The Fowl Twins

by Eoin Colfer

  “Finally,” she said. “Where to?”

  “Far away from here,” said Myles. “But perhaps not too quickly. They will be expecting haste, and so we shall proceed at our leisure.”

  Lazuli felt as though she might foam at the mouth. Were all humans this frustrating?

  Beckett punched the air. “The Regrettables are on the move.”

  The Regrettables, thought Specialist Heitz. I couldn’t have said it better.

  The leisurely route chosen by Myles Fowl was for a self-driving electric SUV Uber, which pulled into the squat Collection Building adjacent to the EYE plinth precisely twelve minutes after it was summoned, and precisely two minutes before the Amsterdam police arrived from Centrum Jordaan to throw a cordon around the entire facility. Specialist Heitz did not bother to duck down in the rear seat, as the Tesla had smoked windows and she was too small to be seen out of them anyway. As soon as they were far away from the city center, past the beauty of its famous suburban network of tranquil canals and rolling fields of tulips that had so inspired the genius Vincent van Gogh, they pulled over behind a windmill typical of the region and gave their attention to another genius, one who was on his way to Mars.

  Myles projected the video file directly onto the windmill from his smart spectacles and the outer wall flickered like the screen in an old-time movie theater. Artemis Fowl the Second appeared on the whitewash and spoke to his brothers as though he were actually there with them and not traversing the more than thirty million miles between Earth and Mars. Of course, this video had been shot in Artemis’s own office before takeoff, so the picture was of the highest quality, though distorted somewhat by the curved wall.

  Artemis was no longer a child prodigy, having put his teen years behind him. He was now a young genius destined to change not just Earth but other worlds, too. He was sitting in his beloved Eames office chair wearing a lab coat buttoned up to his throat. As usual, his brow was knotted in a frown as he wrestled with some puzzle or other. In one of his rare interviews, Artemis had revealed to Time magazine, in his Man of the Year piece, that through meditation he had succeeded in harnessing his subconscious so that he could more efficiently work on projects while he slept, which, as the interviewer pointed out, subverted the entire point of meditation.

  But, on-screen, Artemis’s frown lines softened and he revealed a side of himself reserved for a very select few. His expression could almost be described as fond.

  “Myles and Beckett,” he said. “My brothers.”

  The twins responded as though they were part of a conversation.

  “Greetings from Earth, Dr. Fowl,” said Myles, using Artemis’s title, which had been earned three times over—at Trinity, UCLA, and, more recently, MIT, for astrophysics.

  “Hey, Arty,” said Beckett, ever more casual than either of his brothers. In fact, he was the only one to refer to their parents as Mum and Dad, as opposed to Artemis’s Mother and Father and Myles’s occasional Latin versions, Mater and Pater.

  Artemis’s smile widened as though he had heard the greetings; in reality, he had probably just anticipated them.

  “This erstwhile hidden video has been unlocked because NANNI’s facial-recognition software has scanned the features of a fairy,” explained the eldest Fowl brother. “Not a representation, but an actual fairy, which means that you have made contact with one of the People. In this case, a”—the video paused for a split second and NANNI inserted a scan of Lazuli’s head—“pixel,” continued Artemis. “How marvelous. I myself have never met a pixel.”

  “Her name is Lazuli, Arty,” said Beckett. “Like the precious stone.”

  “Semiprecious,” said Myles, for the sake of accuracy.

  “I could talk for hours about fairies and their magics,” said Artemis. “But in the interest of possible urgency, I will curtail my lecture….”

  “That’s a relief,” muttered Myles to Beckett. “You know how Artemis can jabber on.”

  Even Lazuli, who had only properly met Myles Fowl some hours previously, knew irony when she heard it, even in a foreign language.

  “All I will tell you now is what you absolutely need to know,” continued Artemis. “And you need to know that those stories I told you about the Fairy People are true. Every word. It is imperative that you trust the fairy folk. The Fowls have long been friends to the People.” Artemis clasped his hands together in imitation of a handshake. “Fowl and fairy, friends forever.”

  “Also, sharing is caring,” said Beckett.

