HAVEN CITY, THE LOWER ELEMENTS

 

THOUGH Artemis did not intend it, the Cube’s scan for surveillance beams was to have far-reaching repercussions. The search parameters were so vague that the Cube sent probes into deep space and, of course, deep underground.

Below the surface, the Lower Elements Police were stretched to their limits following the recent goblin revolution. Three months after the attempted goblin takeover, most of the major players were in custody. But there were still isolated pockets of the B’wa Kell triad loping around Haven’s tunnels with illegal Softnose lasers.

Every available LEP officer had been drafted in to help with Operation Mop-Up before the tourist season got started. The last thing the city Council wanted was tourists spending their leisure gold in Atlantis because Haven’s pedestrianized central plaza was not safe to wander through. Tourism, after all, accounted for eighteen per cent of the capital’s revenue.

Captain Holly Short was on loan from the Reconnaissance squad. Generally, her job was to fly to the surface on the trail of fairies who had ventured above ground without a visa. If even one renegade fairy got himself captured by the Mud People, then Haven ceased to be a haven. So until every gang goblin was licking his eyeballs in Howler’s Peak correctional facility, Holly’s duties were the same as every other LEP officer: rapid response to any B’wa Kell alert.

Today she was escorting four rowdy goblin hoods to Police Plaza for processing. They had been found asleep in an insect delicatessen, stomachs distended after a night of gluttony. It was lucky for them that Holly had arrived when she did, because the deli’s dwarf owner was on the point of lowering the scaly foursome into the deep-fat fryer.

Holly’s ride-along for Operation Mop-Up was Corporal Grub Kelp, little brother to the famous Captain Trouble Kelp, one of the LEP’s most decorated officers. Grub, however, did not share his brother’s stoic personality.

‘I got a hangnail cuffing that last goblin,’ said the junior officer, chewing on his thumb.

‘Painful,’ said Holly, trying to sound interested.

They were driving along a magnastrip to Police Plaza, with the perpetrators manacled in the rear of their LEP wagon. It wasn’t actually a regulation wagon. The B’wa Kell had managed to burn out so many police vehicles during their short-lived revolution that the LEP had been forced to commandeer anything with an engine and room in the back for a few prisoners. In reality, Holly was piloting a curry van with the LEP acorn symbol spray-painted on the side. The motor-pool gnomes had simply bolted the serving hatch and removed the ovens. A pity they couldn’t remove the smell.

Grub studied his wounded thumb. ‘Those cuffs have sharp edges. I should lodge a complaint.’

Holly concentrated on the road, though the magnastrip did the steering for her. If Grub did lodge a complaint, it wouldn’t be his first, or even his twentieth. Trouble’s little brother found fault with everything, except himself. In this instance he was completely wrong: there were no sharp edges on the perspex vacuum cuffs. If there had been, a goblin might think to poke a hole in the other mitt and allow oxygen to reach his hand, and nobody wanted goblins hurling fireballs in the back of their vehicles.

‘I know it sounds petty to lodge a complaint over hangnails, but no one could accuse me of being petty.’

‘You! Petty! Perish the thought.’

Grub puffed up his chest. ‘After all, I am the only

 member of LEPretrieval One to have faced down the human, Butler.’

Holly groaned loudly. This, she fervently hoped, would dissuade Grub from telling his Artemis Fowl war story yet again. It grew longer and more fantastical each time. In reality, Butler had let him go, as a fisherman would a minnow.

But Grub was not about to take a hint.

‘I remember it well,’ he began melodramatically. ‘It was a dark night.’

And, as though his very words carried immeasurable magic, every light in the city went out.

Not only that, but the magnastrip’s power failed, leaving them stranded in the middle lane of a frozen highway.

‘I didn’t do that, did I?’ whispered Grub.

Holly didn’t answer, already halfway out of the wagon door. Overhead, the sun strips that replicated surface light were fading to black. In the last moments of half-light Holly squinted towards the Northern Tunnel and, sure enough, the door was sliding down, emergency lights revolving along its lower edge. Sixty metres of solid steel separating Haven from the outside world. Similar doors were dropping at strategic arches all over the city. Lockdown. There were only three reasons why the Council would initiate a city-wide lockdown: flood, quarantine, or discovery by the humans.

