by Eoin Colfer
Myles saw the duke approaching through the throngs of buzzing, beeping, and whirring robots and could not help but be impressed by the sheer volume of the little machines. The duke must have forked over a pretty penny to Ishi Myishi for the metallic swarm, which split like a theater curtain to allow their human master access to Myles Fowl and his bedraggled band.
Once Lord Teddy was standing about twenty feet away from Myles, he stopped. His hair had settled somewhat, and he seemed like a man in charge again, which, in his opinion, he was.
“And so here we are again, dear boy,” he said to Myles. “Don’t you find these confrontations tiresome?”
“Usually I would,” said Myles, the brightness of his tone belying the barbed twists of anxiety in his gut. “But this one is so entertaining. I have never been threatened by garden implements before.” Myles pointed to a beetle-shaped robot right in front of him. “Is this a hair dryer?”
“Indeed, it is. Very powerful action, in fact. I shall probably use that one to blow your remains into this blowhole.”
“Very droll,” said Myles, and, to give himself a moment to think, he picked another robot to insult. “And that lawn mower—shall it be giving our troll friend a haircut?”
Lord Teddy wiggled a combination of fingers and lawn-mower blades slid out from underneath the machine and whirred vertically.
“Perhaps,” said Lord Teddy. “But this little fellow also does hedges. And kneecaps.”
Myles winced, as anyone in their right mind would when their kneecaps were threatened.
“There’s no call for that kind of talk, surely, Your Grace,” he said. “A gentleman does not threaten violence.”
“This one does,” said Teddy, and he flexed his fingers so that the sights of every single drone and land-bound robot focused on Myles’s head. “And more than threaten. I guarantee it.”
Myles closed his eyes against the glare and wished that perhaps Lazuli would recover sufficiently for a second display of her newfound magic. But it seemed that there would be no assistance. Beckett and Whistle Blower were prone in the mud, and, judging by her sky-blue pallor, Lazuli was fit for little more than a spell in a hospital bed hooked up to various drips.
“I have a proposition for you,” continued the duke, “though there really is no incentive for me to offer terms. But I am, as you say, a gentleman. Give me the troll and whatever that blue thing is, and I will kill only you. For now, at least. Your brother may leave unharmed. Physically unharmed, that is. I imagine the sight of his twin being cut in two by lasers might scar his psyche somewhat.”
The knot of anxiety in Myles’s belly tightened. “Those are hardly favorable terms, Your Grace.”
Bleedham-Drye shrugged. “They are what they are. You have ten seconds to decide.”
Beckett chose this moment to get involved. “Five seconds,” he said, jumping to his feet.
“Beck, please,” said Myles. “This is a life-or-death situation.”
“Four,” said Beckett, counting down on his fingers.
“I am a man of my word,” said Lord Teddy. “So I’ll see your four seconds and double them.”
“Three,” said Beckett, peering into the blowhole.
Myles felt as though a serpent were constricting his intestines. “This is not helpful, Beckett.”
“Ooh,” said Whistle Blower, joining his human friend at the chasm’s edge.
The duke blinked. “Did that thing just say ‘two’?”
“One,” said Beckett, and he jumped into the blowhole.
The troll went with him.
All this jumping off and into things, thought the duke. But this time, unlike Myles Fowl, Teddy Bleedham-Drye knew what was going on. This was his island, after all.
He flicked the safeties on his glove controls and shrugged the strap off his shoulder, pumped a cartridge into the shotgun’s chamber, and waited.
A moment later, there came a rumbling as a wave passed below the rock shelf and powered up through the fissure.
“Ha!” said Lord Teddy. “Do you really think I haven’t ridden the water chutes on St. George, Myles? I used to do it for fun. My own dear pater would toss me into blowholes to toughen me up when I was five.”
Myles understood then what Beckett was attempting, but he also realized that, for Teddy, this was the equivalent of target practice.
Beck and Whistle Blower are little more than clay pigeons, he thought.
