Free Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer

he had.
    Artemis had anticipated some technological advances, but nothing like the treasure trove of fairy hardware spread out on the four-wheel drive’s dashboard.
    “Impressive,” he murmured. “We could abort this mission right now and still make a fortune in patents.”
    Artemis ran a handheld scanner bar over the unconscious elf’s wristband. He then fed the fairy characters into his PowerBook translator.
    “This is a locator of some kind. No doubt this leprechaun’s comrades are tracking us right now.”
    Butler swallowed. “Right now, sir?”
    “It would seem so. Or at any rate they’re tracking the locator—”
    Artemis stopped speaking suddenly, his eyes losing focus as the electricity in his cranium sparked off another brainwave.
    “Butler?”
    The manservant felt his pulse quicken. He knew that tone. Something was afoot.
    “Yes, Artemis?”
    “That Japanese whaler. The one seized by the port authorities. Is she still tied up at the docks?”
    Butler nodded. “Yes, I believe so.”
    Artemis twirled the locator’s band around his index finger.
    “Good. Take us down there. I believe it’s time to let our diminutive friends know exactly who they’re dealing with.”
    Root rubber-stamped his own reactivation with remarkable speed—very unusual for LEP upper management. Generally it took months, and several mind-crushingly dull meetings, to approve any application to the Recon Squad. Luckily, Root had a bit of influence with the commander.
    It felt good to be back in a field uniform, and Root even managed to convince himself that the jumpsuit was no tighter around the middle than it used to be. The bulge, he rationalized, was caused by all the new equipment they jammed into these things. Personally, Root had no time for gadgetry. The only items the commander was interested in were the wings on his back and the multiphase, water-cooled, tribarreled blaster strapped to his hip—the most powerful production handgun under the world. Old, to be sure, but it had seen Root through a dozen firefights and it made him feel like a field officer again.
    The nearest chute to Holly’s position was E1:Tara. Not exactly an ideal location for a stealth mission, but with barely two hours of moon time left there was no time for an overground jaunt. If there was to be any chance of sorting out this mess before sunrise, speed was of the essence. He commandeered the E1 shuttle for his team, bumping a tour group that had apparently been on line for two years.
    “Tough nuggets,” Root growled at the holiday rep. “And what’s more, I’m shutting down all nonessential flights until the present crisis is past.”
    “And when might that be?” squeaked the irate gnome, brandishing a notebook as though she were prepared to make a complaint of some kind.
    Root spat out the butt of his cigar, squashing it comprehensively beneath his boot heel. The symbolism was all too obvious.
    “The chutes will be opened, madam, when I feel like it,” growled the commander. “And if you and your fluorescent uniform don’t get out of my way, I’ll yank your operating license and have you thrown into the cells for obstructing an LEP officer.”
    The holiday rep wilted before him and slunk back into line, wishing her uniform wasn’t quite so pink.
    Foaly was waiting at the pod. Serious though the moment was, he couldn’t resist an amused whinny at the sight of Root’s belly wobbling ever so slightly in his clinging jumpsuit.
    “Are you sure about this, commander? Generally we allow only one passenger per pod.”
    “What do you mean?” snarled Root. “There is only one. . . .”
    Then he caught Foaly’s meaningful glance at his stomach.
    “Oh. Ha ha. Very amusing. Keep it up, Foaly. I have my limit, you know.”
    But it was a hollow threat and they both knew it. Not only had Foaly built their communications network from scratch, but he was also a pioneer in the field of flare prediction. Without him, human technology could very