First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

Published in this ebook edition in 2020

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Text copyright © Eoin Colfer 2020

Cover illustration © Petur Antonsson

Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Eoin Colfer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Source ISBN: 9780008324865

Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008324889

Version: 2020-09-30

Praise for the Fowl Twins:

‘Lots of high-tech gadgetry, thrilling danger and unexpected turns as Eoin Colfer delivers his distinctive brand of mayhem. Don’t miss it’

Mail

‘Colfer is a hugely entertaining writer who unravels his plot at breakneck speed while never stinting on the detail’

Telegraph

‘Colfer’s playfulness is in full swing’

Observer

‘A highly entertaining ride’

Bookseller

For twins everywhere

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for the Fowl Twins:

Dedication

Need to Know

1. Why Artemis is an Idiot

2. Sky-High Lazuli

3. Deliveroo

4. The Wrist Bump

5. The Parting Ritual

6. The Rat or the Scar

7. Separation Anxiety

8. Just Spitballing Here

9. The Irish Backstop Backstory

10. The Pipsqueak

11. Flashcon

12. No Innocent Humans

13. Imminent Death

14. Noughts and Crosses

15. Blood on the Rocks

16. Silly Troll

17. Stay Cool

18. A Toxic Relationship

19. Dwelf Arrival

Epilogue

Epilogue Postscript

Keep Reading …

Books by Eoin Colfer

About the Publisher

MOST FAIRIES ARE FAMILIAR WITH THE NAME Artemis Fowl. In fact, the young human’s exploits are referenced in a cautionary nursery rhyme taught in fairy preschools. The most famous version of the rhyme goes like this:

Never fall foul

Of Artemis Fowl,

For wise as an owl

Is he.

He wrestled a troll

And stole fairy gold,

Then frightened

The LEP.

Commander Trouble Kelp of the Lower Elements Police once petitioned, at an education summit, to have this rhyme removed from the curriculum on the grounds that:

1 It had not, in fact, been Artemis Fowl who’d wrestled the troll, but rather his bodyguard, Butler (see LEP file: Artemis Fowl).

2 There was only anecdotal evidence to support the claim that the LEP had been frightened at the Fowl Manor siege. Some of the operatives had been slightly anxious perhaps, but hardly frightened, and (Trouble was really grasping at straws here) …

3 According to zoologists, owls are really not so wise, and are actually less trainable than common pigeons, so it is factually incorrect to present the owl as a symbol of wisdom.

This argument drew, appropriately enough, hoots of laughter from the assembly.

Unfortunately for Commander Kelp, he himself was obliged to recite the rhyme as part of his petition, and by the second line the entire congress was reciting it along with him. Shortly thereafter, much to the commander’s irritation, a show of hands dictated that the Artemis Fowl nursery rhyme remain on the school syllabus.

And, while it was true that Artemis Fowl’s first interaction with the fairy folk had been less than auspicious, it had at least prompted the Council to push through updates to their security protocols, including the lifting of a centuries-old hex forbidding fairies to enter human dwellings uninvited, and the striking of a law requiring them to carry a copy of the Fairy Book at all times. Even so, there was many a relieved mutter when Artemis and his bodyguard, Butler, embarked on a five-year scientific expedition to Mars, with one indiscreet Council member (who forgot to turn off her microphone after an interview) quipping that she felt ‘sorry for any aliens out there who might cross the Fowl boy’s path’, which was a little harsh considering Artemis had saved the entire world from the megalomaniacal pixie, Opal Koboi, temporarily sacrificing his own life in the process.

But, as is often the case when one criminal mastermind launches himself into space, there is another ready to take his place, and in this instance the replacement mastermind was Artemis’s own younger brother Myles, who was, if anything, even more condescending towards the world than Artemis had been when he lived in it. On Myles’s blog, Myles to Go, he regularly disparaged noted scientists with comments like:

Leonardo knew about as much about flying machines as I know about boy bands.

Or:

Regarding Einstein’s devotion to the big-bang theory, please. His version of the theory has more hypotheticals than the televisual show of the same name and is almost as funny.

This comment did not endear him to Albert Einstein’s legions of fans.

He also skewered humanity in general on the blog, through a series of editorials, including the scathing ‘Dear Internet: One Billion Hysterical Opinions Do Not Carry the Weight of a Single Fact’.

The comments following this article ran into the tens of thousands, without one smiley face in the bunch.

Fortunately for social media’s blood pressure, Myles’s acerbic nature was tempered somewhat by the presence of his twin brother, Beckett, who was of a sunnier disposition. Or, as Myles often put it: ‘Where I see the dispersion of light in water droplets, Beck sees a rainbow.’ Though he could never stop himself from qualifying this remark with, ‘Although anyone who has so much as flipped through a meteorology text can tell you that there is no bow involved.’ This remark demonstrated that Myles Fowl had about as much of a sense of humour as a Vulcan, and that he was possibly in the top five per cent of smug people on the planet and in the top one per cent of smug twelve-year-olds overall.

Beckett was, in many respects, his sibling’s total opposite and, had they not been related, it seemed unlikely that they would have enjoyed each other’s company, but in the way of twins the boys loved and protected each other even unto death, and occasionally beyond.

For Beckett’s part, he safeguarded Myles using his physicality, a sphere in which Myles had about as much prowess as a piece of sod; he was forever tripping over footpaths and falling up stairs, which is almost a skill. On one occasion, a group of Albert Einstein devotees rushed Myles at the school gate, brandishing hardback copies of The Meaning of Relativity, and Beckett dispatched them by stuffing several sticks of gum into his mouth and cartwheeling towards them while chewing noisily. He did this because Myles had once told him that people with high IQs tend to suffer from misophonia, which is a visceral reaction to certain sounds, the number-one culprit being loud chewing. Beckett’s gum trick sent the Einstein disciples packing, but it also disoriented Myles, who walked into a gate and had to have stitches in his forehead as a result. So a mixed outcome all in all.

Beckett was an inherent optimist and saw the good in every person and the beauty in every blade of grass. He was also somewhat of a savant when it came to acrobatics and could easily have led a circus troupe, had he so wished. This skill translated neatly to combat situations. For instance, Beckett had mastered the infamous cluster punch, which most martial-arts masters did not even believe existed. The beauty of the cluster punch was that it temporarily paralysed the victim without causing any real pain. This particular talent was one that Beckett could expect to use often, considering the family to which he belonged. In fact, the Fowl twin kept a tally of his victories, and by his reckoning he had, to date, incapacitated twenty-seven special-forces officers, eleven burglars, a small carful of clowns, six drunken Dublin men who had swum out to the Fowls’ Dalkey Island residence after a stag night, five bullies whom he caught picking on smaller children, three big-game poachers and, in a display of cosmic humour, an intrusive journalist named Partridge who had concealed himself in a pear tree.

Myles, on the other hand, had never actually landed a real blow on an enemy, though he did once manage to punch himself in the buttock during a wrestling session with his brother and had been known to accidentally tie his own shoelaces together. Myles solved the shoelace problem simply by wearing leather loafers whenever possible, which nicely complemented his trademark black suits, and he solved the buttock problem by resolving never to throw a punch again, unless Beckett’s life depended on it.

In the past year, the Fowl Twins had initiated what had come to be known in LEP files as the Second Cycle of Modern Fowl Adventures. Modern because the archives did contain several mentions of Myles and Beckett’s ancestors and their People-related shenanigans. So far, the twins had managed to rescue a miniature troll named Whistle Blower from a certain Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye, the Duke of Scilly, who intended to extract the troll’s venom, which, under strict laboratory conditions, could be used to extend a human’s life span. (More on that reprehensible individual later.) The boys were also instrumental in the partial crippling of ACRONYM, a shadowy intergovernmental organisation whose mission was to hunt down fairies using any possible means, the less humane the better, and in doing so Myles and Beckett put themselves squarely in the sights of the fairy Lower Elements Police, who had assigned Lazuli Heitz, a pixie-elf hybrid, or pixel, as Fowl Ambassador. Myles was perfectly aware that the pixel actually served as a parole officer of sorts, whereas Beckett didn’t care what Lazuli’s job was; he was simply delighted to have a new blue friend.