Holly looked around her. Nobody was drowning; nobody was sick. So the Mud People were coming. Finally, every fairy’s worst nightmare was coming true.

Emergency lights flickered on overhead, the sun strips’ soft white glow replaced by an eerie orange. Official vehicles would receive a burst of power from the magnastrip, enough to get them to the nearest depot.

Ordinary citizens were not so lucky; they would have to walk. Hundreds stumbled from their automobiles, too scared to pro test. That would come later.

‘Captain Short! Holly!’

It was Grub. No doubt he would be lodging a complaint with someone.

‘Corporal,’ she said, turning back to the vehicle. ‘This is no time for panic. We need to set an example . . .’

The lecture petered out in her throat when she saw what was happening to the wagon. All LEP vehicles would have by now received the regulation ten-minute burst of power from the magnastrip to get them and their cargo to safety. This power would also keep the perspex cuffs vacuumed. Of course, as they weren’t using an official LEP vehicle they hadn’t been cleared for emergency power - - something the goblins obviously realized, because they were trying to burn their way out of the wagon.

Grub stumbled from the cab, his helmet blackened by soot.

‘The cuffs have popped open, so now they’ve started blasting the doors,’ he panted, retreating to a safe distance. Goblins.   Evolution’s  little joke.   Pick the  dumbest creatures on the planet and give them the ability to conjure fire. If the goblins didn’t stop blasting the wagon’s reinforced interior they would soon be encased in molten metal. Not a nice way to go, even if you were fireproof. Holly activated the amplifier in her LEP helmet. ‘You there, in the wagon. Cease fire. The vehicle will collapse and you will be trapped.’

For several moments, smoke billowed from the vents. Then the vehicle settled on its axles. A face appeared at the grille, forked tongue slithering through the mesh.

‘You think we’re stupid, elf? We’re gonna burn clean through this pile of junk.’

Holly stepped closer, turning up the speakers. ‘Listen to me, goblin. You are stupid, let’s just accept that and move on. If you continue to fireball that vehicle, the roof will melt and fall on you like shells from a human gun. You may be fireproof, but are you bulletproof?’ The goblin licked his lidless eyes, thinking it over. ‘You lie, elf! We will blow a hole right through this prison. You will be next.’

The wagon’s panels began to lurch and buckle as the goblins renewed their attack.

‘Not to worry,’ said Grub, from a safe distance. ‘The fire extinguishers will get them.’

‘They would,’ corrected Holly, ‘if the fire extinguishers weren’t connected to the main power grid, which is shut down.’

A mobile food-preparation wagon such as this one would have to adhere to the strictest fire regulations before setting one magna wheel on the strip. In this case, several foam-packed extinguishers, which could submerge the entire interior in flame-retardant foam in a matter of seconds. The nice thing about the flame foam was that it hardened on contact with air, but the not-so-nice thing about flame foam was that the trip switch was connected to the magna strip. No power. No foam.

Holly drew her Neutrino 2000 from its holster. ‘I’ll just have to trip this switch myself.’

Captain Short sealed her helmet and climbed into the wagon’s cab. She avoided touching metal wherever possible, because even though microfilaments in her LEP jumpsuit were designed to disperse extra heat, microfilaments didn’t always do what they were designed to do.

The goblins were on their backs, pumping fireball after fireball into the roof panels.

‘Knock it off!’ she ordered, pointing her laser’s muzzle through the mesh.

Three of the goblins ignored her. One, possibly the leader, turned his scaly face to the grille. Holly saw that he had eyeball tattoos. This act of supreme stupidity probably would have guaranteed him promotion had the B’wa Kell not been effectively disbanded.

‘You will not be able to get us all, elf,’ he said, smoke leaking from his mouth and slitted nostrils. ‘Then one of us will get you.’

