The Arctic Incident

  “But there’s more. A lot more.”

  Luc stopped what he was doing, which was kissing a hundred-euro bill.

  “More? How much more?”

  The eyes seemed to glow crimson.

  “As much as you want, Luc. But to get it, I need you to do me a favor.”

  Luc was hooked. “Sure. What kind of favor?”

  The voice emanating from the speaker was as clear as spring water.

  “It’s simple, not even illegal. I need batteries, Luc. Thousands of batteries. Maybe millions. Do you think you can get them for me?”

  Luc thought about it for about two seconds, the notes were tickling his chin. As a matter of fact, he had a contact on the river who regularly shipped boatloads of hardware to the Middle East, including batteries. Luc was confident that some of those shipments could be diverted.

  “Batteries. Oui, certainement, I could do that.”

  And so it went on for several months. Luc Carrère hit his contact for every battery he could lay his hands on. It was a sweet deal. Luc would crate the cells up in his apartment, and in the morning they would be gone. In their place would sit a fresh pile of bills. Of course the euros were fake, run off on an old Koboi printer, but Luc couldn’t tell the difference; nobody outside the treasury could.

  Occasionally the voice on the screen would make a special request. Some fire suits for example. But hey, Luc was a player now. Nothing was more than a phone call away. In six months Luc Carrère went from a one-room apartment to a fancy loft in Saint Germain. So naturally the Sureté and Interpol were building separate cases against him. But Luc wasn’t to know that. All he knew was that for the first time in his corrupt life, he was riding the gravy train.

  One morning there was a another parcel on his new marble-topped desk. Bigger this time. Bulkier. But Luc wasn’t worried. It was probably more money.

  Luc popped the top to reveal an aluminum case, and a second communicator. The eyes were waiting for him.

  “Bonjour, Luc. Ça va?”

  “Bien,” replied Luc, mesmerized from the first syllable.

  “I have a special assignment for you today. Do this right, and you will never have to worry about money again. Your tool is in the case.”

  “What is it?” asked the P.I. nervously. The instrument looked like a weapon, and even though Luc was mesmerized Cudgeon did not have enough magic to completely bury the Parisian’s nature. The P.I. might have been devious, but he was no killer.

  “It’s a special camera, Luc, that’s all. If you pull that thing that looks like a trigger, it takes a picture,” said Cudgeon.

  “Oh,” said Luc Carrère blearily.

  “Some friends of mine are coming to visit you. And I want you to take their picture. It’s just a game we play.”

  “How will I know your friends?” asked Luc. “A lot of people visit me.”

  “They will ask about the batteries. If they ask about the batteries, then you take their picture.”

  “Sure. Great.” And it was great. Because the voice would never make him do anything wrong. The voice was his friend.

  E37 Shuttleport

  Holly steered the slammer through the chute’s final section. A proximity sensor in the shuttle’s nose set off the landing lights.

  “Hmm,” muttered Holly.

  Artemis squinted through the quartz windshield.

  “A problem?”

  “No. It’s just that those lights shouldn’t be working. There hasn’t been a power source in the terminal since the last century.”

  “Our goblin friends, no doubt.”

  Holly frowned. “Doubtful. It takes half a dozen goblins to turn on a glow cube. Wiring a shuttleport takes real know-how. Elfin know-how.”

  “The plot thickens,” said Artemis. If he’d had a beard, he would have stroked it. “I smell a traitor. Now who would have access to all this technology, and a motive for selling it?”

  Holly pointed the shuttle’s cone toward the landing nodes.

  “We’ll find out soon enough. You just get me a live trader, and my mesmer will soon have him spilling his guts.”

  The shuttle docked with a pneumatic hiss as the bay’s rubber collar formed an airtight seal against the outer hull. Butler was out of his chair before the seat belt light winked off, ready for action.