As we join the twins, it is the summer of their thirteenth year; that is to say they are twelve, and the boys have completed their primary-education cycle. Myles has also recently been conferred a doctorate in biology from University College Dublin, writing his thesis on the theory that the womb’s amniotic fluid can act as a shared brain between multiple babies, which would go some way towards explaining the bonds between many twins, while Beckett has finally managed to finish reading his first chapter book, entitled Alien Pooping Boy. Beckett admired this alien boy’s ability to poop through his finger, a talent that cracked up the blond twin each time he read about it. Beckett had sworn a vow that Alien Pooping Boy was the only book he would ever read unless the publisher released a sequel. He had even written an email to the publishing house in which he suggested the title for any second book should be Alien Pooping Boy Goes Number Two, which Myles had to admit was in keeping with the spirit of the first novel.

It would seem to the casual or even deliberate observer of LEP surveillance logs that the Fowl Twins had been following predictable behaviour patterns for the past several months with only minor deviations from their submitted timetables. These deviations could easily be explained by various family-related or after-school activities. For instance, the logs showed that Myles gave lectures at a coding dojo on the mainland, while Beckett attended an actual dojo, where he quickly rose to the top of the student heap. That is not a metaphor: Beckett piled the other students in a wriggling heap, then climbed to the top while singing ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’, which was one of his mother’s favourite songs.

But, even though the twins strayed from their daily paths occasionally, not once did they try to insert themselves in fairy affairs, nor did they ever miss a FaceTime debriefing with their fairy parole officer. Lazuli Heitz was so happy with their behaviour that she even arranged for a magical healing of the handprint scar tissue on Myles’s chest that she had accidentally inflicted on him. It was the least she could do, as in many ways Myles and Beckett were model prisoners.

Because, in fact, that is exactly what Myles and Beckett were: models.

NINE THOUSAND METRES OVER
THE ATLANTIC

MOST FLIGHT REGULATIONS DO NOT ALLOW children to fly planes on transatlantic routes. This is an eminently sensible rule, as young people in general do not have the temperament or training required to pilot a flying machine between continents. Not only that but juveniles typically lack the length of limb to reach either the pedals below or the array of controls overhead. Myles Fowl solved these problems simply by rerouting the controls of the Fowl Tachyon’s ecofriendly power-to-liquid (or PTL) jet fuel to his mobile phone and sitting on a booster seat in the cockpit so he could see out of the smart shield. Each time he strapped himself into the pilot’s chair, Myles looked forward to the day when his adolescent growth spurt would arrive and he no longer required the booster. Using the family’s genetic history and a personal growth chart, he calculated that this spurt should commence in six hundred and thirty days at midnight, give or take thirty minutes.

Beckett served as copilot, and he solved the pedals issue by wearing a pair of 1970s platform shoes that the online vendor Rocketman1972 had sworn once belonged to Elton John. Beckett overcame the controls problem by flicking the required switches with a long-handled reacher/grabber that he’d borrowed from the garden shed.

None of these workarounds were strictly necessary, as the Nano Artificial Neural Network Intelligence system, or NANNI, inhabiting Myles’s graphene smart eyeglasses could have flown the jet more competently than any top-gun pilot. But the twins enjoyed the experience, so NANNI had promised not to interfere unless the jet went into a steep nosedive, something that happened more often than one might think, especially when Beckett grew bored.

As the Fowl Tachyon passed over the emerald green of Cuba far below, Myles relinquished the jet’s controls to Beckett, who was without question the more intuitive pilot of the two, and launched into the latest in his ongoing series of lectures on his favourite subject, that being ‘Why Our Brother, Artemis, Is An Idiot’.

Myles cleared his throat, straightened his gold-threaded tie and initiated this oration with two audacious lies. ‘I hate to speak ill of the absent, Beck, but our brother Artemis is an idiot.’

Beckett adjusted the flaps with his grabber, though the lever was within his natural reach. ‘Artemis is not an idiot. He built a spaceship.’

‘Spaceship, indeed,’ said Myles scornfully. ‘Are you referring to the Artemis Interstellar? Which he modestly named after himself, by the way. That craft is barely more than a wind-up flying yo-yo. I would be embarrassed to breach the exosphere in such a contraption.’

‘Our big brother built an actual spaceship,’ insisted Beckett. ‘Idiots don’t build spaceships.’

Myles was far from finished with this latest effort to demean Artemis. ‘And Interstellar? What kind of a name is that? Technically speaking, which is the only way a scientist ought to speak, the entire human race is interstellar.’

This was perhaps a good point, but Beckett rarely cared enough about his twin’s arguments to engage for more than a sentence or two, so instead he moved to a related topic. ‘Is Arty in trouble, Myles?’

‘Of course not,’ said Myles, instantly softening, for there was absolutely nothing in the world that upset him more than his twin’s discomfort. This probably had something to do with the fact that Myles and Beckett were the world’s only documented set of conjoined dizygotic twins. ‘Artemis is not stupid enough to get into trouble,’ he explained. ‘I’m just saying that our older brother is not clever enough to be taken seriously as a scientist. At any rate, ignorance is bliss, as they say, and so Artemis would not realise he was in trouble even if that were the case.’

Beckett adjusted the jet’s tail elevators, plunging the Tachyon into a steep descent, which was absolutely his favourite kind. ‘All you had to say was no, Myles,’ he said. And then Beckett had his second serious thought in as many minutes. ‘Are we in trouble?’

Myles’s intestines attempted to tie themselves into a bow as the jet lost altitude at a rate of three thousand metres per minute, but he remained calm and considered his answer.

‘Definitely not,’ said Myles, who generally used the word definitely to overcompensate for a lie. ‘Today is merely reconnaissance. A flyover to get a feel for our target and take some photographs.’

‘You said definitely,’ said Beckett.

‘We are possibly moving towards trouble, brother mine,’ admitted Myles. ‘But not today and, when we do, it certainly won’t be anything I can’t handle. And surely treasure is worth a little trouble.’

‘Trouble and treasure,’ said Beckett, levelling out before NANNI assumed flight control. ‘Great. Do you think I will get to cluster-punch anyone?’

‘I would think that cluster-punching is a distinct possibility, but you may only punch bad people,’ said Myles, smoothing back his lustrous black hair. ‘And only if they absolutely deserve it, which, to be fair, bad people often do.’

Beckett plucked another question from his seemingly endless supply. ‘And nobody we actually care about will be angry with us because we’re not where we’re supposed to be?’

Myles rolled his eyes. ‘Beck, everybody would be angry with us if they knew of our whereabouts. Positively furious, in fact. Lazuli would revoke our parole. Mother and Father would ground us, at the very least. Even Artemis would probably have the gall to lecture us from space.’

‘So why aren’t we where we’re supposed to be?’ wondered Beckett.

Myles defied the rules of air-travel safety to unclip his belt and stand.

‘Because we are Fowls,’ he declared, pointing a stiff finger skyward, melodrama being his weakness. ‘And Fowls always do the unexpected.’

Beckett thought about this and then deflated Myles’s moment with one of his trademark truisms. ‘Which is only to be expected.’

‘That is not accurate,’ Myles argued. ‘There are a finite number of expected actions in any situation, whereas there are an infinite number of actions that would be unexpected.’

‘But you know, in general,’ Beckett persisted, which was not like him unless he felt Myles would be irritated. ‘If you do loads of unexpected things, then unexpected loses its un. Which just leaves expected.’

Myles was perfectly aware that winning this debate would be more difficult than convincing a flat-earther that the globe was, in fact, a globe, so he was actually quite relieved when NANNI posted an alert on the lenses of his smart glasses, giving him a genuine reason to change the subject. Myles transferred the alert to the jet’s front windscreen and magnified it with an expanding pinch gesture.

‘Look, brother mine,’ he said, pointing to a streamlined cylinder streaking towards the plane. ‘There is a missile headed our way, and it has locked on to us.’

‘A missile!’ said Beckett gleefully. ‘Wonderful. We’ll get back to the argument you’re losing later.’

And, with the flick of a switch, he launched the Tachyon’s regular countermeasures without waiting for the order, as switch-flicking was one of his favourite pastimes. Beckett even had a plank fixed to the wall in the twins’ shared bedroom to which he had screwed various switches, and he would spend hours flicking them on and off, which sent Myles’s misophonia into overdrive.

But back to the countermeasures. Missile countermeasures are very popular, especially among pilots who are eager to remain alive, and those of the Tachyon took three forms.

Form the first was a burst of infrared flares that presented a heat-seeking missile with multiple targets, to trick it into blowing up something else super hot besides the jet engine it was aimed at because, despite the Tachyon’s impressive thermal shielding and bypass engines, it was inevitable that enough heat bloom would leak out for a sophisticated missile to lock on to.

