by Eoin Colfer
Gveld is unequivocally dead, Myles realized once he picked himself up from the elevator floor. There was no surviving such a ferocious impact.
The Horteknut hoard claims another victim, thought the Fowl twin. And the dwarves lose their greatest hero.
Myles knew that he had contributed to Gveld’s literal downfall, and the thought made him sick.
This was never my plan, he thought. Why did the general not simply surrender?
He would never understand people’s insistence on acting irrationally, even unto death.
Myles brushed himself off and looked to Gundred to pose this question, but he found the ACRONYM double agent’s gaze already burning into him.
She spoke before he could. “That was the greatest dwarf who ever lived. And you killed her, human.”
This was somewhat inaccurate in Myles’s view, and he felt he should disagree. “A couple of points, Agent Zelda. First, I did not kill the general. Your own polish facilitated that. And second, you too are a human and so, by referring to me as a human in such a pejorative tone, you are effectively insulting yourself.”
Gundred scowled. “I am not a human and I am not a dwarf. You have cast me into a gray area.”
Myles could not argue with that.
“What will you do now?” asked the Fowl twin.
Gundred picked herself up on the girder. “I will find my general’s body and ensure that she is given a hero’s recycling.” She pointed a warning finger at Myles. “And you, Fowl, will stay out of my way.”
Myles nodded. “I will not interfere. But remember, Gundred, you are not a true dwarf. You cannot survive a collapse, and I would estimate that this building will fall in less than five minutes. The gold was the final nail in its coffin.”
Gundred spat. “Gold. All this for a shiny metal. Gold poisoned my general in every way.” The ACRONYM double agent tugged the hood of her Dragonella costume over her forehead. “Do not look for me, Myles. For once in your life, rein in that famous Fowl curiosity.”
Myles considered this. He was already curious to see how Gundred’s journey would play out, but perhaps the little person deserved some space in which to grieve. He peered into the abyss and could see nothing but flickering dust and a deadly lattice of twisted metal.
“My curiosity is of little importance here, Agent. I fear there is no way through to your general. You will probably die trying to reach her body.”
There was no reply from across the divide, and so Myles looked up to find that Gundred had already gone into the dust. The only sign of her was a vaguely dwarf-shaped hole in the cloud, which filled itself in as he watched.
“Bravo,” said Myles in genuine admiration. “A most excellent tragic sidekick exit.”
Then a stray drop of polish melted the last strand of supporting cable, and Myles’s elevator dropped thirty feet to be skewered by no less than five steel rods, all of which missed Myles’s person but gave him the fright he deserved for being so insensitive as to make the tragic sidekick comment so soon after actual tragedy. Myles squealed all the way down, and if Beckett had been on-site, he would have excitedly informed his brother that the squeal was not just a squeal but also the first six letters of the seagull alphabet. Not in the correct order, which would have been beyond incredible, but intelligible nonetheless to a person who spoke seagull.
Myles hung inside the elevator, looking for all the world like an art installation with a steel rod running between his jacket and shirt, and wondering if:
a) Someone would rescue him.
Or…
b) The building would finally and inevitably collapse.
He really hoped it was option A, as he would miss his family terribly, and anyway, he was not overly fond of dying, having tried it once before.
AS IT happened, it did indeed turn out to be option A, which was accomplished in such a manner as to take care of both the missing family and the dying issues. For when the elevator door was finally cranked open, it was done so by a man in a rumpled beige velour leisure suit. That man was none other than Artemis Fowl Senior, whose arrival had coincided nicely with the gas fires burning themselves out.
Myles was so relieved, he actually said “Dad!”
Then immediately corrected himself. “I mean, of course, Father.”
“I don’t know where all this formality comes from,” said Artemis Senior, popping Myles’s jacket button to free the boy from the garment. “A little affection every now and then wouldn’t kill you.”
Myles slapped dust from his hair. “You are quite needy, Father, but I suppose a five-second hug couldn’t hurt.”