“Pull!” cried Lord Teddy, and, right on cue, a water spout erupted from the newly bored blowhole, and with it came Beckett and Whistle Blower. They were borne high into the air before they disengaged from the salt water and engaged with the nearest drone. If a chap hadn’t been expecting the move, then it might have been effective, but Lord Teddy was prepared to sacrifice a few drones in order to immobilize the jumpy Fowl boy and his pet.
“Die, evil drone!” cried Beckett as he pounced on the nearest flying robot. It dipped under his weight, rotors whining, then fizzled out altogether as Beckett yanked out its engine wires like entrails. Whistle Blower performed much the same action on not one but three drones, springing from one smoking machine to another, relishing the destructive acts.
“By Jove!” exclaimed the duke. “They are agile blighters, are they not?” He laughed. “This is most entertaining, dear boy, but time’s a-wasting….”
And, taking casual aim, the duke blasted off two shells, nailing both his moving targets in the space of perhaps two seconds. It was marksmanship at a most impressive standard. Beckett plopped to the ground at his brother’s feet, his impact cushioned by the wobbling blob of cellophane that had wrapped around him, restricting his movements. Whistle Blower fell on top of his friend, which was perhaps fitting, and their cellophane blobs blended so that boy and troll shared a single prison.
“Bull’s-eye!” crowed the duke, but, in true aristocratic form, he limited his celebration to this single outburst before shouldering the weapon, reactivating his glove remotes and returning to the business at hand.
“The troll I will keep,” he said to Myles. “But your brother goes down the blowhole, and you, dear boy, will follow shortly thereafter. As for the fairy, I do believe I shall harvest her organs for study.”
This casual declaration of murderous intent turned Myles’s blood to ice and it was all he could do to stay on his feet. Mortality, it seemed, was about to come calling. No time-stops. No counting to ten. Dead forever.
He will kill us without remorse, thought Myles, and unlike during previous near-death escapades, he had time for the notion to sink in. Dear Specialist Heitz and charming little Whistle Blower will be mere lab rats. And it’s all my fault.
Myles saw the pain on his brother’s face as the cellophane began squeezing, and the expression broke his young heart.
If I do one thing before I die, it will be to relieve Beck’s suffering.
But how to achieve this humanitarian objective?
Myles thought back to the two lemons who had been shrink-wrapped in the shower room. Steam from Lance’s lance had distended the cellophane. He did not have steam at hand, but perhaps he had a substitute.
Myles eyed the hair dryer that was mounted on a small cherry-picker-type platform, possibly so it could dry the duke’s beard while he walked.
I have a more noble use for you, little fellow, he thought, snatching the hair dryer from its clamps. He flicked the switch and stuck the nozzle into the cellophane, wiggling it through so the hot air could create an air pocket between Beckett and Whistle Blower. Almost immediately the cellophane wrap expanded, various bubbles and blisters appearing on its surface and magnifying Beckett’s features. Whistle Blower clawed at a thin-skinned blister until he managed to open an airhole.
Myles dropped to his knees, stretching the hole till Beckett’s face appeared. Unfortunately, it was impossible for him to remove more of the cellophane, for it was too tightly wrapped.
“Beck, are you hurt?”
Beckett drew a deep breath, then smiled
. “I counted, did you see? I did a Myles thing.”
“I saw,” said Myles. “That was clever. I wouldn’t have thought of it.”
Beckett disagreed. “It wasn’t clever. It was stupid. But I thought to myself, Myles has a plan, so all he needs is time. We bought you some.”
“You did,” said Myles, thinking that it was too late now for his plan.
“It’s time for brains now,” said Beckett, wriggling his hand through the hole. “Go use yours, brother.”
“I will,” said Myles, trying not to weep.
“Wrist bump?” said Beckett.
“Always,” said Myles, and they did their signature move, which was touching, but also more gross than usual because of the slime coating both of them.
That is possibly our final wrist bump, thought Myles as he stood to face the duke and his army of killer drones.