  “Just don’t kill anyone,” warned Holly. “That’s not how the LEP like to operate. Anyway, dead Mud Men don’t rat on their partners.” She brought up a schematic on the wall screen. It depicted Paris’s old city. “Okay,” she said, pointing to a bridge across the Seine. “We’re here. Under this bridge, two hundred feet from Notre Dame. That’s the cathedral, not the football team. The dock is disguised as a bridge support. Stand in the doorway until I give you a green light. We have to be careful here. The last thing we need is some Parisian seeing you emerge from a brick wall.”

  “You’re not accompanying us?” asked Artemis.

  “Orders,” said Holly, scowling. “Apparently this could be a trap. Who knows what hardware is pointed at the terminal door? Lucky for you, you’re expendable. Irish tourists on holiday, you’ll fit right in.”

  “Lucky us. What leads do we have?”

  Holly slid a disk into the console. “Foaly stuck his Retimager on the goblin prisoner. Apparently he has seen this human.”

  The captain brought up a mug shot on the screen.

  “Foaly got a match on his Interpol files. Luc Carrère. Disbarred attorney, does a bit of P.I. work.”

  She printed off a card. “Here’s his address. He just moved to a swanky new apartment. It could be nothing, but at least we have somewhere to start. I need you to immobilize him, and show him this.” Holly handed the bodyguard what looked like a diver’s watch.

  “What is it?” asked the manservant.

  “Just a com-screen. You just put it in front of Carrère’s face and I can mesmerize the truth out of him from down here. It also contains one of Foaly’s doodads. A personal shield. The Safetynet. A prototype, you’ll be delighted to know. You can have the honor of testing it. Touch the screen, and the micro reactor generates a six-foot diameter sphere of tri-phased light. No good for solids, but laser bursts or concussion shocks are okay.”

  “Hmm,” said Butler doubtfully. “We don’t get a lot of laser bursts aboveground.”

  “Hey, don’t use it. Do I care?”

  Butler studied the tiny instrument. “Six-foot radius? What about the bits that are sticking out?”

  Holly thumped the manservant playfully in the stomach.

  “My advice to you, big man, is to curl up in a ball.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” said Butler, cinching the strap around his wrist. “You two try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

  Artemis was surprised. It didn’t happen very often.

  “While you’re gone? Surely, you don’t expect me to stay behind.”

  Butler tapped his forehead.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll see everything on the iris-cam.”

  Artemis fumed for several moments, before settling into a passenger chair.

  “I know. I would only slow you down, and that in turn would slow down the search for my father.”

  “Of course, if you insist . . .”

  “No. This is no time for childishness.”

  Butler smiled gently. Childishness was one thing Master Artemis was hardly likely to be accused of.

  “How long do I have?”

  Holly shrugged. “As long as it takes. Obviously, the sooner the better, for everybody’s sake.” She glanced at Artemis. “Especially his father’s.”

  In spite of everything, Butler felt good. This was life at its most basic. The hunt. Not exactly the Stone Age, but the principle was the same: the survival of the fittest. And there was no doubt in Butler’s mind that he was the fittest.

  Butler followed Holly’s directions to a service ladder, scaling it quickly to the doorway above. He waited beside the metal door, until the light above c
hanged from red to green, and the camouflaged entrance slid noiselessly back. The bodyguard emerged cautiously. While it was likely that bridge was deserted, he could hardly explain himself away as a homeless person, dressed as he was in a dark designer suit.

  Butler felt a breeze play across the shaven dome of his crown. The morning air felt good, even after a few hours underground. He could only imagine how fairies must feel. Forced out of their native environment by humans. From what Butler had seen, if the People ever decided to reclaim what was theirs, the battle wouldn’t last long. But luckily for mankind, fairies were a peace-loving people, and not prepared to go to war over real estate.

  The coast was clear. Butler stepped casually onto the riverside walkway, proceeding south toward the Saint Germain district.

  A riverboat swept past on his right, ferrying a hundred tourists around the city. Butler automatically covered his face with a massive hand. Just in case some of those tourists had cameras pointed in this direction.

  The bodyguard mounted a set of stone steps to the road above. Behind him the jagged spire of Notre Dame rose into the sky, and to his left the Eiffel Tower’s famous profile punctured the clouds. Butler strode confidently across the main road, nodding at several French ladies who stopped to stare.

