Author's Note: After quite a bit of deliberation, and changing things over in the last few chapters substancially then changing them back, I've decided to completely ignore the fact that the Underground most likely use electronic newscreens, rather than the tradition newspaper as we know it. Seriously, we've got the technology to have electronic, renewable 'papers' right now; it's illogical to think that the Underground wouldn't as well. But, as with us, perhaps the whole idea and traditions that surround a physical paper prove too much to be scrapped for the sake of technology and a few trees (would it really be the same arguing over politics or the latest royal scandal *coughPrinceCharles/Butlercough* *HUGEgrin* if it wasn't actually in front of you, only on a laptop-like screen?). The fairies recycle anyway. And maybe it's only Holly's who's Vegan (other than the dolphin thing).
Gnats
"Although I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance."
- William Shakespeare (The Winter's Tale IV:3)
Most of the people in Brambling House were… out the other side of exhaustion, where mental capability is a foreign, half-explained dream. They were resting in the reality where things move slower, and time disappears between blinks as though it is being eaten by a giant monster. Root was even feeling the effects of the dawn hour, even though he was running hot as well as it only being his equivalent of early evening.
Artemis was wide awake though, of course, reveling in the power of magic, the glee that comes with beating the idea of sleep off and keeping it at bay for far longer than should be possible. It was power over nature, and he had never liked the idea of giving up eight of your precious hours per night to be wasted on regeneration; sleep had always seemed like such a waste of time. He had been doing his strange things with blood and lymph samples, mixing chemicals and using them to test what had occurred as a result of the El'veis draíocht. He also had a glass slide of Holly's blood on the microscope's platform. And it was as amazing as the original viewing of the blood had been, with the swirling, singing dance of bright blue magic - that he had thought imitated life very well, until the display from the El'veis draíocht - if only because of the changes.
There were negligible amounts of magic in her blood, only fragments of broken dull sparks that were failing to spark at all. Fragments of her own magic, but also fragments from the pseudo-HIV virus that had fallen apart with the Ancient's magic. Or, rather, had been pulled apart so forcefully that particles had been ripped in two with the force of it and were now drifting rather aimlessly through her bloodstream.
Holly was still unconscious, as was Liam's sister, but they were both comparatively well, even though they still possessed a fever and their faces were flushed. They weren't getting worse, at least, and that was the most important immediate goal. And Holly was no longer at Death's door, and the fact that she had ever been and her life had rested on their shoulders was bound to be a concept that would come back to haunt Artemis as soon as he had realized that was the truth of the matter.
"Fowl?" Asked the Commander, who was sitting on a couch, watching his Captain with ferocious care that he was attempting to hide, but couldn't quite; it was always her it seemed, the best, the brightest, one who simply attracted trouble like she did the males of the Plaza. "How is she?"
"Holly's completely without magic, Commander, but otherwise perfectly fine. The El'veis draíocht even managed to wipe out the flu virus, not only the HIV. Your sister's the same, Brambling." Artemis finally turned from his microscope, closing a medical textbook with a slam of pages that sounded like the most perfect of finality to his ears. "They should wake up soon enough. Holly will have to complete the ritual if she so much as wants to mesmerize someone, so we'll have to remain up here until at least tonight, which is pretty much what we would have had to wait till anyway, wasn't it, Commander? Tonight will be the second of the full moon, so she can refuel, we can rest, and then we can all make our way down the stairs to Haven to deal with these terrorists of yours."
"What do you mean, Fowl?"
Artemis turned to Liam, an eyebrow raised. "You didn't really think, Brambling, that after all this you could just waltz off to Brussels in time for Christmas?"
Liam shrugged the question off, not admitting his thoughts. "Well, not really, but…"
"Let me tell you a story, Liam. Strangely appropriate, don't you think?" Liam glared at the condescension in Artemis's voice. "Oh, don't worry, it's only slightly nasty. It's about a man who told people what he knew and then, of course, this came back to bite him."
Artemis grinned, rather evilly, and the Commander gave a little snigger, although he wouldn't have admitted that to Fowl. "Once upon a time there was a General called Pattern. He was a rather silly man, not looking at how the world politics were going at the time, because just before the beginning of World War II he published a book. A book on tactics for tank warfare. But when the war came, he lost his battle, using the strategies of which he had developed only a few years ago and published, all those things he'd thought would work best. Can you guess why he lost? Even after having so many fantastic strategies, enough to put in a book? And yes, it was a tank battle, not something where he was out of his element."