  “So, if a fairy needs assistance, it is your duty to pro-vide it.”

  “We’re already doing that, Artemis,” said Myles. Then: “Honestly, if this is the short version—”

  “Also, it is vital that you are aware of another fact,” said Artemis. “Some years ago, you were both possessed by the ghosts of dead fairies, so it is possible that a remnant of magic lingers in your systems. This magic could theoretically manifest itself in any number of ways.”

  Beckett froze like he’d been fossilized, his eyes wide.

  “Did Artemis just say we’re superheroes?” he breathed after a stunned moment.

  “It could be nothing,” said Artemis. “And you’re certainly not any kind of superheroes, but if anything strange happens, keep an account, and then try to re-create the manifestation under laboratory conditions.”

  Beckett decided that the only word he would take from that sentence would be superheroes.

  “I knew it!” he said. “We’re superheroes. And we already have a team name: the Regrettables.”

  “Your plan of action,” continued Artemis, “should be to get the fairy and yourselves somewhere safe, and then study the rest of the videos in this unlocked folder at your leisure, as the information contained therein will doubtless save your lives.”

  “Therein?” Myles said with a snort. “Where are we? Medieval England?”

  On-screen, a blocky shadow grew an arm and beckoned. And Lazuli saw that what she had assumed to be an enormous cabinet was actually an enormous human.

  That must be the famous Butler, she realized. The human who could best a troll. A regular-size troll.

  “Coming, Butler,” said Artemis, then he leaned in close to the camera so his pale face filled the screen.

  “The Red Planet beckons, brothers,” he said. “I must be away. Take care of yourselves and your new friend. And get a message to me as soon as you can, because I do worry.”

  Myles rolled his eyes. “Artemis is so emotional.”

  “If history has taught us anything,” said Artemis, “it is that Earth always needs saving, and it is usually a Fowl who saves it. This might very well be your turn.”

  “We can do it, Arty,” said Beckett. “The Regrettables save the day.”

  “I know you can do it,” concluded Artemis. “Good-bye and good luck.”

  “Good-bye, Doctor,” said Myles. “And good luck to you.”

  The video disappeared, leaving just the Fowl OX system logo on the wall.

  “Well,” said Myles brightly, “that was long-winded. But Artemis was correct in that our first order of business is to get somewhere safe.”

  “No,” said Lazuli, pulling the troll from inside her green tunic. “First we need to release this poor troll.”

  “About that,” said Myles. “When we do release the troll, how calm is he likely to be?”

  “Calm?” said Lazuli. “Trolls are not known for their calm, but we might be able to restrain him, between the three of us. At worst one might be partially eaten while the other two escape.”

  “Partially eaten, you say, mademoiselle?” said Myles. “Just how much trouble can one tiny troll be?”

  “Pound for pound, trolls are the third-strongest creatures on the planet, after dung beetles and rhinoceros beetles. Full-grown trolls have been known to take on entire prides of lions. This toy troll could, theoretically, reduce our vehicle to slivers of twisted metal.”

  Myles swallowed, imagining the Tesla torn asunder, but Bec
kett was not the least bit nervous.

  “Don’t worry about Whistle Blower,” he said. “I’ll talk to him.”

  His brother’s typical confidence did little to reassure Myles that they would not all be torn to pieces the very second Whistle Blower was unbound.

  “I suggest, Specialist,” he said, “that we find a distraction to occupy the little fellow’s mind when we release him.”

  “Agreed,” said Lazuli. She looked around. “Fortunately, there are cows nearby if things get out of hand.”

  Myles had a queasy certainty about what would happen to the livestock. “Very well. Then let us proceed.”

  Lazuli laid Whistle Blower on the grass and poked the cellophane. “Does your huge intellect know how we remove this coating from around the troll?”

  Myles did not need to consult NANNI for this information, as he made it his business to stay abreast of the latest technological developments, even for weapons used by those on the wrong side of the law.