The goblin was right, even if he didn’t realize why. Holly suddenly remembered that she could not fire during a lockdown. Regulations stated that there were to be no unshielded power surges in case Haven was being probed.

Her hesitation was all the proof the goblin needed.

‘I knew it!’ he crowed, tossing a casual fireball at the grille. The mesh glowed red, and sparks cascaded against Holly’s visor. Over the goblins’ heads, the roof sagged dangerously. A few more seconds and it would collapse.

Holly undipped a piton dart from her belt, screwing it into the launcher above the Neutrino’s main barrel. The launcher was spring-loaded, like an old-fashioned spear gun, and would not give off a heat flash: nothing to alarm any sensors.

The goblin was highly amused, as goblins often are just before incarceration, which explains why so many are incarcerated.

‘A dart? You going to prod us all to death, little elf?’

Holly aimed at a clip protruding from the fire-foam nozzle in the rear of the wagon.

‘Would you please be quiet?’ she said, and launched the dart. It flew over the goblin’s head, jamming itself between the rods of the nozzle clip; the piton cord stretched the length of the wagon.

‘Missed me,’ said the goblin, waggling his forked tongue. It was a testament to the goblin’s stupidity that he could be trapped in a melting vehicle during a lockdown with an LEP officer firing at him, and still think he had the upper hand.

‘I told you to be quiet!’ said Holly, pulling sharply on the piton cord and snapping the clip.

Eight hundred kilograms of extinguisher foam blasted from the diffuser nozzle at over two hundred miles per hour. Needless to say, all fireballs went out. The goblins were pinned down by the force of the already hardening foam. The leader was pressed so forcibly against the grille that his tattooed eyes were easily legible. One said ‘Mummy’, the other ‘Duddy’. A misspelling, though he probably didn’t know it.

‘Ow,’ he said. More from disbelief than pain. He didn’t say anything else, because his mouth was full of congealing foam.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Holly. ‘The foam is porous, so you will be able to breathe, but it’s also completely fireproof, so good luck trying to burn your way out.’

Grub was still examining his hangnail when Holly emerged from the van. She removed her helmet, wiping the soot from the visor with the sleeve of her jumpsuit. It was supposed to be non-stick; maybe she should send it in for another coating.

‘Everything all right?’ asked Grub.

‘Yes, Corporal. Everything is all right. No thanks to you.’

Grub had the audacity to look offended. ‘I was securing the perimeter, Captain. We can’t all be action heroes.’

That was typical Grub, an excuse for every occasion. She could deal with him later. Now it was vital that she get to Police Plaza and find out why the Council had shut down the city.

‘I think we should get back to HQ,’ Grub offered. ‘The intelligence boys might want to interview me if the humans are invading.’

‘I think I should get back to HQ,’ said Holly. ‘You stay here and keep an eye on the suspects until the power comes back on. Do you think you can handle that? Or are you too incapacitated with that hangnail?’

Holly’s auburn hair stood in sweat-slicked spikes, and her round hazel eyes dared Grub to argue.

‘No, Holly . . . Captain. You leave it to me. Everything is under control.’

I doubt it, thought Holly, setting off at a run towards Police Plaza.

 

The city was in complete chaos. Every citizen was on the street staring at his or her dead appliance in disbelief. For some of the younger fairies, the loss of their mobile phones was too much to bear. They sank to the streets, sobbing gently.

Police Plaza was mobbed by enquiring minds, like moths drawn to a light. In this case, one of the only lights in town. Hospitals and emergency vehicles would still have juice but, otherwise, the LEP headquarters was the only government building still functioning.

Holly forced her way through the crowd, into the lobby area. The public service queues ran down the steps and out the door. Today everyone was asking the same question: What’s happened to the power?

The same question was on Holly’s lips as she burst into the Situations booth, but she kept it to herself. The room was already packed with the force’s complement of captains, along with the three regional commanders and all seven Council members.

‘Aaah,’ said Chairman Cahartez. ‘The last captain.’

‘I didn’t get my emergency juice,’ explained Holly. ‘Non-regulation vehicle.’