“I concur,” said Artemis Senior, holding out his arms.
Myles stepped into the hug and found that he had been wrong—the hug actually did hurt just a little—but Myles held on, as he felt his father needed a boost.
Outside, it seemed as though the world was converging on the Convention Centre Dublin. Emergency services were advancing through the three states of matter, those being land, sea, and air. To the casual eye, the Fowls were no different from any other refugees from the convention center, coated as they were from head to toe with gray dust.
The eclipse had fully pased by now, and the extent of the devastation was becoming clear. Downriver, droves of people were being herded from the theater, away from ground zero.
“All those people would have died if it hadn’t been for you, son,” Artemis Senior told Myles.
“Indubitably,” said Myles. “And you and Mother would have perished if it hadn’t been for Beck.”
“And the little troll fellow,” said Artemis Senior.
Myles thought he might get a dig in. “It was fortunate Whistle Blower returned after you so rashly sent him away.”
Artemis Senior was not in the mood for a guilt trip. “I have a feeling he never actually went away, my son. In fact, I do believe that the more I look into this bizarre affair, the more I might find out about your various side projects.”
Myles was offended. “Father, I do not have ‘side projects.’ Everything Myles Fowl does he does one hundred percent.”
“I am disappointed by that hyperbolic comment,” his father said sternly. “It is impossible to devote one hundred percent of your effort to several projects at once.”
Myles was chastened. “You are correct, of course, Father. I was attempting to make a point.”
They walked side by side to the river, ostensibly a couple of survivors fleeing the beleaguered building. A team of paramedics attempted to shepherd them into one of a fleet of ambulances, but Artemis Senior waved them away, saying, “The boy scanned himself already with his eyeglasses. He’s fine.”
While Myles automatically blurted, “The Fowl family deny all charges.”
That statement drew some confused looks, but the Fowl patriarch ushered his son down the jetty steps before anyone could formulate an objection.
“But back to my initial point,” said Myles as he carefully negotiated the steep stairs. “It was a mistake on your part to separate us from the fairies. Lazuli, most especially. She was invaluable in this affair and even now needs our help quite urgently. I think that if we commandeered two of those construction cranes across the Liffey, one river barge, and perhaps a dozen electric bicycles, I could cobble together quite an effective excavation mole.”
“No need to worry on that front, son,” said Artemis Senior. “Commodore Short has already been in touch. The LEP have a Retrieval team moving toward Lazuli as we speak. The pixel is in good hands. Holly will contact us the moment Specialist Heitz is safe.”
“Excellent,” said Myles, somewhat relieved, as he was in dire need of a nap.
The Fowl electric yacht bobbed in the churning waters, and on deck stood Angeline and her blond son. Beckett had a wriggling mass in his shirt that Myles took to be Whistle Blower.
“I found Myles safe and sound in the elevator,” Artemis Senior announced when they stepped on board.
“I told you,” said Beckett, ho
lding up his wrist. “The scar never lies.”
Angeline wept with relief when she saw her son alive and more or less well, though it was hard to tell what minor injuries were possibly hiding beneath his coating of dust.
Myles was upset by his mother’s tears and thought he might comfort her by employing a childish endearment. “Mum,” he said, “no need to go on so. I am perfectly fine.”
Angeline did not seem comforted. “Oh my god, Artemis! He called me ‘Mum.’ Is this another clone?”
Beckett laughed. “No. It’s Myles pretending to be normal.”
Angeline was not convinced. “Are you sure, Beck?”
Beckett pointed to his scar. “Totally sure.”
“Say something Myles-y,” ordered Angeline.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Myles. “Is my very name an adjective now?”
“Myles, it is you!” said Angeline, and she took her son in a hug that raised quite the dust cloud.
Beckett stepped in close and joined the hug.
“I did a brain thing,” he said to his brother. “Painted the rock with red blood.”
Myles was impressed. That was clever.