Lazuli had never in all her life felt this wretched. She was so nauseated that it did not seem possible she would ever recover. Even as her spine shuddered and her stomach convulsed, Lazuli felt there was more at play here than simple biliousness. She had to be changing at a molecular level. And it wasn’t just her goblin DNA revealing itself. Her magic had finally surfaced, and, in all likelihood, she would not live to take advantage of it. If the spasms didn’t kill her, then the human with his murderous machines would. Somewhere in her subconscious, where rational thought had taken refuge while her body dealt with the illness, Lazuli knew what was happening: late-onset magical warp spasm. It was rare but not unheard of for a hybrid’s magic to manifest in times of extreme stress. It was also not unheard of for the hybrid’s antibodies to violently reject the magic, which could literally tear her apart. At the very least, Lazuli knew she belonged in a hospital under observation from a warlock who specialized in cases like hers.
I am in for a rough few days, she thought. And then: If any of us live for a few days, which is unlikely.
Her angel had once told her: If your magic ever shows up, Specialist, it will have a mind of its own. Think of magic like a symbiote who is desperate to survive. If you are born magical, you learn to control it naturally, but if it manifests late in life, it’s like suddenly having an extra arm flailing about on your chest.
Lazuli understood that now. When the fire had burst forth from her mouth, she had felt as though it had been a part of her but certainly not belonging to her.
And now her vision turned orange again, and her breath made the air shimmer.
The magic protects itself, she realized, and suddenly she was standing up beside the Fowl boy, preparing for the fight.
What do I do? she wondered. How do I turn it on?
If the magic could have answered, it would have said: Leave that part to me.
Lord Bleedham-Drye realized that, while the odds were with him, he did not have the higher ground, which any chap with ten minutes of battle time under his belt knew was advantageous in a fight. In this particular case, the higher ground would facilitate his murder of the Fowl boy without having to damage the troll, and so, while Myles Fowl was fussing over his brother with a hair dryer, he guided one of Myishi’s more robust drones to land before him, and he pushed his feet into the adapted ski clamps on its back until he heard them click.
This was the first time Lord Teddy had used this particular tool, and he was pleasantly surprised that the platform drone lifted off smoothly, just as Myishi had assured him it would, bearing his weight without any discernible stress on the rotors.
You never let me down, Myishi, he thought, grinning tightly. It was not what could be described as a happy grin—more the grin that might be observed on the chops of a wolf with the scent of blood in his nostrils.
He noticed that the little blue fairy had stumbled to her feet and was shaking like a newborn deer. Lord Teddy decided that on second thought it was probably best to put the creature down. She doubtless had people who would come looking for her.
He held down the voice-control button under his left thumb. “All eyes,” he said to his robotic minions.
Over a hundred laser dots painted Myles Fowl and his blue friend the deep red color of fresh blood, and Lord Teddy realized that this moment right now was the most supervillain moment of his entire life.
He held down the voice-command button again. “All video drones record a three-D virtual package and live-stream it to Myishi. Old Ishi will be so proud. He might even use this video on his website.”
This command he would come to regret.
Myles had only one card to play, and that card was no longer up his sleeve. In fact, he had played it several hours ago, shortly after arriving on St. George, and it seemed now in retrospect that his gambit had been a rash waste of resources. He knew instinctively that the duke had finished monologuing and was on the point of obliterating him utterly. Judging by the sheer volume of weaponized drones and robots pointing their business ends in his direction, there wouldn’t be enough left of him to bury. He would be little more than dust to blow out to sea and perhaps drift into space.
I will be one with the universe, he thought. And then: But I would prefer to be one with my own body.
The duke had not, in fact, finished with his gloating monologuing and had two words left in his speech. And those words were:
“Good-bye, Fowl,” he said, and positioned his forefinger over the appropriate buttons to send the fire all command.