Cahartez adjusted his official conical hat. ‘No time for excuses, Captain, Mister Foaly has been holding off on his briefing until you got here.’

Holly took her seat at the captain’s table, beside Trouble Kelp.

‘Grub OK?’ he whispered.

‘He got a hangnail.’

Trouble rolled his eyes. ‘No doubt he’ll make a complaint.’

The centaur Foaly trotted through the doors, clutching armfuls of disks. Foaly was the LEP’s technical genius, and his security innovations were the main reason why humans had not yet discovered the subterranean fairy hideaway. Maybe that was about to change.

The centaur expertly loaded the disks on to the operating system, opening several windows on a wall-size plasma screen. Various complicated-looking algorithms and wave patterns appeared on the screen.

He cleared his throat noisily. ‘I advised Chairman Cahartez to initiate lockdown on the basis of these readings.’

Recon’s Commander Root sucked on an unlit fungus cigar. ‘I think I’m speaking for the whole room here, Foaly, when I say that all I see is lines and squiggles. Doubtless it makes sense to a smart pony like yourself, but the rest of us are going to need some plain Gnommish.’

Foaly sighed. ‘Simply put. Really simply. We got pinged. Is that plain enough?’

It was. The room resonated with stunned silence. Pinged was an old naval term from back in the days when sonar was the preferred method of detection.

Getting pinged was slang for being detected. Someone knew the fairy folk were down here.

Root was the first to recover his voice. ‘Pinged. Who pinged us?’

Foaly shrugged. ‘Don’t know. It only lasted a few seconds. There was no recognizable signature, and it was untraceable.’

‘What did they get?’

‘Quite a bit. Everything North European. Scopes, Sentinel. All our cam-cams. Downloaded information on every one of them.’

This was catastrophic news. Someone or something knew all about fairy surveillance in Northern Europe, after only a few seconds.

‘Was it human,’ asked Holly, ‘or alien?’

Foaly pointed to a digital representation of the beam. ‘I can’t say for certain. If it is human, it’s something brand new. This came out of nowhere. No one has been developing technology like this as far as I know. Whatever it is, it read us like an open book. My security encryptions folded like they weren’t even there.’

Cahartez took off his official hat, no longer concerned with protocol. ‘What does this mean for the People?’

‘It’s difficult to say. There are best and worst case scenarios. Our mysterious guest could learn all about us whenever he wishes and do with our civilization what he will.’

 ‘And the best case scenario?’ asked Trouble.

Foaly took a breath. ‘That was the best case scenario.’

 

Commander Root called Holly into his office. The room stank of cigar smoke in spite of the purifier built into the desk. Foaly was already there, his fingers a blur over the commander’s keyboard.

‘The signal originated in London somewhere,’ said the centaur. ‘We only know that because I happened to be looking at the monitor at the time.’ He leaned back from the keyboard, shaking his head. ‘This is incredible. It’s some kind of hybrid technology. Almost like our ion systems, but not quite — just a hair’s breadth away.’

‘The how is not important now,’ said Root. ‘It’s the who I’m worried about.’

‘What can I do, sir?’ asked Holly.

Root stood and walked to a map of London on the wall plasma screen.

‘I need you to sign out a surveillance pack, go topside and wait. If we get pinged again, I want someone on site, ready to go. We can’t record this thing, but we can certainly get a visual on the signal. As soon as it shows up on the screen we’ll feed you the coordinates and you can investigate.’

Holly nodded. ‘When is the next hotshot?’

Hotshot was LEP-speak for the magma flares that Recon officers ride to the surface in titanium eggs. Pod pilots referred to this seat-of-the-pants procedure as ‘Riding the Hotshots’.

‘No such luck,’ replied Foaly. ‘Nothing in the pipes for the next two days. You’ll have to take a shuttle.’

‘What about the lockdown?’

‘I’ve restored power to Stonehenge and our satellite arrays. We’ll have to risk it; you need to get above ground and we need to stay in contact. The future of our civilization could depend on it.’

Holly felt the weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders. This future of our civilization thing was happening more and more lately.