  He was familiar with this area of Paris, having spent a month recuperating here after a particularly dangerous assignment for the French Secret Service.

  Butler strolled along rue Jacob. Even at this hour, cars and lorries jammed the narrow street. Drivers leaned on their horns, hanging from car windows, Gallic tempers running wild. Mopeds dodged between bumpers, and a large number of extraordinarily pretty girls strolled past. Butler smiled. Paris. He had forgotten.

  Carrère’s apartment was on rue Bonaparte opposite the church. Apartments in Saint Germain cost more per month than most Parisians made in a year. Butler ordered coffee and a croissant at the Café Bonaparte, settling himself at an outside table. One with a perfect view of Monsieur Carrère’s window.

  He didn’t have long to wait. In less than an hour, the chunky Parisian appeared on his balcony, leaning on the ornate railing for several minutes. He very obligingly presented front and side views of himself.

  Holly’s voice sounded in Butler’s ear. “That’s our boy. Is he alone?”

  “I can’t tell,” muttered the bodyguard into his hand. The flesh-tone mike glued to his throat would pick up any vibrations and translate them for Holly.

  “Just a sec.”

  Butler heard a keyboard being tapped, and suddenly the iris-cam in his eye sparked. The vision in one eye jumped into a completely different spectrum.

  “Heat sensitive,” Holly informed him. “Hot equals red. Cold equals blue. Not a very strong system, but the lens should penetrate an outer wall.”

  Butler cast a fresh eye over the apartment. There were three red objects in the room. One was Carrère’s heart, which pulsed crimson in the center of his pink body. The second appeared to be a hot plate, possibly a coffeepot. And the third was a TV.

  “Okay. All clear, I’m going in.”

  “Affirmative. Watch your step. This is a bit too convenient.”

  “Agreed.”

  Butler crossed the cobbled street to the four-story apartment building. There was an intercom security system, but this structure was nineteenth century, and a solid shoulder at the right point popped the bolt right out of its housing.

  “I’m in.”

  There was noise on the stairs above. Someone coming this way. Butler wasn’t unduly concerned, nevertheless he slid a palm inside his jacket, fingers resting on his handgun’s grip. It was unlikely he would need it. Even the most boisterous young bucks generally gave Butler a wide berth. Something to do with his merciless eyes. Being almost seven feet tall didn’t hurt either.

  A group of teenagers rounded the corner.

  “Excusez moi,” said Butler, gallantly stepping aside.

  The girls giggled. The boys glared. One, a unibrowed rugby type, even thought about passing comment. Then Butler winked at him. It was a peculiar wink, somehow simultaneously cheerful and terrifying. No comments were passed.

  Butler ascended to the fourth floor without incident. Carrère’s apartment was on the gable end. Two walls of windows. Very expensive.

  The bodyguard was considering his breaking-and-entering options when he noticed the door was open. Open doors generally meant one of two things: One, nobody was left alive to close it. Or, two, he was expected. Neither of these options appealed to him particularly.

  Butler entered cautiously. The apartment walls were lined with open crates. Battery packs and fire suits poked through the Styrofoam packing. The floor was littered with thick wads of currency.

  “Are you a friend?” It was Carrère. He was slumped in an oversized armchair, a weapon of some kind nestled on his lap.

  Butler approached cautiously. An important rule of combat is that every opponent be taken seriously.

  “Take it easy.”

  The Parisian raised the weapon. The grip was made for smaller fingers. A child, or a fairy.

  “I asked if you were a friend?”

  Butler cocked his own pistol. “No need to shoot.”

  “Stand still,” ordered Carrère. “I’m not going to shoot you, just take your photo maybe. The voice told me.”

  Holly’s voice sounded in the earpiece. “Get closer. I need to see the eyes.”

  Butler holstered his weapon, taking a step forward. “You see, no one has to get hurt here.”

  “I’m going to enhance the image,” said Holly. “This may sting a bit.”