"Because the opposing General read the book, so knew exactly what Pattern would do, why he would do it, and pretty much all that was going on in Pattern's head."
"Correct, Brambling. Which is why we are not going to be flitting off Underground until we've found out about and taken out the people involved with this. And you're going to keep writing whatever it is they are telling you to write. And the same for yourself, Commander, of course."
"Point taken, Fowl. It's simply that my parents will worry."
"They know that you have a Butler with you, they don't have any need to worry." And the way he said it, with complete faith in the abilities of any of the Butler family, was amazing to Liam, who vaguely wondered why Artemis felt it so strongly.
"You know, Fowl, you assumed that the Underground would be able to put you up for a while?" Interjected the Commander.
"You're a kind set of species, you wouldn't have refused."
"I'll have to pull a lot of strings to bring more Mud Men Underground. I hope you appreciate what the Council is going to do to me as soon as we get down there, Fowl. Unfortunately, I can see what you mean with the Mud Man general - Holly will not like having to keep her head down once she wakes. And someone does have an assassination contract out on you, I guess. But after all I've done for you, you should be leaving me… oh, I don't know… at least half a tonne of gold to me in your will." Root gave a grin, eyes sparkling.
"Still hung up on that, Commander? You hold grudges for far too long. I've almost completely forgotten about the troll, personally."
"That was Cudgeon; don't blame it on me. I don't employ trolls."
"Well, I can't legally have a will yet, although I'm sure to remember your kind services sometime in the future."
"Good."
"Now, how about we plan how we're going to go about getting all of us down there tonight sometime?"
"Is that how they hide? The …fairies… live underneath the earth?" Asked Liam.
"I'm sure that they are going to mindwipe you anyway, so it doesn't matter where they live, you'll forget it. I think we should all catch some sleep. I'll be able to stay up for another few hours at least; I'll watch Captain Short and your sister till then. I don't think they'll wake for a while, though." Artemis turned away from Liam once more, towards the Commander. "I don't suppose you'd be able to give them each some magic to help in the process?"
"It won't do as much good to Holly as her own magic would, but it is better than nothing." Root moved over to the two beds, lending some cobalt coloured magic first to Jac and then to Holly.
Liam shook his head, blinking his eyes in a vain attempt to relieve himself of some of the fatigue. "Later, Fowl."
"Oh course, Brambling. Are you going to bed as well Butler? Marcus?"
"Yes. Even Butlers need their rest occasionally."
And Artemis and the Commander were left alone in the Library once more; Artemis started to pack up some of his equipment, placing medical texts into the large cardboard box in which they were stored most of the time. He placed those of his chemicals that had been moved out of place back where they were supposed to be, sodium carbonate next to sodium hydroxide, next to iodine; the more complex of substances were stored in line of small bottles behind the first.
He came to the microscope he had been using most often, looking through the eyepiece once more at the slide of Holly's blood left upon the stage, with its complete lack of magic whatsoever.
"Commander?" Root gave a grunt of acknowledgement; he was busy examining book titles upon the shelves. "What do you think the El'veis draíocht actually did? How did it work?"
"It's more powerful than our own, it can overcome ordinary magic. I told you that."
"Yes. But what did it actually, physically do?"
"I don't know, Artemis. It's not a well studied subject, we fairies are far too scared of it."
"Holly's magic is all gone. Completely. There's not even a trace of it in her system. Nor any of the magic from the virus. None. It's as if it was …consumed… by the El'veis draíocht."
"Maybe it was. There's no point asking me though, Fowl."
"I would like to see a sample of your blood again, Commander. If you don't mind. Butler told me about Stonehenge, I would like to see the effects from that."
"I'm fine, Fowl. If anything had happened because of the El'veis draíocht I wouldn't have had any magic left to boost your system, it would have been 'eaten' like what happened to Holly's magic."
"Hmm… True enough, Commander, I guess." Artemis finally pushed the slide of Holly's blood off the microscope's platform with a fingernail, catching it in his right palm. He put it with the other equipment he needed to wash before packing the contaminated articles away.
"Should you get in contact with Foaly or the LEP about five people who took the effort to evolve coming Underground tonight?"
"Yes, I'll do that. Are you going to go to sleep as well?"
"Soon. I'll stay up for another few hours, perhaps I'll catch up on my ancient Irish myth. Although, where and why do you guess the El'veis draíocht disappeared to? I know what your standard answer is, there's no need to give it to me again - "
"The Irish ground absorbs all types of magic. It's something in the soil, or in the minds of the People. There's something different about it anyway. I already told you about magic being absorbed by Ireland, that is why the Ancient's forts are on Great Britain."