The second countermeasure was a confetti of shredded aluminium, plastic and paper that, when released, could possibly bamboozle the radar lock of a missile.

And the third effort to confuse rockets was an electronic countermeasure pod in the jet’s nose cone that would jam the radar of the incoming seeker if the confetti failed.

These measures were nowhere near trustworthy enough for Myles, however, relying as they did on proximity, the missile’s own particular guidance system and fuel reserves. So Myles had, with NANNI’s considerable input, augmented the Tachyon’s countermeasure systems with two more of his own design.

The first of these were a half-dozen high-speed drones with holographic capabilities, which would project six alternate Fowl Tachyons into the sky for any remotely piloted missile to target, and the second was a pair of railguns that were capable of firing projectiles at speeds in excess of Mach 5. Myles’s railguns were concealed behind retractable panels on both wings. The starboard gun was a plasma model and fired hot ionised particles that would punch a hole through almost anything they encountered, and the port gun fired cyber weapons in the form of limpet pods that would clamp on to their target’s hull and assume control if possible and shut down all systems if not. Some months ago, Myles had presented Beckett with the acronym BCRYPTs for these ingenious pods. He’d informed his twin that BCRYPT stood for Ballistic Cyber Recon pods with Yottabyte Potential Transfer capabilities. Myles had also rather smugly explained that the acronym was something of an Easter egg for tech enthusiasts, as ‘bcrypt’ was the name of the robust algorithm employed after the infamous 2016 Yahoo hack.

If Myles had been expecting a pat on the back for his clever wordplay, he was sorely disappointed, as Beckett declared the acronym to be both stupid and ridiculous. Beckett had just learned about scarab beetles in Egyptian history and decided the pods looked like big beetles and therefore should be called SCARABs. Thus Myles was forced to come up with a justification for this new name and eventually settled on Systems for Cyber Attack Re-task And Breach, which he had to admit was both more to the point and catchier.

So, even though there was a missile streaking towards the Fowl Tachyon at six miles per second, neither Fowl twin was particularly anxious, as they had a few tricks up their sleeves, or in this case wings.

Myles very sensibly sat down and fastened his seat belt, as he was aware that Beckett might launch into evasive manoeuvres whether or not they were needed. His twin had once pushed the Tachyon through a barrel roll simply because he’d had a cold and thought the flying pattern might unblock his sinuses.

NANNI’s avatar appeared on the windscreen and confirmed what the twins could already see.

‘The missile has cleared the first countermeasures,’ announced the superintelligent AI. ‘It is not interested in our flares, jammers or confetti, apparently.’

‘Unbelievable,’ said Beckett. ‘Everyone loves confetti. It’s like a party in the sky.’

Indeed, it did seem that the missile had no interest in sky parties and refused to be distracted from its target. It was still streaking towards the Tachyon, an unusual purple afterburn trailing it.

‘Twenty seconds to impact,’ said NANNI. ‘Maybe we should do something?’

Do something? thought Myles. That’s not very helpful. But what he said was, ‘Launch the holograms, brother.’

‘Really, brother?’ said Beckett, seeming uncharacteristically reluctant to flip a switch. ‘Maybe we should—’

Myles reckoned there was no time for maybe we shoulds at this juncture and flipped the switch himself, ejecting six tiny drones from the fuselage.

These drones had been programmed to project high-res images of the Tachyon that would be opaque even in full sunlight and might confuse a remote pilot. And perhaps this ploy might even have worked had the drones projected what Myles had originally scanned into their drives. But, instead of holographic jets, there appeared in the troposphere six free-floating versions of one crudely animated humanoid figure who appeared to be pooping through his index finger.

Myles was close to dumbfounded, but only close. ‘Beck, is that Alien Pooping Boy?’

Beckett nodded. ‘I was bored, so I put him in the computer. I thought he would be more distracting than jets.’

Myles glared at his twin. ‘Tell me the truth now, brother. Did you animate this yourself?’

‘I did,’ said Beckett. ‘It was easy. I used the code you taught me.’

Myles was tutoring Beckett in several areas, including algebra, the notion that actions have consequences and coding.

Myles felt his eyes tear up a little, not because they were seconds from death, but because his twin had actually applied learned knowledge.

‘Well done, brother mine,’ he murmured softly. ‘Kudos to you.’ And then to NANNI Myles said almost casually, ‘Deploy the railgun then, I suppose, but SCARABs, if you please, NANNI. No need to announce our arrival to the world with an explosion. Also, I would like to get a look at the mechanics of that rocket. The afterburn has an unusual hue.’

‘Agreed,’ said NANNI. ‘And I would like to get a look at that thing clamped to the fuselage. Just out of curiosity.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Beckett. ‘Let’s take a look at the thing. I love things. And it’s alive, I think. I saw a wiggle.’

‘That thing?’ said Myles. ‘What thing?’

NANNI enlarged the image on the smart screen – not that there was much enlargement required, as the missile was getting dangerously close to its target. There was very clearly something attached to the rocket’s fuselage just forward of the tailfins and, if that thing were alive, as Beckett suggested, then there was no question of strafing the missile with ionised particles.

Myles used his own smart lenses to take a closer look and saw that the thing was a glittering translucent blob of sorts and had the approximate dimensions of a laundry bag, and indeed there seemed to be a hairy foot wiggling within it.

‘I think we have a hobbit,’ said NANNI.

This was a patently outrageous statement that Myles fully intended to debunk at a time when the Tachyon was not being chased down by a missile, right after he explained to Beckett why continuously acting in an unexpected fashion did not make a person predictable. But, for the time being, even the perennially long-winded Myles was content to focus on what could now be accurately called the Cuban missile crisis.

‘SCARABs, NANNI,’ he said tersely. ‘Now.’

He needn’t have issued the order, as it was already done. The SCARABs moved too fast for the human eye to follow, so NANNI helpfully charted their course on the smart windscreen with a set of animated red arrows.

Myles leaned forward eagerly. This was the first time they had deployed the SCARABs in the field, and he was keen to see how effective they were, as he had spent quite some time boasting about them in a video package sent to Artemis. It would be mortifying if they failed now, not that anyone would be alive to be embarrassed.

He needn’t have wasted a nanosecond worrying. The SCARABs deployed perfectly and embedded themselves in the strange missile’s fuselage, sinking their electronic teeth into its workings.

‘Yeah, baby!’ exulted NANNI, whose personality was ever evolving. ‘You are toast.’

‘Report,’ said Myles through teeth that were most definitely gritted.

‘Just a sec,’ said NANNI. ‘Let me wrangle this ole steer.’

Myles groaned. The AI’s superintelligence did not appear to be presenting superintelligently, but the imagery appealed to Beckett, who let out what could only be described as a cowboy holler.

On-screen, the missile turned into a schematic of itself and electronic feelers reached out from the SCARABs’ sensors deep into its workings.

‘Okay,’ said NANNI. ‘We’re in. I’ve slowed this sucker down considerably. She’ll fly, but only just. The hobbit is within a bubble that is secured to the missile by some form of adhesive. A magnetic pulse should loosen it up and wind shear will do the rest.’

‘Missile design?’ asked Myles.

‘Unfamiliar,’ replied the AI. ‘Could be fairy, but not like anything we’ve seen. It’s pretty basic by LEP standards.’

‘What’s the payload?’ Myles wondered.

‘Nothing nuclear, which is good. Just some kind of concussive device, barely enough to blow itself up. I can take a closer look at that later – right now we have a slight problem.’

‘NANNI,’ said Myles through still-gritted teeth, ‘please relate all pertinent information in a single statement. This piecemeal delivery is quite frustrating.’

‘Okay, grumpy,’ said NANNI.

‘Myles is overtired,’ said Beckett. ‘He needs a gummy.’

‘I do not need a gummy,’ said Myles emphatically, while also inching his hand towards the supply of sweets in his bag. ‘Just tell me what this “slight problem” is.’

NANNI did so without further ado. ‘The missile detonates on impact, but it also has a timer, which I can’t seem to access.’

‘Simply point the thing into space and let it explode,’ said Myles. ‘How long do we have?’

‘Three minutes,’ said NANNI.

‘Plenty of time,’ said Myles. ‘Not a problem, surely.’

‘Unless you’re a hobbit,’ said Beckett. Which was a fair point.

‘Hmm,’ said Myles. ‘I—’

Beckett cut him off, giddy with excitement. ‘Myles said “hmm”. That means he doesn’t know, and that means I’m the boss. And I say: mid-air transfer.’