  The tiny camera in his eye buzzed, and suddenly Butler’s vision was magnified by four. Which would have been just fine had the magnification not been accompanied by a sharp jolt of pain. Butler blinked a stream of tears from his eye. Below in the goblin shuttle, Holly studied Luc’s pupils.

  “He’s been mesmerized,” she pronounced. “Several times. You see how the iris has actually become jagged. You mesmerize a human too much, and they can go blind.”

  Artemis studied the image.

  “Is it safe to mesmerize him again?”

  Holly shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He’s already under a spell. That particular Mud Man is just following orders. His brain doesn’t know a thing about it.”

  Artemis grabbed the mike stand. “Butler! Get out of there. Right now.”

  In the apartment, Butler stood his ground. Any sudden movement might be his last.

  “Butler,” said Holly. “Listen carefully. That gun pointed at you is a wide-bore low-frequency blaster. We call it a bouncer; it was developed for tunnel skirmishes. If he pulls that trigger, a wide-arc laser is going to ricochet off the walls until it hits something.”

  “I see,” muttered Butler.

  “What did you say?” asked Carrère.

  “Nothing. I just don’t like having my photo taken.”

  A spark of Luc’s greedy personality surfaced. “I like that watch on your wrist. It looks expensive. Is it a Rolex?”

  “You don’t want this,” said Butler, very reluctant to part with the com-screen. “It’s cheap. A piece of trash.”

  “Just give me the watch,”

  Butler peeled back the strap on the instrument on his wrist.

  “If I give you this watch, maybe you can tell me about all these batteries.”

  “It is you! Say cheese,” squealed Carrère, forcing his pudgy thumb into the undersized trigger guard, and pulling.

  For Butler, time seemed to slow to a crawl. It was almost as though he were inside his personal time stop. His soldier’s brain absorbed all the facts and analyzed his options.

  Carrère’s finger was too far gone. In a moment a wide-bore laser burst would be speeding his way, and would continue to bounce around the room until they were both dead. His gun was of no use in a situation like this. All he had was the Safetynet, but a six-foot sphere was not going to be enough. Not for two good-size humans. So in the fraction of
a second left to him, Butler formulated a new strategy. If the sphere stopped concussive waves coming in, perhaps it could stop them coming out. Butler touched the screen, and hurled the device in Carrère’s direction.

  Not a nanosecond too soon, a spherical shield blossomed, enveloping the expanding beam. Three hundred and sixty degrees of protection. It was a sight to see, a fireworks display in a bubble. The shield hovered overhead, shafts of light ricocheting against the sphere’s curved planes.

  Carrère was hypnotized by the sight, and Butler took advantage of the distraction to disarm him.

  “Start the engines,” grunted the bodyguard into his throat mike. “The Sureté are going to be all over this place in minutes. Foaly’s Safetynet didn’t stop the noise.”

  “Roger that. What about Monsieur Carrère?”

  Butler dumped the dazed Parisian flat on the carpet.

  “Luc and I are going to have a little chat.”

  For the first time Carrère seemed to be aware of his surroundings.

  “Who are you?” he mumbled. “What’s happening?”

  Butler ripped open the man’s shirt, placing his palm flat on the P.I.’s heart. Time for a little trick he’d learned from Madame Ko, his Japanese sensei. “Don’t worry, Monsieur Carrère. I’m a doctor. There’s been an accident, but you’re perfectly fine.”

  “An accident? I don’t remember any accident.”

  “Trauma. It’s quite normal. I’m just going to check your vitals.”

  Butler placed a thumb on Luc’s neck, locating the artery.

  “I’m going to ask you a few questions, to check for concussion.”

  Luc didn’t argue, then again who’d argue with a six-foot-plus Eurasian man with muscles like a Michelangelo statue?

  “Is your name Luc Carrère?”

  “Yes.”

  Butler noted the pulse rate. One from the heartbeat, and a second reference on the carotid artery. Steady in spite of the accident.

  “Are you a private eye?”

  “I prefer the title investigator.”

  No increase in pulse rate. The man was telling the truth.

  “Have you ever sold batteries to a mystery buyer?”