If Myles had not been the one on the receiving end of an imminent bloody homicide, he might have appreciated the spectacle. A swarm of airborne death-dealing machines arranged in a semicircle before the foreboding mansion, controlled by their hovering master. In fact, it would have been an almost perfect gothic tableau had the duke been wearing a billowing cape instead of a bathrobe and striped swimming costume.
The fire all command was a combination order so that it could not be sent accidentally. First, Lord Teddy held down the prime button with his forefinger, and then he swiped his thumb across a small track pad. This second motion was not really intuitive, and Teddy had meant to program in his own shortcut, but he had never gotten around to it, which was why he pressed too hard on the first try and had to attempt it again.
Note to self, he thought. Check with Myishi to see if I am eligible for a controller upgrade.
For Lazuli, the world turned liquid orange, as though her helmet had dropped its glare filter. But this was no filter—it was her magic running on autopilot. Lazuli was in mortal danger, and the magic rose in her as a fiery life preserver. And before Lord Teddy had time for a second swipe, Lazuli opened her mouth and unleashed a firebolt that melted the shells and workings of a dozen drones. She then turned her attention to the ground forces and bathed the electronic land troops in intense blue-white flame. The robots’ metal carapaces buckled and clanged, their plates warping and splitting, some flipping entirely and others collapsing sadly on themselves, belching smoke from their innards. Once Lazuli’s magic had cleared the ground forces, it turned itself on the prime danger: the Duke of Scilly.
Lord Teddy was forced to bank right on his airborne platform to avoid being caught in the inferno and could only watch as his metallic minions were carbonized by the intense flame. Suddenly his goal became survival rather than conquest. This is not to say that Teddy panicked, for he did not. The duke’s life had been threatened on numerous occasions over the years, and he had discovered that he could, as Kipling said, keep his head while all around were losing theirs. In fact, his senses became somewhat sharpened in a fray, and though he did not realize it, his lips drew back from his teeth and his eyes widened, giving him something of a sharklike appearance. Right now he was a flying shark being pursued by a column of fire while being rained on by metallic shards that scorched his skin as they landed. Things rarely ended well for flying sharks.
Teddy pulled a sharp right, as though he were surfing an invisible wave, and managed to escape a scythe of flame with only a lick on his heel, which burned away his riding boot and caused a dozen tiny heat blisters
to rise and pop.
It’s the end of you, Teddy old chap, he thought.
But it wasn’t, because just like that, the assault was over.
MAGIC makes harsh demands on the bodies of its hosts, draining their reserves of glucose, glycogen, and fat, in that order. If a fairy pushes too far, the body will simply shut down for recuperation. All of a sudden, the host is overcome with an incredible fatigue that will pull the rug out from under their consciousness. And because she had precisely one minute’s worth of magic experience under her belt, this is exactly what happened to Specialist Heitz. One moment she was blasting glorious roiling pillars of fire to the heavens, and the next her body said Night-night and she toppled over with smoke wafting from her pores. It was only an uncommonly and uncharacteristically quick reaction from Myles Fowl that prevented her from tumbling into the blowhole. Myles had no time to catch Specialist Heitz, so he bodychecked her away from the sinkhole and was forced to pinwheel his arms to avoid falling in himself.
Myles and Lord Teddy righted themselves at roughly the same time. Lord Teddy’s cool head had increased in temperature, as it were, so that now he was entirely hotheaded and had reverted to his previous plan of blowing Myles Fowl and his darned coterie to hell, or at least wiping them off the face of the earth. Myles, for his part, could not think of a single thing to do other than not give this monster of a man the satisfaction of begging for his life. His comrades had bought him every second of time that could be reasonably expected of them, and now he had to accept these facts:
1. His plan had not worked, and…
2. Sometimes being a genius would not get the job done if a person made bad choices.
Lord Teddy steadied himself on his hovering platform. His face was blazing with rage and his foot was also ablaze with second-degree burns. Any slightly comedic aspect his appearance may have presented mere seconds ago had completely vanished. Now the duke was bloody-minded and prepared for war, and his thunderous expression reflected as much.