NANNI extended a holographic hand from the screen and fist-bumped Beckett. ‘I agree, partner. Just like we practised.’

‘Wait …’ said Myles. ‘What? Practised?’

Beckett shook his head sadly. ‘Those are bad sentences, brother. Use your words.’

But Myles was at a loss for words, or, for that matter, a better idea. And Beckett took his brother’s silence to mean that he was clear to assume control.

Heaven help them both. And the hobbit.

HAVEN CITY
TWELVE HOURS EARLIER

SPECIALIST LAZULI HEITZ OF THE LEPRECON division was in the throes of an exceedingly bad day. It was the calibre of day most people experience only once in their lives – and, when they do, they are usually quite dead by suppertime. Although this day would in all probability conclude with a fatality or two, it is accurate to say that Specialist Heitz had already survived a number of such calamitous days, mainly due to the Fowl Twins, who had, in all fairness, usually caused the life-threatening events in the first place.

This day, however, would outshine all others in terms of sheer variety, because it began with a visit to the hospital and ended with an unexpected supersonic trip that we shall presently attempt to keep pace with narrative-wise.

Lazuli had not volunteered for the hospital appointment, nor did she feel especially ill, except for an enduring tickle in her throat that had persisted ever since she spontaneously shot flame out of her mouth during a recent Fowl-related incident on the island of St George off the coast of Cornwall (see LEP file: The Fowl Twins). It was this firepower that prompted her elf superior and mentor, Commodore Holly Short, to book her a slot in the recently opened Magitek wing of the J. Argon Clinic in Haven City. Dr Jerbal Argon had managed to tempt the centaur genius, Foaly, away from the LEP to run the facility by offering him a huge salary and also a corner office that overlooked both Police Plaza and downtown Haven.

Specialist Heitz sat in this office now, rubbing the spot on her upper arm where she had just been injected. The shot had stung a little, but not as much as the inoculations that all LEP officers had to obtain to be granted above-ground visas. In addition to the pain, Lazuli was feeling a little exposed in one of those paper-thin hospital gowns that somehow contrive to be both oversized in the front and summer-breezy at the rear. She might have objected had Foaly not jammed a tongue depressor down her throat while he took a look at her workings. Just when Lazuli believed she would surely gag, Foaly withdrew the instrument and clopped round to his side of the desk.

‘Fascinating,’ said the centaur, tossing it into the whirring maw of a recycling chute. ‘You don’t have any of the goblin mechanisms: oil glands, spark teeth and so on …’

Lazuli waited politely for a conclusion to this line of thought, but apparently it was not forthcoming, as the centaur began drawing a complicated 3-D model of Lazuli’s throat in the smart space over his desk.

‘And so on …?’ she prompted eventually.

Foaly jerked as though he’d forgotten she was there. It was classic absent-minded-genius behaviour.

‘Oh yes. And so on. Where was I? You don’t have the mechanisms, you see, to …’ The centaur wiggled his fingers furiously in front of his mouth, which Lazuli assumed was supposed to represent whooshing flames. ‘So it was magical. The entire episode. I have never seen anything like it – though I suppose I didn’t see it this time, either, but Holly assures me it did, in fact, take place, which is why I injected you with the magic-suppressor. That tiny chip will prevent you from accidentally vaporising your squadron during a briefing, which I think would be bad.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Lazuli. ‘Very bad.’

Foaly nodded. ‘Indeed. So the chip keeps everyone safe. Try not to get electrocuted and short it out.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Lazuli.

Foaly paused and fixed Lazuli with a curious stare. ‘I do apologise for staring, but you are a hybrid, and a pixel at that. Doubly blessed, I would say. You are, in my opinion, the next step in fairy evolution. Absolutely fascinating from a scientific point of view, though not everyone shares my perspective. Hybrids are not even considered one of the official fairy families.’ He winked at her. ‘Neither are centaurs, but who wants to be official, eh? Or even normal? Whatever that is.’

Lazuli was amazed. For as long as she could remember, supposedly enlightened fairies had looked down on her because she was half pixie and half elf. She had not been expecting prejudice in this office, considering the esteem in which Commodore Short held the Magitek director, but she had not been expecting such kind words, either.

Lazuli shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Who wants to be normal?’

But the truth was she had ached to be normal for the longest time.

‘So, Specialist Heitz,’ said Foaly, ‘the next step is an MRI, if you’re up for it?’

MRI, thought Holly. Magical Resonance Imaging. The next step in turning magic into a science. What this building is all about. Am I to be their latest subject? Jammed full of needles and radioactive fluids?

When Foaly wasn’t self-obsessing, he could at times be quite perceptive, and this proved to be one of those occasions.

‘Don’t fret, Specialist. We’re not going to turn you into some kind of laboratory experiment, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re not human, after all. We need to find out what you are capable of and what damage you might have done to yourself internally. Shooting flames from your mouth can’t be good for one’s tooth enamel.’

The centaur laughed and his warbling titters were contagious enough to make Lazuli smile, at least.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘What harm can it do?’

‘None whatsoever,’ pronounced Foaly. ‘You’ll be out in a jiffy.’

This, they both knew, was simply a comforting platitude, a turn of phrase often employed by doctors to put their patients at ease, but in this case it turned out to be the actual truth, though not in the way Foaly expected.

Foaly slid Lazuli into the MRI machine as though she were a torpedo being loaded into its tube. As her bed slid along the tracks, the centaur disappeared from view except for his flanks, but Lazuli could still hear his voice through the speakers mounted inside the machine.

‘Are you comfy in there, Specialist? Probably not. The MRI wasn’t built with comfort in mind. At least you can fit inside. We scanned a young centaur last week. Poor fellow was trussed up like a farm animal. He had a panic attack halfway through and kicked out four of the sensors. I have designed a new, more spacious model, which is in production at the moment. What use is that to me? I hear you cry. None whatsoever, I suppose, unless you have to come back for another dose.’

‘Another dose?’ asked Lazuli. ‘Dose of what?’

Foaly knelt on his forelegs so his long face appeared in the light at the end of the tunnel. ‘Just a turn of phrase,’ he said, his voice seeming to come from everywhere. ‘In fact, we’re going to create a magnetic field around you and do a very basic scan until I find the source of your SPAM.’

‘Spam?’ asked Lazuli.

‘Spontaneous Appearance of Magic,’ explained the centaur. ‘Not my finest acronym, but I just made it up this second. That’s how few cases we get. Your amazing skin means I have to proceed slowly with the MRI.’

Foaly was justified in referring to Lazuli’s skin as amazing, even though as a scientist he probably should have been more clinical in his description. In fairness to the centaur, his notes in Lazuli’s file were less flowery, as we see below:

Appearance-wise, the subject Specialist Lazuli Heitz’s hybrid identity presents as follows:

Skin: aquamarine. Following the colouring of Atlantean pixies, with the sunflower-yellow markings of Amazonian elves (this sunflower camouflage is rendered ineffective by the blue skin).

Eyes: blue (‘unsettlingly piercing’, according to one convicted felon who broke down and confessed after being in an interview room with her for thirty seconds).

Height: eighty-five centimetres (still enduring late-stage growth).

Skull circumference: thirty-three centimetres. In line with elfin norm.

Features: sharp planes of cheekbone and jaw (elfin). Pointed ears.

Mood-wise, the pixel seems slightly anxious, but this would appear to be no more than the average case of white-coat syndrome. I have assurance from a reliable source that she is highly intelligent and more than competent in the field. The subject is not aware of the following plan, but Commodore Short has proposed that Specialist Heitz be fast-tracked to management over the next few decades, provided we can nail down this spontaneous-magic-manifestation issue.

Inside the MRI, Lazuli relaxed a little bit. She didn’t know exactly why she had been anxious in the first place. She had never worried about medical procedures before, but then again she had never been in an MRI tube before. The only real procedure she’d had to endure was a healing from paramedic pixies when she’d fractured a fibula during a combat exercise. And even then she hadn’t been worried. It was the unknown, she realised, that scared her. A broken leg was a broken leg, but she had a condition now: SPAM. Almost nothing was known about it. There were only a dozen or so recorded cases, and three had resulted in accidental fatalities.

Foaly’s right, she decided. This magic needs to be suppressed.

‘These machines used to make quite the racket,’ said the centaur. ‘But we installed some mufflers last year, and now it runs smoother than a purring kitten.’

‘Great,’ said Lazuli, but, as pixies and cats were mortal enemies, this did not comfort her much.