"Ah, yes, I remember. Thank you, Commander."
"When do you suppose Holly will wake?"
"I honestly don't know, Commander. I'm sure that she would not appreciate waking up to you breathing over her, worrying so much."
"Probably true, Fowl."
"She'll wake though now, which is the important thing."
"Yes. Yes, I agree." The Commander brushed a hand over Holly's sweaty forehead, thankful that he wouldn't have to write yet another obituary this year. Hopefully anyway.
The transport was moving with excruciating slowness, as was rather usual, any area of Greater Haven attracting huge amounts of traffic at all hours of the night or day. Trouble still didn't know where they were going; and himself and Councilor Vinyáya were not talking, Vinyáya not being inclined to provide answers to questions that Trouble was too insecure (not scared, of course) to voice, which included queries concerning just where they might be traveling to. Trouble gathered the courage that he was famous (or infamous) for, sunk into it like it was an old worn coat until his …awe… of the Kyr'rii woman beside him was buried deep enough for him to dare to break the uncomfortable silence, that was only being highlighted by the scratching radio broadcast of the latest Haven Hits.
"Ma'am? Where are we going?"
Vinyáya did not turn her head from watching the unmoving traffic that lined the road before her. "A place where everyone will know your face, so I'd advise you to set your visor on reflect until we meet my contact."
Trouble blinked in surprise. "Monomedia?" The name – street slang that had really only been used within the ranks of the LEP, but had recently been taken up in crime fiction television and so become more wide spread – was quite a misnomer. Monomedia was not a name given to a place where only one form of press operated, as its name might suggest to the discerning individual, but was actually rather ironical. The 'mono' in the name actually coming from 'monopoly', since it was an area almost the size of a suburb from which almost all the media and press of Haven – and the Underground – operated from, minus a few illegally broadcasting, pirated radio networks. Not only the offices of the not-quite-young women with fake blonde hair, and fake breasts, and fake bronzer (just because the People can't be out in sunlight doesn't mean that they are free from the trends for tanned skin that humans are subjected to on a generational basis), who spent their days annoying politicians and creating stories that would sell well; but also the press rooms where paper was continuously recycled into broadsheet after broadsheet, tabloid after teenage mag. It was an amazing place to visit, each paper or magazine, radio or television station having their own building or two, so there could feasibly be ten or more school tours on everyday and no one would never know. An amazing place… if only your picture hadn't been on the front page of half the paper media that evening, and a recording of yourself giving false assurances on the audio-visual aspects.
"You sound shocked, Kelp."
Trouble nodded. "A little. I feel like I'm fraternizing with the enemy."
Vinyáya gave a little, mocking laugh. "How do you know who are your enemies and who are your friends? An enemy can be a friend in times of need; an enemy can save your life. A friend can betray you with the slightest motive or provocation. The media, you should know, is both at once, and quite convenient if you know how to use them best, and how to handle them correctly. There are many enemies Kelp, and most are not nearly so blatant and obvious as the media, so you should be thankful for them. Although, often, the lesser of two evils is the press."
"But still not comforting, Ma'am. Into the Lion's den and all that craic."
"No, probably not comforting for you, Captain. But then again, you're scared of being called to a meeting with the Council." Vinyáya smiled, glancing over at Trouble who was fiddling with controls on his helmet and pointedly not even thinking anything concerning the insult (only an observation really) she had just paid to him. "Don't worry, Kelp, you get used to it all soon enough. The media, the Council. Root doesn't even bother with the papers anymore. I suspect that he doesn't care what the public is being fed all that much, because it's all gone within a day, replaced with a new doctrine. Up to a point of course, but isn't that with everything."
She paused for a moment, obviously wondering whether she should say what was on her mind. "It was gutsy to say what you did yesterday, Kelp. Incredibly stupid, but you had to do something, even though it relied on the chance that they'd just quote you and leave it at that, not dig any deeper. They probably would have digged if it hadn't been so late, so close to the time of press. I don't suppose you'll see fit to tell me what you actually know about the good Commander's absence from his precious city that he usually only leaves on pain of death? We – the Council, that is – have to insist that he take a holiday every 2 years or so, or we at least drop some sleeping pills into his coffee."
Trouble smiled slightly at the mental image Vinyáya presented before answering. "He's Overground. And I couldn't exactly tell that to the public."
"Why? Not why you couldn't tell that to Haven, I know that; why is he Above?"
"Because there's been some… blackmail going on. And it reeks of Mud Man involvement, so he thought it warranted LEP involvement as well."
