I can never go back to The Sozzled Parrot again, he realized. And they served great curry. Real meat too.

Outside and below, Atlantis rescue ships buzzed around the distressed shuttles, working hard to build a pressure dome so the crews could get some magic to the injured. Sea workers in pressure exo-armor hammered through rocks and debris on the seabed to lay a foam seal to build the dome upon. Nobody was too concerned about the crash site itself, for the time being. The living came first.

“I should call in this Turnball Root theory,” said Holly. “Commander Kelp will act on it.”

“We have to act first,” said Artemis. “Haven won’t have its ships here for at least an hour. By then it will be too late. We need to find evidence so that Trouble can make a case to the Council.”

Holly’s fingers hesitated over Foaly’s phone. There wasn’t time to get into a strategy discussion with the commander. She knew Trouble’s mind well: it didn’t take that long to get to know. If she called him now, he would suggest a strategy that involved them waiting until he arrived, and possibly some form of bivouac.

So instead of making a vid-call, she sent a brief text highlighting Turnball Root’s name on the passenger list they weren’t supposed to have, and switched off the phone.

“He’s bound to call back,” she explained. “I’ll switch it on again when we have something to tell him.”

Foaly glowered at her. “I’m going to miss my crunchball league updates,” he said; then, “I know that sounds petty, but I pay a subscription.”

Artemis was concentrating on a problem to take his mind off the wall of sparkling fours that had followed him from his mind-screen and seemed to be hovering all around.

Not there, he told himself. Focus on the Houdini act.

“How did Turnball get out of the ship alive?” he wondered aloud. “Foaly, can we access local CCTV?”

“Not with this ship. This was once a beautiful emergency vehicle. I helped design the model. Talk about high spec—you could run an entire disaster-site cleanup from this beauty, once upon a time. Now there’s barely enough tech in here to stop us from crashing into a wall.”

“So there’s no way of telling if any ships rendezvoused with the prison shuttle?”

“Not from here,” said Foaly.

“I need to know how Turnball escaped,” shouted Artemis, losing his cool again. “How else am I supposed to find him? Doesn’t anyone else see this? Am I alone in the universe?”

Butler shifted until he sat hunched over Artemis, almost enfolding him with his bulk. “You’re the one who sees, Artemis. That’s your gift. We’re the ones who get there eventually.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Mulch. “I usually never get there. And when I do, I never like it, especially when Artemis is involved.”

A bead of sweat lodged in the frown wrinkle between Artemis’s eyes. “I know, old friend. I just need to work— that is the only thing that can save me.” He thought hard for a moment. “Can we run a scan to detect the ion trail of another ship?”

“Of course,” said Foaly. “Even this stripped-back tub can’t do without an omni-sensor.” He opened a program on the screen, and a dark blue filter dropped over their view. The ion trails of the rescue ships showed up as spectral beams following behind their engines like glowworms. One such beam led to the impact site from the direction of Atlantis, and another far more substantial column of light had plowed down from above.

“There’s the prison shuttle and there’s the probe. Nothing else. How did he do it?”

“Maybe he didn’t do it,” suggested Juliet. “Maybe his plan went wrong. A lot of geniuses have been totally screwing up lately, if you see what I am trying to say, Artemis.”

Artemis half-smiled. “I see what you are trying to say, Juliet. Mainly because you are saying it clearly and bluntly with no attempt to spare my feelings.”

“In fairness, Artemis,” said Juliet, “we were almost crushed to death by mesmerized wrestling fans, so I feel you can put up with a little ribbing. Also, I don’t work for you, so you can’t order me to shut up. You could dock Butler’s salary, I suppose, but I can live with that.”

Artemis nodded at Holly. “I don’t suppose you two could be related?” Then he jumped to his feet, almost bashing his head on the ship’s low ceiling. “Foaly, I need to go down there.”

Holly tapped the depth gauge. “No problem. I can come around behind that ridge and keep us hidden from the rescue ships. Even if they do see us, they’ll assume we’ve been sent by Haven. Worst-case scenario, they order us to back away from the crime scene.”

“I meant I need to go outside,” clarified Artemis.

“There’s a pressure suit in that cubby, and I need to take Foaly’s phone and search for clues the old-fashioned way.”

“The old-fashioned way,” repeated Mulch. “With a futuristic pressure suit and a fairy phone.”

A raft of vocal objections followed:

“You can’t go—it’s too dangerous.”

“I shall go in your place.”

“Why does it have to be my phone?”

Artemis waited until the clamor had died down, then dealt with the protests in his usual terse, patronizing manner.

“I must go because the next stage of Turnball’s plan obviously involves further loss of life, and the lives of many are more important than the lives of the few.”

“I saw that on Star Trek,” said Mulch.

“It must be me,” continued Artemis. “Because there is only one suit, and it appears to be approximately my size. And, if I’m not mistaken—and it would be highly unusual that I would be—a correct fit is vital, where pressure suits are concerned, unless you want your eyeballs popping out of their sockets.”