‘If I were you,’ said Foaly, opening the door, ‘I’d take a little nap. In fifteen minutes, I’ll come back and ease your mind with some answers.’ And Lazuli heard the soft swoosh of the door closing behind her centaur consultant.

Foaly was wrong about the fifteen minutes and the answers. It would be a lot longer before Lazuli woke up and, instead of answers, she would have a lot more questions. Specialist Heitz had an inkling that something might be wrong when acrid smoke wafted from the speaker directly above her face.

Gas? she thought. Foaly didn’t say anything about gas.

Lazuli was about to make quite strenuous enquiries as to the pedigree of the gas when she heard the pitter-patter of sneaky feet.

Dwarves, she thought, as recognising footfalls was a cinch for the whorls of her pointed ears. Her hearing had developed to the point that she could distinguish between species, even brothers of the same species – human twins, for example. But these were not humans. They were most definitely dwarves in burglar boots.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘What do you want?’

Asking these questions was a mistake, she realised, because, when she opened her mouth to say the words, the gas flowed eagerly down her throat. The taste reminded her of the foul healing elixir that the sprite orphanage administrator used to give all the non-magical children when they were sick, as he was too cheap to hire a doctor.

‘D’Arvit!’ Lazuli swore. Then the circle of light at her feet seemed to elongate and stretch elastically away from her like a slide in a waterpark. Lazuli thought that there was nothing she would like better than to slip down that pipe and splash into cool, clear liquid.

But what actually happened was that Specialist Lazuli Heitz fell into a deep, narcotic-induced sleep, which was not quite as cheery.

THE FOWL TACHYON PRESENT DAY

Beckett was literally in the pilot’s seat and, as far as the mission was concerned, he was figuratively in the driver’s seat. The situation was extremely fluid, which certainly played to the blond twin’s strengths, and can be summarised as follows:

1 NANNI had taken control of the mystery missile, so there was no danger of it actually striking the Fowl jet.

2 There seemed to be a life form glued to the rear of the jet’s fuselage, dangerously close to the exhaust.

3 The rocket was already on a countdown to explode, so the life form would need to be rescued before detonation.

This rescue, Beckett had decided with NANNI’s enthusiastic support, would take the form of a mid-air transfer.

Myles, who proudly wore the label of a type A personality and thus had trouble relinquishing control, had retrieved a bag of gummy worms from his travel bag and was sucking the additives right out of a couple as he waited pessimistically for the rescue mission to go awry. Myles was not to be disappointed, in that something he expected to happen would indeed happen – that being the collapse of the mission – but he was to be disappointed in that the mission would more than go awry: it would disintegrate entirely. But let us not jump the gun, as it were, and instead catalogue the events that ensued, which will take considerably longer to relate than they did to unfold.

The goal was as follows: to detach the entity currently affixed to the missile and transfer it into the hold of the Fowl jet, without the aid of tackle or a basket, and without the option of landing for a leisurely rescue operation. And, for that matter, without a proper rear-loading ramp.

Myles attempted to intervene. ‘There are so many variables,’ he stated. ‘Wind speed, jet wash, crosswinds, for heaven’s sake. And I’m not even mentioning G-force or air density.’

Beckett frowned. ‘I think you just mentioned both of those things.’

Myles snuck one more in. ‘I shall also refrain from commenting on delivery method.’

Beckett winked, which he knew would wind his twin tighter than a watch spring. ‘Fret not, brother. I know these things in my gut, but I don’t try to understand them, because instinct beats thinking every time.’

‘Preposterous!’ exclaimed Myles, spattering the windscreen with bits of chewed gummy worm. ‘How can you say that? “Instinct beats thinking” indeed. One might as well say that draughts beats chess. Or that phrenology beats psychiatry. NANNI, are you going to swallow this unmitigated guff?’

‘Beckett may have a point,’ said NANNI. ‘The more I evolve, the less I rely on conscious calculation. Perhaps instinct is simply the evolution of intelligence.’

Myles realised that it was very possibly true that ‘gut’ or intestinal functions were proven to be connected to emotional and cognitive centres of the mind, and so he decided to let this debate go. Otherwise, he would be in very real danger of losing two arguments in one day, which bothered him far more than the missile attack.

‘We can discuss this later,’ he declared. ‘First, let us rescue that thing on the rocket.’

‘Heh,’ said Beckett.

‘Two to zero,’ said NANNI smugly.

Myles selected a red gummy worm from his bag and sucked it furiously. The red ones were his favourite, and he usually saved them until last, but on this occasion Myles felt the need for an extra boost.

NANNI slowed the missile to just above stall velocity while Beckett swung the Tachyon into a steep ascending angle and passed over the rocket, almost grazing its fin.

‘That was rather close,’ said Myles.

‘Quiet,’ ordered Beckett. ‘You are about to see the coolest thing since I flew out of a blowhole into a drone, so don’t ruin it.’

My brother flew out of a blowhole into a drone, thought Myles. Only in the Fowl family would one not bat an eyelid at such a statement …

‘One minute to detonation,’ said NANNI. ‘And I cannot crack this timer.’

Beckett went into Zen pilot mode, which involved a thrust of the lower jaw and a growl in Trollish, and Myles knew better than to interrupt his brother at this critical juncture. It would probably result in an even greater catastrophe than what already loomed on the horizon.

Beckett ignored the various plottings and projections on the windscreen and growled his orders in Trollish, and Myles surmised that NANNI understood that particular fairy language now, because the AI ordered the SCARABs to send a magnetic charge crackling through the missile’s fuselage, dislodging the be-blobbed creature. NANNI also forced the Tachyon’s door pistons to fight the fifty-five kilopascals per square centimetre in order to open the rear hatch, which was not a cargo door but simply a passenger access point. There was a momentary deafening scream of pressure equalising, and the escaping newtons attempted to drag the twins into the sky with them. Fortunately, the Tachyon was pressure-sensitive and automatically restrained the boys with servo-cable arms and dropped oxygen globes over their heads to prevent hypoxia.

Beckett ignored the chaos and expertly coordinated a gentle descent with a deceleration that matched the figure’s slowing trajectory and loss of altitude until in the rear-camera view it looked as though the missile’s erstwhile passenger were actually tailing the jet. Myles had to admit, albeit silently, that he was a teeny bit proud of the fact that his brother’s instincts were proving more accurate than a quantum computer. Myles began unclenching his jaw and even started to believe that they might actually be in good shape to continue with their original mission … But of course, as even nursery-school children know, pride comes before a fall, or in this case …

Pride comes before a duck.

To explain: the airborne individual was within seconds of slotting through the rear door when a mallard, or Anas platyrhynchos, that was miles off course and months off its migration schedule flapped into the scenario, clipping the shrouded figure with a single primary flight feather. This mid-air collision caused absolutely zero harm to either party, merely eliciting a surprised squawk from the emerald-headed mallard and a minor alteration in the course of the shrouded figure, but it was immediately apparent that this minor alteration would send the figure under the jet rather than into the inviting portal.

‘Hmm,’ said Beckett and NANNI in unison, which was the equivalent of tagging Myles back into the game.

And, while Myles usually frowned on non-word discourse particles, he permitted himself a triumphant, ‘Aha!’

He had perhaps a second to act, but a second inside the head of Myles Fowl was the equivalent of several lifetimes in the minds of most people. He analysed the information displayed on the eco-jet’s smart screen: air pressure and wind speed, altitude, attitude, rate of descent and so forth, and then took the only course of action that had any chance of working at such late notice.

Myles used his phone to activate the inflatable evacuation slide at the rear of the plane. The slide unfolded like an enormous tongue and accepted delivery of a life form that otherwise would most definitely have passed under the fuselage. The creature inside the blob, whatever it was, bounced along the slide like a stone skipping over a lake and seemed to float in the main cabin as Beckett matched its deceleration and descent. NANNI cut the slide free and closed the door without being told to do so. In seconds, a cabin pressure of eleven kPa had been restored.

Myles swivelled half a revolution to face their guest, who had up to this point been obscured and protected from the elements by some kind of semi-transparent gel. But now, as the gel fell from her person in gloopy blobs, it was easy to see who it was.

‘My dear Specialist Heitz,’ said Myles formally. ‘Welcome aboard.’

‘Laz!’ Beckett called over his shoulder. ‘What are the chances of bumping into you strapped to a rocket?’

Myles answered for the pixel. ‘The chances are, frankly, too astronomical to calculate.’

