Artemis Fowl_ The Arctic Incident - Eoin Colfer [47]
‘Stand back,’ advised Root. ‘I saw a two-minute healing in Tulsa one night. Damn near destroyed an entire shuttle port. I’ve never even heard of a four-minuter.’
They back-pedalled to the lip of the crater and not a moment too soon. More sparks erupted from the Earth, targeting Holly’s hand as the area most in need of assistance. They sank into her finger joint like plasma torpedoes, melting the plastic tape.
Holly shot upright, arms swinging like a puppet. Her legs began to jerk, kicking invisible enemies. Then the vocal cords, a high-pitched keening that cracked the thinner sheets of ice.
‘Is this normal?’ whispered Artemis, as though Holly could hear.
‘I think so,’ answered the commander. ‘The brain is running a systems check. It’s not like fixing cuts and bruises, if you know what I mean.’
Every pore in Holly’s body started to steam, venting trace radiation. She thrashed and kicked, sinking back down into a pool of slush. Not a pretty sight. The water evaporated, shrouding the LEP captain in mist. Only her left hand was visible, fingers a desperate blur.
Holly suddenly stopped moving. Her hand froze, then dropped through the mist. The Arctic night rushed in to reclaim the silence.
They inched closer, leaning into the fog. Artemis wanted to see, but he was afraid to look.
Butler took a breath, batting aside sheets of mist. All was quiet below. Holly’s frame lay still as the grave.
Artemis peered at the shape in the hole. ‘I think she’s awake
He was cut short by Holly’s sudden return to consciousness. She bolted upright, icicles coating her eyelashes and auburn hair. Her chest ballooned as she swallowed huge gulps of air.
Artemis grabbed her shoulders, for once abandoning his shell of icy composure. ‘Holly. Holly, speak to me. Your finger. Is it OK?’
Holly wiggled her fingers, then curled them into a fist. ‘I think so,’ she said, and whacked Artemis right between the eyes. The surprised boy landed in a snowdrift for the fourth time that day.
Holly winked at an amazed Butler. ‘ Now, we’re even,’ she said.
Commander Root didn’t have many treasured memories. But in future days, when things were at their grimmest, he would conjure up this moment and have a quiet chuckle.
OPERATIONS’ BOOTH
Foaly woke up sore, which was unusual for him. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d experienced actual pain. His feelings had been hurt a few times by Julius’s barbed comments, but actual physical discomfort was not something he cared to endure when he could avoid it.
The centaur was lying on the Operations’ Security-booth floor, tangled in the remains of his office chair.
‘Cudgeon,’ he growled, and what followed was about two minutes’ worth of unprintable obscenity.
When he had finally vented his anger, the centaur’s brain kicked in, and he hauled himself up from the plasma tiles. His rump was singed. He was going to have a couple of bald spots on his hind quarters. Very unattractive in a centaur. It was the first thing a prospective mate looked for in a nightclub. Not that Foaly had ever been much of a dancer. Four left hooves.
The booth was sealed. Tighter than a gnome’s wallet, as the saying went. Foaly typed in his exit code. ‘Foaly. Doors.’
The computer remained silent.
He tried verbal. ‘Foaly. One two one override. Doors.’
Not a peep. He was trapped. A prisoner of his own security devices. Even the windows were set to blackout, blocking his view of the Operations’ room. Completely locked out, and locked in. Nothing worked.
Well, that wasn’t completely accurate. Everything worked, but his precious computers wouldn’t respond to his touch. And Foaly was only too well aware that there was no way out of the booth without access to the mainframe.
Foaly plucked the tin foil hat from his head, crunching it into a ball.
‘A lot of good you did me!’ he said, tossing it into the waste recycler. The recycler would analyse the chemical make-up of the item, then divert it to the appropriate tank.
A plasma monitor