"Why him? Why not you, Captain Vein, Captain Short?"
"Holly was given a disease, she's ill. He takes that personally, anything to do with Holly – Captain Short – he takes personally. And the blackmailer knew that, which is why they chose Holly. Although, Root takes anything with a pinch of personal."
"Ah. He needs to give that girl up. It's not healthy."
"Yeah, well, she's rather beautiful. The cause of wet dreams for half the Force."
"And why Above?" Vinyáya was not one to be led of track.
"They're – he's - getting help … from Artemis Fowl. Fowl sent a warning to us about it just before Holly got sick, he'd found out… somehow, I don't know how honestly." Trouble was waiting for incredulous expression, or at least a raised eyebrow.
"Good." And Trouble was the one wearing the incredulous expression upon his military-jawline inflicted face. "I like to be contradictory to everything the Council says, the Fowl Affair is just one of many things that I disagree with Cahartez over. The wonderful, conservative Chairman of ours still wants to mindwipe Fowl, even after the Bwa'Kell Uprising."
There was silence for a moment or two, before: "With your questioning nature, you'd have made a very good reporter yourself, Ma'am."
"Of course. Religion, politics, media… they are all linked so neatly with each other."
The traffic finally started moving slowly forward like a particularly sluggish stinkworm that was stuck in a mud bath, and Trouble recognized the turnoff towards Monomedia.
"Ma'am? Vinyáya?"
"Yes," Vinyáya responded blandly, suspecting what was coming for rather good reasons, because some questions are impossible to suppress, when the curiosity factor is past a certain critical level.
"How did you get into my apartment? And… Well, why were you… stark— In the birthday suit?" Trouble blushed, then wondered why under Earth he was – it was an entirely reasonable question, if phrased rather badly. But he still couldn't manage to calm the red of his cheeks.
Vinyáya suppressed her grin for the sake of the Captain beside her – no one would ever be able to accuse her with any good reason of being that cruel. "I got into your apartment by picking the lock. You really should know better than to only have a single deadlock on your door, Captain."
"That's a criminal offen – " Vinyáya raised an eyebrow, conveying in that single movement her hopes that he wasn't a brainless fly-boy, because if she had wanted one of those she would have appeared in Chix Verbil's apartment instead, although she would have most definitely put on some clothes before that particular meeting took place. "Sorry, Ma'am, habit. I'm sure you understand." Vinyáya's other eyebrow rose to meet its well-groomed mirror-image, showing her healthy skepticism of that statement.
When she was sure that she would get no more reaction out of Trouble that the red of his cheeks deepening to Beetroot shades, she continued. "And I had just been to visit Lord Peat."
"Huh?" A crease of puzzlement was added to Trouble's red brow.
"Oh." Because he wasn't dim.
"Ick! Err, sorry." Because there are some things a mind shouldn't have to endure, let alone have to deal with on a still empty stomach; and some times when the imagination should really have the decency to shut down completely before displaying some ideas in graphic detail.
"I thought… You know… You were a Priestess and…Priestesses…"
"I am no longer a Priestess, Captain."
"Yes, I knew that."
"What do you guess might possibly be one of the reasons for that?"
Trouble had absolutely nothing against cross-species couples, nothing at all. Except Dwarves. Because he had been to an autopsy of a Dwarf in LEP Academy and the images had stayed with him, in rather vivid Technicolor.
"Anyway, that is hardly the rule for the Kry'rae. Traditionally the Priestesses where the old mothers of the clan, the wise ones who were known to care for others. Now, some people take that as more figurative, and People will always misinterpret history, but there are no laid down rules as such."
Thankfully, Trouble was saved from any kind of response by the transport cruising to an easy stop at the point just outside the 'gates' to the Monomedia complex, where the electro-magnetic strips would only work with authorization for the vehicle. Vinyáya inserted an ID card into a machine and the transport jolted forward once more, being directed by the pulses along the strips to a parking lot. The lot was behind a low-set concrete building with a large, rather sparkly sign, that only just resided this side of fluorescent (the People really had something to answer for sometimes when it came to adopting the Mud Men traditions of the 80's) that proclaimed it to be the property of The Haven Mirror. The Mirror was a tabloid famous (or infamous, however you looked at it) for its amazing levels of inaccuracy and fantastically overblown stories of female goblins in far off tunnels giving birth to small Krakens.