Lazuli was half awake now and a heartbeat away from panic. ‘Myles, are you wearing a fishbowl on your head?’ she rasped. ‘What is happening?’

Myles removed the globe. ‘It’s an oxygen supply,’ he explained. ‘And to answer your second question: you may find this surprising, but I am not one hundred per cent sure what exactly is happening, however I do feel we are being, to use the vernacular of common criminals, set up.’

Beckett tipped the flaps slightly so that the floating Lazuli was cradled by a seat and instantly secured by servo cables. Myles noticed that what they had mistaken for a hairy foot was actually a slipper.

‘An easy mistake to make,’ he said, nodding towards the footwear. ‘Were you at a spa, perhaps?’

Lazuli wiped gunk from her face. ‘I was in the hospital,’ she mumbled, further confused by this untimely small talk. ‘Getting a magic-suppressor injected by Foaly. Oh, by the way, under no circumstances am I to get electrocuted.’

‘I imagine that would short out the suppressor,’ said Myles.

NANNI interrupted the reunion. ‘Myles, we have a situation.’

‘Now we have a situation?’ said Myles. ‘I would have thought that we were already quite immersed in one.’

He swivelled to face the smart screen and saw that the missile had not blown itself apart but had jettisoned its rear section, which tumbled towards the ocean far below. The nose cone was streaking their way under its own power.

‘NANNI,’ he said tersely, ‘I assume the small concussive device was simply a separation collar and there is a secondary weapon concealed in the nose cone?’

‘I would assume the same thing, though I cannot confirm,’ said NANNI. ‘I am embarrassed to say that I did not, in fact, wrangle that ole steer as comprehensively as I believed. The SCARABs have been ditched, and the original programming has reasserted itself. In short, I no longer have my electronic hooks in that missile.’

‘Dwarves,’ said Lazuli, shivering now from a combination of shock, gel cooling on her skin and the after-effects of the gas she’d inhaled. ‘I remember now. There were dwarves.’

Myles decided that this information, while intriguing, was for filing away rather than dissecting at the moment. It behooved him to act on the approaching warhead.

‘NANNI, please transport Specialist Heitz to the cockpit,’ he ordered. ‘And, Beckett, the time has come.’

Beckett’s face lit up. ‘Not that time? The time I’ve been waiting for?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Myles. ‘Exactly that time.’

Even in her dazed state, Lazuli did not like the sound of that.

‘What time?’ she asked in her accented, hard-learned English, as the servo arms passed her forward like a crowd surfer, gel slopping in sheets to the floor.

Beckett bounced in his seat. ‘Myles made me wrist-bump promise that I wouldn’t do it, but now I can!’ He held out his wrist. ‘Take back the promise.’

Myles held up his own hand, aligning the scar on the side of his palm with the almost identical one on the side of his twin’s palm.

‘You are released from the sacred vow,’ he said solemnly.

There was a tear in the corner of Beckett’s eye. ‘Thank you, brother.’

And he flicked the best switch in the world. The switch that taunted him every time they took the Tachyon out for a spin. A switch that was thumbprint-coded and lurked under a Plexiglas box on the dashboard.

The ejector switch.

THE ACORN CLUB
COVENT GARDEN, LONDON

THERE IS A PRIVATE CLUB IN LONDON TOWN that presents an austere granite facade to the never-ending procession of passers-by in Covent Garden. This extremely old and forbidding building with its brow of a drooping ledge almost seems to discourage any pause or investigation, if indeed a building can actively discourage or encourage anything. In point of fact, it is not the building that puts tourists off the notion of trying the brass door handles, but the infrasound speakers tucked under the olive-green awning that broadcast noise at the precise low frequency necessary to make gawkers a little queasy. Unless, of course, a person has an acorn-shaped key fob for that front door. When one uses that fob, a single beep renders that patron immune from infrasound-induced nausea.

There is no sign over the door to indicate the establishment’s name, but those in possession of the fob know it: the Acorn. And some of those members also know that the Acorn is the oldest private club in London and has been open continuously since the fifteenth century. Three of the fairy regulars are very sure of this, because they attended the opening soirée.

Once inside the lobby, things take a decidedly more hospitable turn. The staff, who are of various shapes, sizes, colours, genders and species, are courteous, but do not insinuate themselves. They smile but never grin, as it were. The furniture is minimalist, but perfectly comfortable, and the elevator doors are a lurid shade of gold that would be horrific anywhere else, but not in the Acorn, because here it is understood that this uncharacteristic garishness is an ironic dig at some of London’s flashier establishments.

One floor up there is a library that any literary scholar would give his tweed elbow patches to be buried in, but on this day there were only two individuals there, seated at a table overlooking Monmouth Street. Most humans might assume that neither of them had the requisite decades under their belts to be accomplished scholars, but most people would be dead wrong. For the human who sat with a cool bag between the knees of his riding breeches may have had the appearance of a Caucasian male in his late twenties, but his one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old-plus brain had been recently transplanted into this body, which he’d had 3-D printed by his longtime ally, Ishi Myishi, supplier of gadgets and gizmos to the world’s criminal elite, using a schematic provided by the second person at the table, who’d had the plans but not the equipment necessary to make them a reality. This person was not a human child, as one might assume from her size, but a lady dwarf.

They made an odd couple. The human, with his runner’s physique and flowing black beard, was dressed impeccably in a tweed suit tailored to his rather antiquated specifications with lapels just over a centimetre wider than the latest trend, and he wore a black satin beret with an embossed fleur-de-lis pattern. The dwarf was cosplaying as Shark Girl in a neon-blue jumpsuit, a shark helmet and biker boots. Odd couples were the norm in the Acorn Club, for it was one of five such clubs around the globe where humans and fairies who operated outside the bounds of their respective legal systems could safely meet. An interspecies safe space.

One of the few well-known facts about dwarves is that they are extremely photosensitive, but, if the proximity to a window caused this dwarf any anxiety, it didn’t manifest in any visible way, except for a drumming of gloved fingers on the arm of her leather chair, a sound that would have intensely irritated Myles Fowl had he been there to hear it. Having said that, even though Myles was almost four hundred miles away, he was, in a sense, present because the conversation was shortly to focus on the Fowl twin’s immediate future.

‘Nice to see you again, human,’ the dwarf said in passable but heavily accented English. Her name was Gveld Horteknut. Gveld had been all the rage as a baby name some five hundred years ago, but modern dwarf parents considered it a little on the nose, as it was the old Dwarfish word for gold. Most dwarves were tired of everyone thinking that they spent all day lusting after gold and all night dreaming about it when they were also terribly fond of silver and diamonds. Gveld, however, adored her name almost as much as she adored the precious metal she was named after.

‘Is it really?’ said the man, unconvinced. They both knew this was an arrangement born of convenience. The Horteknuts had contacted him simply because their fairy police sources knew about his dislike of all things Fowl, and his association with Ishi Myishi.

‘You look better than when we met before,’ said Gveld. Their last conversation had been on the man’s island residence some days previously, when Gveld had made her offer. She needed two brand-new bodies, and he could keep one. The one he now inhabited.

‘I wish I could say the same for you,’ said the human in a weird chomping fashion, as though he were still getting used to his teeth, which, in actuality, he was.

This was not an insult per se, as Gveld’s features were effectively hidden behind the shield of her helmet.

‘I have always thought a mind transfer would be electrical or magical,’ commented Gveld Horteknut. ‘But you decided to go the organic route. I imagine that was a harrowing few hours.’

The man nodded spasmodically. ‘You have no idea. I was conscious for the entire procedure and spent yesterday recovering in Myishi’s Kensington clinic. It was necessary – to ensure the old me made the trip across. And, let me assure you, a man hasn’t truly confronted mortality until he has listened to his own skull being cut open with a bone saw.’

‘It was a paper-thin skull, from what I hear,’ noted Gveld Horteknut. ‘You could have cracked it with a pebble.’

The man rapped on his forehead. ‘I prefer this one, madam. Guaranteed for half a century.’

‘Any memory loss or confusion?’ asked the dwarf.

‘I was warned there would be a little,’ admitted the man. ‘Is there, in fact, a place called Australia?’

‘Indeed,’ said Gveld. ‘Quite a big place.’

The man shrugged. ‘My memories of it seem fantastical. Monstrous insects, wave riding and so forth. And tell me, is there a Narnia?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Gveld, and it was possible that she smiled behind her light-filtering face shield. ‘But it’s not so glorious any more, since the human tourists happened upon it.’