  “I believe we are dealing with what is known in criminal parlance as a shrink-wrapper, or CV slug. One of Ishi Myishi’s best-selling nonlethal projectiles. Usually fired from gas-powered weapons and activated on impact by an electric charge supplied by a tiny battery in the shell. They are the chosen weapon of the new millennium’s discerning poacher.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know what year this Myishi person’s grandmother was born?” asked Lazuli, growing impatient with the Fowl boy’s penchant for extended lectures. “Or whether or not he has any pets?”

  Beckett snickered. “Pets. Nice one, Laser.”

  “The cocoon is usually stripped away in a vat of an acetone solution, which renders the cellophane brittle,” continued Myles, accustomed to his presentations being interrupted.

  “I’m presuming you can rig something, boy?” said Lazuli. “Your super-duper spectacles don’t have any acetone in them, I suppose?”

  “No acetone,” said Myles. “But perhaps one might improvise.”

  Five minutes later, they were in position. Beckett was extremely comfortable in this position, as it involved dangling from the windmill’s crossed diagonal ceiling beams, while the toy troll was laid out on the compacted clay floor fifteen feet below. Myles was less comfortable, as he was an enthusiastic member of the small club of eleven-year-olds who enjoyed neither heights nor climbing. In fact, the one and only T-shirt Myles had ever owned had borne the legend DEATH BEFORE JUNGLE GYMS. And Myles had insisted on wearing it to activity classes in kindergarten—over his suit jacket, obviously.

  Lazuli was also feeling anxious, but it had nothing to do with heights. If anything, she would prefer to be higher, and thus farther away from the little troll. She had tackled a few toy trolls in simulations and had always ended up the worse for wear, virtually speaking. Trolls would generally not kill another fairy, but this one had been assaulted and had probably been fuming inside his cellophane cocoon for the past few hours. But she had no choice but to release him. Her duty to the troll was paramount, and the cellophane wrap was squeezing him to death.

  “If this scheme works—” she began.

  “Of course it will work,” Myles interrupted, irritated by the fairy’s lack of faith. “Do you not remember the harbor? Do you not remember the double twin swap? My ideas always work. It is the very essence of my personality.”

  “When this scheme works,” said Lazuli, to keep the peace, “the troll will probably throw a major tantrum and hammer on the walls a little. After that, he will hopefully wander outside and hide until dark and then forage for food. With any luck, my circuits will have regrown by then and I’ll be able to call for backup.”

  Myles was interested in spite of a sudden onset of vertigo. “Your circuits can regrow? Your society has developed sophisticated bioelectronics?”

  “Yes,” said Lazuli. “And outdoor toilets. Now, can we please get on with it? I believe we are fugitives. And this area will not stay deserted forever.”

  “Very well,” said Myles, and he tapped the arm of his spectacles.

  “Proceed with Operation: Freedom Troll,” he said with some chagrin; Beckett had insisted they name the procedure.

  “Very well, Myles,” said NANNI. “Operation: Freedom Troll is a go. Stay completely still.”

  Artemis had built a laser pointer into Myles’s spectacles, but the presentation tool was not of industrial strength, as he did not consider death lasers suitable add-ons to an eleven-year-old’s eyewear. Myles had thought it hilarious that his criminal-mastermind big brother was attempting to police him, and he immediately set to upgrading his laser. It had taken Myles barely an afternoon to hack the spectacles and add a 3-D-printed lens no thicker than a human hair, which allowed him to both perform laser eye surgery on himself and focus the beam to such an extent that it could burn through sheet steel or scorch a stone target if need be. But the ten kilojoules needed per burst would generally require a power source the size of a baby elephant. Luckily, Myles had managed to squeeze that amount of energy into a tiny battery/super-capacitor combo, but after this shot, there would be no more lasers without a long recharge.

  Myles lay flat on his stomach on the intersection of two ancient wooden beams, pointing his spectacles at Whistle Blower on the ground directly below. He was loath to cede control of any operation, but in this instance he left the calculations to NANNI, as he found that even with his perfect lasered eyesight, his best guess for distances was usually accurate to the nearest centimeter only. An operation like this required millimeter accuracy. The Artificial Intelligence mapped the troll’s frame, figuring the minimum burn required to completely collapse the cellophane cocoon.

