, I log into my Swiss bank account.
It more than doubled in size.
The smile grows and I turn to Butler triumphantly. "Success, Butler. She fell for it, and transmitted the money, as promised."
He almost smiles. "And what do you plan to do with it?"
"More complex and expensive schemes, Butler. I have a great many plots…most of them illegal."
"Only most?"
I turn back to the computer and stare at the numbers proudly. "Now, Butler, I do invent things as well. But yes, the legal ideas are few and far-between. This is more rewarding in the long run."
Besides, this enterprise was most exhilarating. I believe the word I'm searching for is…fun.
I am in chemistry class—working on a new plan. For a while I was planning on another monument scheme, but the French government was in such an uproar over the Eiffel Tower I've decided to abandon that line of crime for now. Perhaps when I am older.
The door to the classroom opens, and Mr. Price, the vice-principal, steps in. He is a skinny, ugly, annoying little man. Always posturing and trying to show how much he knows about children. It doesn't take too much to run circles around his amazing insights.
He goes to the teacher and whispers in his ear. Little to my surprise, the teacher looks up at me. Mr. Price probably wants to have another discussion about my 'future.'
What surprises me is the look in my teacher's eyes. It seems to be…pity.
No one has ever pitied me before.
"Artemis," my teacher says, his voice quiet, "Please go with Mr. Price."
As we walk out, Butler's pager rings. He glances at it while he follows Mr. Price and me out the door. The vice-principal says something, and I glance back at him.
"Artemis," He sounds nervous, "How long have you been attending this school?"
"Too long." I answer absently. This is becoming odd. Mr. Price gives a shaky laugh.
"That's…amusing, Artemis. Now, you've been here for a long time, and you've known me for a long time, correct?"
"Yes," I answer, then add, "Sir."
"And you know that I will support you no matter what happens."
Danger.
This cannot be a good sign. My eyes snap to Mr. Price, trying to puzzle out the meaning behind his words, but he has his attention focused on the hallway behind us. I turn.
Confusion. Fear.
Butler is calmly standing a few yards behind us, but something is wrong. I can tell.
I can always tell.
His knuckles are white around his pager, and his eyes are cold…colder than I have ever seen them. He is upset, but I don't know what about. I go to him.
"Butler?"
He looks at me, and for a moment, I think I see a bit of moisture in his eyes. But then it's gone.
"Artemis. Follow Mr. Price."
An order. Something is very wrong. My stomach leaps.
We arrive at the office. There are the usual teachers and aides standing around looking bored…and Juliet.
She shouldn't be here at all. She should be off with Madame Ko in her training. In fact, she left for her six month session only a few weeks ago.
Her hair is not combed, and she isn't wearing any makeup. My hands began to sweat, and my heart pounds. She has been crying.
"Artemis…Butler…" she begins, and then she stops and swallows. Tears start to fall down her cheeks again as she speaks. Even in her grief, she tries to be nice to me.
"Sit down Artemis." she says. "You should be—"
"Juliet." I interrupt. I try to sound annoyed, but there is an undercurrent of fear in my words. Perhaps no one else can sense it, but I know it's there. "Tell me what has happened."
She begins to sob, and Butler goes to her then, hugging her as he looks at me. "Artemis, one of your father's contacts called and told me…the Fowl Star was attacked and sunk last night in the Bay of Kola. No one has been able to locate your father."
Shock.
Disbelief.
Pain, anger.
All these feelings overwhelm me, and finally numbness sets in. I refuse to crack in front of Mr. Price.
"I…see, Butler. Will we be leaving?"
Mr. Price nods. "You may come back whenever you feel ready." he says with false cheer. I ignore him and walk out. Butler and Juliet follow.
Mother is not in the car. I ask Juliet where she is.
"She is feeling ill." Juliet tells me, but I can tell that is not the whole story. "She stayed home, but she says she wants to see you."
I nod. The ride back home is painful silence.
My father is quite possibly gone…and I don't know how to react.
What does that mean?
We arrive at the manor, and I go up to see Mother. She cries on my shoulders for a few minutes, then falls asleep. As I leave, I hear her begin murmuring in her sleep. She never talked in her sleep before. That isn't a good sign.
I head to my room, searching for something mundane to do. Finally, I begin typing up random ideas for patents. At some point, Juliet comes in with food and drink. A sandwich and a can of soda. It's a thoughtful gesture.
I don't even look at her. She places the tray on my desk and leaves.
It's been a couple hours before I hear someone knock on my door. It's Butler. He stands within range of my peripheral vision.
"Artemis, are you all right?"
"I am fine."
"Artemis…" he begins, "You know what this means, don't you?"
I turn to look at Butler, and the odd feeling I've had in my chest all day grows. "Yes, I know what this means." I tell him sharply. "It means my father is lost in the Artic Sea and has probably died of hypothermia. It means the millions of dollars Father sunk into this operation of his is gone. It means I am the head of the family until Father returns. If you expect me to be able to care for this family, I cannot take the time to answer questions."
Butler's eyes narrow at my short tone and harsh words, and I know I've upset him. His uncle was lost as well. He knows how I feel.
But how can he, when even I don't know how I feel?
I turn back to the computer, and after a minute of silence, Butler turns and walks away. I watch him go in the reflection on my computer screen. Once the door closes, I begin typing again.
A drop of water falls onto the keyboard. I frown and lift a hand to my face. It is wet.
In confusion, I stand and go to the mirror on my wall. My eyes are red—I have been crying. Odd. I haven't cried for years.
My document is unsaved, so I forget about the tears and return to my computer, wiping a hand across my face absently. I sit in my chair.
Father…he did so many things. He was a strong man, a bright man, and he knew that in order to get somewhere in this world, you need to take risks. Even I know that, and I'm just 11. He took—takes—risks, and for this risk, he paid for it with people's lives. Most likely his own.
My hand abruptly swings out and sends the cola can sitting on my desk into the wall. It crumples from the impact and falls to the floor. Tears begin to fall again as I stare at the computer screen, but I make no sound.
I am not emotionally equipped to deal with pain. I try to avoid it at all costs. But this…I can't hide from.
It takes a few hours for the tears to finally slow and stop. When they do, I load the CNN news website and wait for it to deliver news of my father's rescue.
He can't be dead. He's too important, too strong. We could do so much with our combined abilities—he still doesn't know how well I've followed in his footsteps.
He can't die until he knows that I really am a Fowl, that I really am his son.
I'm not ready to be the only Artemis Fowl.