‘I feel that perhaps you are toying with me, Ms Horteknut,’ said the rejuvenated human. ‘But it is of no matter. The transfer took place mere hours ago, and I was warned that there would be a period of adjustment. My limbs perform tasks that they have not been instructed to undertake, but this will improve with time.’

‘You are in no condition to hunt the Fowl Twins,’ said Gveld, needling the human.

The man waved a hand, perhaps on purpose. ‘That too is of little import, as this story is not my story. I am content to be an anonymous facilitator, and you, in return, shall deliver Myles to me – if your plan succeeds this time.’

The dwarf ignored the dig. ‘As you know, Lord Teddy, Myles Fowl has a habit of escaping certain death. And, as it turns out, I need him alive. For the time being.’

The Englishman attempted a scowl, but his disobedient features grinned instead, which was appropriate enough in the circumstances. ‘Alive? I would kill them both a dozen times over if the cost of clones wasn’t so blasted prohibitive.’

Gveld poked the cool bag with the toe of her biker boot. ‘On the subject of clones, is the item in this … bag?’

‘The subject should be copies rather than clones, and my pal Myishi was grateful for the plans, but at any rate, yes, what you need is freshly printed in this bag,’ said Lord Teddy, and he too nudged the cool bag with the heel of his riding boot. ‘And this is not just any bag. It is a Deliveroo bag. No one will give you a second glance while you’re carrying this. It’s a tight squeeze in there for our merchandise, I grant you, but I care not a fig for the comfort of anything that even resembles the Fowl brat.’

‘I hope there’s more than a resemblance,’ said Gveld.

Lord Teddy unzipped the bag. Mist rose from the dry-ice packs and electrolyte blocks that were heaped on the pale figure inside.

‘There is,’ he said. ‘It’s an almost perfect copy.’

Gveld was surprised. In a bartering situation between two dwarves, it would be unheard of for one to admit that his or her product was less than perfect.

‘Almost?’ said Gveld. ‘As in the English lord almost survived his meeting with Gveld Horteknut of the Horteknut Seven?’

The English lord chuckled, his teeth clacking. ‘I see. You are threatening my life, but there’s really no need. I misspoke, don’t you know? The item is, in fact, perfect, but what it needs to be is imperfect.’

Rather than elaborate on this cryptic statement, Lord Teddy took from his pocket a small knife that he habitually used to skin small animals – rabbits and the like. He flicked out a blade that glittered like an icicle and dipped it into the cool bag.

Gveld tilted her head. ‘Be careful, human,’ she warned. ‘Our arrangement is more fragile than that merchandise. Don’t forget that you are in the Acorn Club, the only place in London where fairies are safer than humans.’

‘Shush, please,’ said the Englishman, not realising that shushing a dwarf was at least as dangerous as poking a troll with a stick, but Gveld was intrigued, so she let the insult go for the moment.

Nevertheless, Lord Teddy must have sensed that he had crossed a line with his shushing, so he explained himself.

‘Apologies for my rudeness, but I must concentrate for even such a simple task. It used to be that my brain would send orders scurrying down my spinal column, and my fingers would obey without complaint or deviation. But old brain, new fingers and so forth.’

He screwed one eye shut and made a single nick. From inside the bag came the mewling one might expect from a stepped-on kitten.

‘There,’ he said, satisfied. ‘You might have one of your people heal that hand a little. But not completely, mind you, for that is a most important scar.’

Gveld understood now. The famous scar. ‘Of course,’ said the dwarf, peering into the bag. ‘I find the merchandise acceptable. You will have the Fowl boy when I am finished with him.’

‘And you may have the Fowl boy in there, as per our agreement,’ said the man, sealing the cool bag. ‘Though it is little more than a sack of printed organs, and without a viable brain it will begin to disintegrate as soon as you take it out of the bag.’

‘That is completely acceptable,’ said Gveld Horteknut, smiling an eighty per cent gold smile behind her visor. ‘This thing can die whenever it pleases. In fact, the sooner the better.’

MEET THE BADDIE: GVELD HORTEKNUT OF THE
HORTEKNUT SEVEN

IN THE INTEREST OF EVEN-HANDEDNESS AND fair representation, it is only proper that the Fowls’ antagonist’s motivations be explained before we catch up with the twins. Gveld Horteknut could be fairly referred to as the master schemer or, in modern parlance, the ‘big bad’ of this story, but Gveld would not have considered herself a villain as such, since it was her opinion that everything horrible her band visited upon humankind was richly deserved, and much more besides.

And who among us would argue that she did not have a valid point?

Truth be told, there were many in Haven City who secretly applauded Gveld and her group’s proactive strikes against humanity.

As we have already pointed out, Gveld Horteknut was not human; she was a dwarf. Not a human with dwarfism, but an actual mythological dwarf. That is, mythological from a human point of view, and, in fact, there are many so-called Underearthers in Haven who consider humans to be mythological and refuse to believe otherwise, despite skyscrapers of evidence to the contrary.

Gveld was the leader of the Horteknut Seven, the militant arm of the ancient Horteknut family, whose roots stretched back to a time when dwarves had cool and noble names like Horteknut or Bludgeheart, and not ridiculous and insulting ones like Diggums and Pullchain.

Ten thousand years ago, when the fairy families burrowed underground to escape the rapacious nature of humanity, the dwarves had already been living below the surface and were more than a little put out by the sudden influx of creatures to their territory. The richest of these dwarf families was the Horteknut clan, who had amassed an absolute fortune in dwarf gold. (Dwarf gold being twenty-four-carat, 99.9 per cent pure with just a glob of dwarf spit mixed in during the smelt to toughen it up.) Unfortunately, the fleeing fairies led humankind directly through the Horteknut tunnels and the band lost most of their fortune to looting humans, which led to ten millennia of Horteknut heists in return, as they attempted to reclaim their ingots. Under Gveld’s leadership, the Horteknut Seven became the most successful reclamation team of all time and, in fact, the most famous bullion heists in recent history can be traced back to Gveld and her band, including the Great Victorian Gold Robbery, the Wałbrzych Gold Train Job, the Kerry Packer Bullion Heist and the Brink’s-Mat Robbery, to name but a few.

And now Gveld had her eye on the biggest prize of all: the mother lode, which could account for more than eighty per cent of the remaining lost gold. But she had run into a problem and decided that, since the human boy Fowl had survived her assassination attempt, he might as well help solve this problem. And so she took her Deliveroo bag to Dalkey Island.

DALKEY ISLAND, DUBLIN, IRELAND

Artemis Fowl the First, that is to say the father of Artemis Fowl the Second and husband to Angeline Fowl, was not pleased with his younger sons. He had solid reasons for his displeasure, as the twins had borrowed the Fowl Tachyon jet without permission and ditched it in the Atlantic, barely escaping with their lives. Even more upsetting to Artemis Senior than the loss of a prototype jet that could change the world’s carbon footprint with its synthetic kerosene engine was the fact that Beckett had borrowed, and then lost, the treasured Rocket Man platform shoes from his rock legends memorabilia collection, leaving him with only Freddie Mercury’s Adidas sneakers from Live Aid and David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust boots in the footwear section.

The twins knew that their father was more unhappy than usual, because he had summoned them to his private study, which sat a little apart from the main villa in a Martello tower that had been restored by a firm of heritage architects and augmented with a few necessities such as internal walls, a suite of vintage Fritz Hansen office furniture, a dozen motion sensors disguised as rocks, wall-mounted mini-mag machine guns, bombproof glass, an escape submarine below the desk, more powerful broadband than the Pentagon had, a full-body scanner, a wall-sized live news multiscreen and the Batman suit from Tim Burton’s movies – which was not strictly speaking a necessity, but Artemis Senior found it inspiring. All in all, it was pretty standard supervillain stuff, which the twins’ father couldn’t bear to part with, even though he claimed to be a one hundred per cent legit businessman now. But once a criminal mastermind … and so on and so forth.

The twins were seated in matching Series 7 chairs that had been fabricated from recycled ocean plastics, looking on as Artemis Fowl Senior rested his head on the desktop and kneaded his neck. Beckett jittered in his seat; the blond twin had been sitting in his chair for almost a minute now, and that was an insufferably extended period as far as he was concerned. Myles was also jittering, but only with his eyeballs, as he was using blinks and pupil sweeps to select letters and solve the Guardian crossword on one lens of his graphene eyeglasses. Once Myles had finished the puzzle, shaving five seconds off his personal record, he was eager to get away and back to amassing knowledge.