“I did a physical thing,” he said to his twin. “I climbed on a rail.”
Beckett frowned, thinking that perhaps this Myles was a clone after all.
Some levels below, Lazuli was huddled inside the excavator’s cab, as though it could save her from the crushing impact of a collapsing building.
I will be obliterated, she thought. I will be atomized. I will be paste.
Which was not a comforting trilogy of thoughts.
The building yawned above her like the maw of some ravenous kraken demanding food. A wind funneled down from above, tainted by the fetid gas from ruptured septic tanks. Sparks tumbled through the wreckage, creating horrific shadows from twisted steel and stone towers.
I need to move, thought Lazuli. I need to get out of here.
But there was nowhere to go. No way out. She was trapped in a jagged dome supported by a trembling central column.
I can’t…she thought. This is not how…
This is not how I want to die was the thought Lazuli was too shell-shocked to complete. But the finality of this situation wasn’t a surprise to her, not really. It had to come to this sooner or later. A person could not continuously present herself at the sharp edge of Fowl adventures and expect to come out the other end alive.
Just ask Commander Root.
But were the Fowl Twins at fault here?
Were they really?
The answer to that was probably a no. After all, it was not the Fowl Twins who had glued her to a rocket. It was not the twins who tried to collapse a building in the name of honor.
This was a fairy problem, and she was to be a fairy casualty.
But…
She did not regret anything.
Lazuli laughed bitterly. A Regrettable who did not regret.
And the remaining Horteknuts? Lazuli snuck a peek through the struts of the steering wheel and saw that the two Reclaimers in the blue pod had activated an air recycler and were passing around freeze-dried rations. This made her suddenly furious—that the instigators of her imminent death would be completely safe and comfortable as they waited for their comrades to come and dig them out, while she, on the other hand, waited to be pounded flatter than a pixie-wafer tart.
A phrase from that train of thought struck Lazuli: Imminent death.
Hadn’t Myles said that imminent death was the trigger for her magic? Hope surged through the pixel…
Then died.
There was no magic powerful enough to lift a building. Not even the great and mysterious demon warlock known only as N°1 (see LEP file: Artemis Fowl: The Lost Colony) could perform such a feat.
Lazuli saw now that the Reclaimers were waving at her—waving and laughing—and a rage grew inside her that she did not think she was capable of.
I would destroy them all if I could, she thought. In a heartbeat.
Lazuli looked at her hands and saw that they still glowed orange, veins tracing black in the blue skin.
And I could do it, Lazuli realized. I could.
This savage notion was squashed by an image of Beckett, who, apparently, had become her conscience. How would Beck feel if the last act she committed was a murder? He would be so disappointed in her.
And just like that, her rage faded almost entirely. Five more seconds and the magic would have subsided utterly, but then, with woeful timing, a dwarf punched through from outside the dome, his tunneling momentum sending him skidding across the cavern floor. Two more dwarves followed in quick succession, like artillery shells, and Lazuli thought, No. I am not having this.
The dwarves had obviously come quite a distance to rescue their comrades, and they whipped up more air currents than a fleet of landing helicopters as they expelled their pent-up tunnel air and came to rest like spinning tops winding down.
These new dwarves wore heavy mining suits and were strapped with sidearms, shoulder cannons, and more blades than a person might reasonably expect to see in a superstore that exclusively sold blades.
The only question here is whether those dwarves kill me first, or they rescue their friends and then kill me, thought Lazuli, not liking either possible scenario. So she decided to take the initiative and incapacitate three more dwarves.
How many is that in a single day? Four? Five? An underworld record, surely.
Perhaps she could be remembered for more than being taken prisoner by Reclaimers.
Twice.
And then, determined to go out with at least one bang, Lazuli swallowed her fear of nearly every element of this bizarre situation and hopped down from the cab of the excavator, hoping that her mood-sensitive magic would believe her life to be in danger. It did, and Lazuli was relieved to see the orange glow spread to her elbows.