  “In three…” she said to Myles, a countdown flashing on his lens.

  Myles took a deep breath and stayed absolutely still, hoping that the centuries-old beams would not shift under their weight.

  “Two…” said NANNI. Then, obviously: “One…”

  Myles saw a red flash out of the corner of his left eye, heard a sizzle, and then it was over.

  It seemed to the three beam-bound fugitives that nothing much had happened. A small wisp of acrid smoke wafted from Whistle Blower’s midsection, but the cocoon seemed intact.

  “Wait for it,” said NANNI, and five seconds later the cellophane skin split down the middle and Whistle Blower was hatched into the world.

  “Nobody move,” said Lazuli.

  Nobody did move, including the troll, who, it seemed, was asleep.

  “Vitals?” asked Myles.

  “Steady,” replied NANNI. “Relaxed heart rate. I detect a chloroform-based compound in the sheath, which suggests the troll is slightly sedated.”

  Myles relayed this information, and Lazuli nodded. “Makes sense. I have never even heard of a troll being this calm. They are light sleepers and react to the slightest stimulus.”

  Beckett was bored. “Hey!” he called down to the toy troll. “Come on, Whistle Blower, let’s get going. Hey, sleepyhead!”

  Lazuli could not believe what she was hearing. “Quiet, human! Never startle a troll.”

  Beckett, who was straddling a wooden beam in the windmill, locked his ankles and inverted himself, his arms dangling toward the ground. “I find in these situations that the direct approach is best.”

  “These situations?” hissed Lazuli. “You’ve been in these situations?”

  Myles pleaded with his brother. “Beck, come back up,” he said. “This isn’t one of your talking-with-the-animals games.”

  Beckett winked at his brother, which looked a little weird upside down. “Everything is a game, brother.” And he reached over and tugged off Myles’s shoe.

  “Don’t do that,” said Myles. “Beckett, don’t.”

  “Don’t do what?” asked Lazuli, hoping she was wrong about what she guessed the human was about to do.

  She was not wrong. Beckett closed one eye, took aim, and dropped the shoe toward Whistle Blower.

  Myles saw the shoe land squarely on Whistle Blower’s c
hest, or rather he anticipated it landing on the troll’s chest, for that was not what actually happened. What did actually happen was that both of the troll’s hands whipped up and caught the shoe, which was as big as his torso, and, with little apparent effort, disemboweled it of tongue and laces. For good measure, he stuffed those pieces in his mouth.

  “That shoe was military grade,” said Myles weakly. “Kevlar and rubber. You couldn’t cut that with a band saw. Have you any idea how many pounds of force it would take to rip that shoe apart?”

  Lazuli realized that Myles was babbling, but she did not want Myles to stop talking, as his voice distracted her from thoughts of their immediate future now that the troll had been more or less attacked by a human.

  The toy troll opened his tiny eyes, and there was a lot more menace in them than one might think could fit into such small orbs. The teeth also were not friendly.

  “He’s fine,” said Beckett. “I’m grumpy when I wake up, too.”

  But this was more than simple grumpiness. The troll chewed Myles’s deceased sneaker’s parts into a stringy mush and spat it into the air, which was a bad move, because gravity caused the black mush to reverse its path and land with a bird-poo-type splat on his own forehead.

  Beckett laughed. “I’m always doing that with toothpaste,” he said.

  The boy’s laugh galvanized the troll. He leaped to his feet, wiping the mess from his forehead, and unleashed a long undulating howl that reminded Myles of the lead singer in a heavy metal band he had once been forced to listen to in an attempt to make a friend. That friendship did not make it past recess, and it seemed as though this one might not survive the howling stage, either.

  “That’s right, Whistle Blower,” said Beckett. “Give me something to work with.”

  “Your brother is remarkably calm,” said Lazuli, wishing her wings were operational instead of scrolled inside her rig. Trolls couldn’t fly, but they could jump to remarkable heights.

  “Beckett is generally calm. Infuriatingly so on several occasions most days.”

  As if to belie Myles’s words, Beckett actually snapped at his twin: “Quiet, brother! I am trying to work here.”