Vinyáya left the transport, adjusting her hair clip and – Trouble had to give a snort of laughter, the idea was so foreign – her sheet, or, at least, his sheet. Trouble paused for a moment before opening his door, then decided to take up Vinyáya's advice, pulling off his labeled badge to shove it into a pocket and putting his helmet on, flipping the visor down over his face. He hurried after Vinyáya, hoping that he appeared to be a bodyguard or escort, because Vinyáya was a member of the Council, so it wasn't actually unbelievable… as such.
Vinyáya opened the back door of the building, a fire-exit, without knocking. Although, possibly this wasn't due to rudeness, or the need to make a dramatic entrance (neither of which Trouble would have put past his new-found companion), instead because of the decibel count inside the building, meaning that it was unlikely that anyone inside would have heard the knock if she had bothered with it. Vinyáya moved around workstationed cubicles, frantic fairies running (or flying, in the case of one dark-haired female sprite who appeared to have had a Dwarf-fat injection recently) to and fro as they made the news that people would read and believe tomorrow, but forget after that moment or two.
Trouble looked over the shoulder of a pixie with dark roots, who was typing an article at the same speed that the excited woman on the other end of the phone – a phone held carefully between shoulder and ear, in the manner of mothers everywhere – was talking to her.
"It was like a swarm of gnats, coming out of the stalactite like a dam bursting."
"And can you describe these 'gnats' for me?"
"They weren't gnats, they were only like gnats. They were tiny, black, moving extremely fast, so you could barely follow them with your eyes—"
"They sound like gnats."
"Blacker than that. They weren't gnats; I know gnats. You know how your magic moves, how it looks when you're injured? It was like that. They moved like that. Sort of, anyway."
The pixie was making notes, as she went she elaborated on the story of the magic-infected gnats that had invaded an outer tunnel system and were causing havoc among the local population of hard-working, honest citizens. "And where do you live, ma'am?"
"Sruth ná Maoíle, just on the Western outskirts of Haven. I'm Poppy O'Shae, 347 years-old. I'm so glad you listened to me, my daughter doesn't believe me."
"Thank you, Poppy. The Mirror appreciates your call."
The pixie hung up, typing a rough plan for the article with flying fingers.
Trouble hurried after Vinyáya. A few People were glancing in their direction, before lowering their eyes and turning back to their works of creative fiction without a word. A short, balding elf with humour-ridden eyes opened the door into an office at the end of the workstations. It was a very comfortable office, stylish and simplistic, not reflecting the low-class media squabble just on the other side of the door.
"Kelp," said Vinyáya, "this is Arthur Beech, editor of The Mirror and director of Haven Times. Arthur, Captain Trouble Kelp, Currently Acting Commander of the LEP."
Trouble removed his helmet, not subject to helmet hair because it was cropped so close to his scalp. "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. Although, how under Earth you manage be involved in both The Mirror and The Times is beyond me."
Arthur laughed. "I've got a split personality. No, seriously, it is just far more amusing in my middle age to be dealing with rogue Polar bears in equatorial tunnels than real politics and the power struggles between the Guilds. Polar bears make for far more interesting reading. And don't sue you."
"And also the wonder that is baby Krakens born to Goblins," remarked Trouble.
"Ah, yes, a new recruit was rather enthusiastic about that one. So, why are you here, Lady Kathatríen? I'm sure you would have dragged our dear Captain away from his AAA meetings for a social visit."
"Information, Arthur. When is it ever not about information?"
"Knowledge is power, my dear. Knowledge is power, yes, of course. What do you want to know? Other than the name of the Kraken babe, because I've been sworn to secrecy over that one."
Basil closed the door behind him, making almost no noise at all. He had waited till late afternoon to leave Willow's apartment, because it was too dangerous to risk going out when there was likely to be fairies all over the city, going about their usual business as well as they could in light of the recent events occurring within their city. And the People were going about their usual lives remarkably well considering. It is truly amazing how well sentient races are able to adapt.
He had left the apartment without much said to Willow at all, because there was nothing more that really needed to be said. And words wasted trivialized those of importance.
The streets of Haven were almost deserted. More deserted than New York at 4am, but any location, Underground or Above, was always more deserted than New York. But less deserted than a country town after 9pm, because there was the occasional drunk leaning against a building, the occasional couple slobbering over each other in alleyways that they had thought were free from occupants; the occasional burglar, thief, mugger, because those types of people always thrive in times of chaos.
The occasional light still shining through windows in a pub, red and green light reflecting through the stained glass. The occasional crowd from a party or gathering, all tumbling over each other as they tried to make their way down the street to wherever the party was being moved to. The occasional almost familiar voice, calling out your name in the street.
"Rune! Basil Rune?"