The dwarves did not notice her coming. They were flat on their backs, taking a breather, when Lazuli stepped out of the dust, her eyes glowing like hot coals, though she did not realize it.
“Looking for someone to outnumber?” she said. She blasted the first dwarf, and he spun away on the fulcrum of his behind, yodeling with shock as he went, his bum flap flapping like a flag of surrender.
“Anyone else?” asked Lazuli, and even though he didn’t actually present himself, she kicked the second dwarf in the chest. Her magically turbo-powered boot sent him head over heels, his unhinged jaw clacking in surprise.
“You’re…so…tiny,” he said, one word per revolution, which did not calm Lazuli one little bit. She was vaguely aware of the fact that more figures were coming through the tunnels, but there was no time to deal with them now. She would have to disable the third dwarf and then see what she was up against.
The dwarf in question managed to get on his feet, and in his panic, he decided to clamp his mouth over Lazuli’s arm. This was not the brightest idea he would ever have, as it was such a blatantly aggressive move that the pixel’s magic escalated to auto-defend mode. It sent a bolt of energy so concentrated it was almost liquid straight into the dwarf’s recycling system. The dwarf, in turn, automatically opened every internal pathway he could except his mouth, and as a result, the poor fellow went up and over, making it seem for all the world as though Lazuli was swinging him like a fairground mallet. The dwarf hit the ground with such force that had there been a bell, he would have rung it.
All this expenditure of energy was not without side effects, such as dehydration, nausea, and extreme disorientation, and so when Lazuli turned to face the latest arrivals, she was not in tip-top form.
“Come on, then,” she slurred, and wobbled, wishing there were a nearby wall to lean on. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”
Lazuli half noticed from the corner of her mind that the lead new dwarf did not cut a very dwarfish figure. Indeed, they seemed too slender and moved all wrong and it was entirely possible that the dwarf was an elf, and probably a female.
The figure pulled off their helmet and by amazing coincidence looked a lot like Lazuli’s LEP superior, Commodore Holly Short. The resemblance was, frankly, uncanny.
It is Commodore Short, Lazuli realized, and she told Commodore Short that she was Commodore Short, which was probably something Commodore Short was already aware of.
The elf’s little voice told Lazuli that the best thing she could do in the circumstances was pass out now and explain later.
And so she did.
The Fowl Star
The debriefing was held three days later aboard the Fowl Star yacht, which was actually the second craft to bear that name. The original Fowl Star was a cargo ship that Russian gangsters had sunk some years earlier in the Bay of Kola, where it remains to this day wedged into a crack in the Barents Sea floor, preventing further movement of the tectonic plates. Which just goes to show that even Fowl possessions can save the world.
Myles decided that, since everybody’s security had been compromised (mostly by him), it would be safer to talk on a vessel in international waters. This way, even if something incriminating was recorded with echo-sounders or vibration microphones, it would be difficult to find a path to prosecution. And anyway, he was growing weary of denying charges thrown at him by adults he neither respected nor recognized as valid authorities.
NANNI steered the boat to the agreed-upon coordinates five miles off the Irish coast and then toggled the engines to resist the pull of shore-bound currents.
It was a fine summer morning with only the occasional wisp of cloud to provide cover, so Beckett cranked open a striped awning, which laid a patch of shade over the lower deck. Myles gently chastised his twin for hand-cranking when he could have simply swiped a sensor, to which Beckett responded bilingually that only a scritch-scritch-arrrrr would swipe when he could crank. It would seem to the casual or even professional observer that all was well in the Fowl Twins’ intrapersonal bubble, which it was, because Beckett had no time for the effects of trauma, while Myles was seeing a counselor for an hour every day in order to come to terms with the events of the past week. The counselor was, predictably, his own reflection in the bedroom window, which, in the right light, gave him a view of himself and the world beyond, in keeping with counselor objectives.