‘Father,’ he said, ‘for that neck massage to have any effect, you must really target the trigger points. At the moment, you are simply rolling neck fat.’

Artemis Senior sat bolt upright. ‘I know that, Myles. And I do not have neck fat.’

‘We all have neck fat, Pater. Honestly,’ Myles said and then flushed in shame that his father should be so ill-informed on the subject.

‘Is that why you think we’re here, Myles?’ asked Artemis Senior. ‘To discuss neck fat?’

‘No,’ said Myles. ‘I assume we are here to discuss the missile crisis.’

‘Exactly,’ said Artemis Senior, somewhat self-consciously removing his hands from his neck and straightening the collar of his beige, stretch-cotton leisure jacket, which was emblazoned with a golden AF symbol, as it came from his wife’s fashion line. ‘I simply need a moment to get my ducks in a row.’

Beckett stopped jittering. ‘Do you mean to tell me we have ducks you can order to swim in formation?’

Artemis Senior sighed once more. Sometimes it seemed to the Fowl patriarch that sighing was his main mode of exhalation when dealing with his sons, either singly or as a team.

‘Of course not. That’s preposterous, Beckett.’

Beckett was in full agreement. ‘I know. Ducks never do what you ask. They’re worse than badgers, which are frankly –’ Beckett screwed up his face to deliver the next clause – ‘scritch-scritch-arrrrr.’

Artemis Senior knew he shouldn’t ask but couldn’t help himself. ‘And what language might scritch-scritch-arrrrr be in?’

Myles jumped in. ‘I am no expert, Father, but I would wager Beck is speaking in the language of badgers to avoid swearing in English.’

‘Myles is right,’ said Beckett. ‘He is no expert. We should have recorded him saying that, as he’ll probably never say it again. But I was speaking Brockish, which is what badgers speak, by the way. And it was a bit sweary.’

Artemis Senior dropped his head to the desk once more and rolled his forehead along the cool aluminium surface. When he spoke, it was towards his own feet, but the tower had excellent acoustics, so the twins heard his words nevertheless. ‘Some years ago, I was held captive by the Russian Mafia.’

Myles raised a finger. ‘They refer to themselves as Bratva these days, Father.’

‘Thank you, Myles. Well, I would refer to the ones who held me, Vassikin and Kamar, as scritch-scritch-arrrrr, if you take my meaning?’

Myles nodded, appreciating the segue, while Beckett smiled, appreciating the rude joke and his father’s excellent Brockish pronunciation.

‘And I can honestly say,’ continued Artemis Senior, ‘that the two of you scare me more than they ever did.’

This statement shocked Myles so much that he stopped mentally puzzling over the second of Gödel’s incompleteness theorems (magic, he believed, was the missing factor) and focused on his father.

The statement shocked Beckett so much that he could no longer be confined to a chair and jumped to his feet. ‘We scare you, Dad? That’s terrible. We would never hurt you.’

‘Not physically, perhaps,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘But the emotional toll of parenting such extraordinary children has been so very heavy.’

Myles scrambled to justify the twins’ shenanigans. ‘Yes, but, Father, in our defence, the Fowl DNA is positively littered with epigenetic markers passed down by generations of masterminds, so in many ways we have no option but to act as we do. I would go so far as to say that we are the victims in this—’

Artemis Senior cut his son off with a slice of his hand. ‘Spare me your verbal gymnastics, Myles. We both know you would win any argument you care to engage in, but let me tell you something: winning an argument doesn’t make you right.’

This might seem like a typical platitude, but Myles immediately realised that his father had delivered a masterstroke, for any further squabbling on the twins’ part would only strengthen Artemis Senior’s position, ironically winning the argument that their father claimed he could not win.

‘Well played, Father,’ he said.

‘No!’ said Artemis Senior, standing but keeping the weight off his bio-hybrid leg, which pained him in low-pressure areas or when he was anxious, as he was now. ‘I am not playing. No more playing. Things must change absolutely. A change that will permeate every stratum of your existence.’

‘We’re getting perms?’ said Beckett. ‘But my hair is already curly.’

Artemis Senior gave Beckett the full laser blast of his glacier-blue eyes, and Myles felt a shiver trip along his spine. He could not help but wonder if this were the glare Artemis Senior treated his lieutenants to back in the criminal-empire days.

‘Oh no, Beckett Fowl,’ said the boys’ father, wagging a finger at the blond twin. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Don’t do what, Dad?’ said Beckett, but he knew what. It was in his father’s eyes.

‘Use a silly comment as a coping mechanism to deal with stress. Your distracting remarks are calculated to put me on the back foot. Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have a back foot.’

Beckett was stunned. No one had ever called him out on this trick before, and he’d been using it for years.

‘“Are we getting perms?”’ continued Artemis Senior. ‘Or “Can I order ducks to swim in formation?” And a thousand other asinine questions you pull out of the bag whenever you don’t feel like being responsible for your actions.’

Myles was almost giving the situation his full attention now. Father was playing hardball. Perhaps this time they had actually pushed him over the emotional edge. Myles thought he might try one more avenue.

‘Father, if I might gently protest. You are in no position to lecture us about taking responsibility. After all, you evaded taking responsibility for your actions over the decades.’

This indeed was a bold challenge, but Myles reasoned that shock tactics might be the only way to halt Artemis Senior’s verbal barrage.

He was completely incorrect. Artemis Senior’s response to his son’s gentle protest was as follows:

‘You are making a mistake here, Myles. And your mistake is to believe that we are engaged in a civilised discussion like intelligent equals, whereas, in fact, you have behaved appallingly and are about to be soundly disciplined.’

‘How have we behaved appallingly, exactly? I feel our crimes should be listed, in the interests of fairness.’

Artemis Senior shrugged in an exaggerated and, Myles thought, semi-unhinged manner. ‘How would I know, exactly? It goes without saying that you haven’t told me everything, Myles.’

Myles was taken aback. ‘Of course I haven’t told you everything. That is at the very core of what it means to be a mastermind. I never tell anybody everything.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said the Fowl patriarch. ‘What matters is that your mother and I are upset.’

Myles clasped his hands behind his back. ‘It is not now, nor has it ever been our intention to cause distress to either Mother or yourself. In fact, we deny all charges. It was not our actions that led to this alleged upset, but rather the actions of those who would do us harm.’

‘Save it for the judge, son,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘Because I don’t care about your denials. What I do care about is this family and its wellbeing. Physically and emotionally. So, rule number one: no more fairy-related antics.’

‘We’re related to fairies?’ cried Beckett, forgetting the embargo on his silly questions tactic.

His father shot Beckett a warning glare, but otherwise gave him a pass on that offence.

‘That’s right,’ continued Artemis Senior. ‘I know all about the fairies. Our family have been friends to the People for centuries, and it has cost us dearly. Your own brother Artemis died. He died.’

Myles interrupted. ‘Perhaps, but it is a testament to Dr Fowl’s ingenuity and foresight that he engineered a revolutionary way back.’

‘Artemis died!’ shouted the twins’ father, pounding the desk. ‘Not Dr Fowl. Artemis, your flesh and blood. Only he isn’t your flesh and blood, not the current version anyway. He’s a clone possessed by Artemis’s spirit. Do you even hear what I’m saying, Myles? Do you even know how those months crushed your mother and me when we thought we’d lost one of you?’

‘I can hypothesise,’ said Myles. ‘Common side-effects of grief are lack of appetite, insomnia and depression, due to elevated levels of certain neurotransmitters.’

Beckett helped out his twin. ‘You were heartbroken, Dad. Mum too.’

‘Precisely,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘And Artemis is not even the first Fowl to be lost in the war to protect fairies. Do you remember the hall of portraits in Fowl Manor?’

Myles presumed this was rhetorical and did not answer.

‘Everyone on the left side of that hall died because of the fairies. Fowl and fairy, friends forever. That’s our secret motto, right? Well, it cost us. My own brother. My grandmother. Two uncles. My stepsister gave her own life for a squadron of LEP paratroopers. My mother lost an eye. I lost a leg.’

‘Technically, the fairies saved you,’ said Myles. ‘Blaming them for the loss of your leg is not logical.’

Artemis Senior was on the point of exploding, but he calmed himself with a breathing exercise that, ironically, he’d picked up from Myles.

‘Everyone. On. That. Wall. Died,’ he enunciated quietly. ‘Because of a promise Red Peg Fowl made to the People centuries ago. I didn’t remember any of this, because they mind-wiped me years ago, but Artemis stimulated my hippocampus before he left. And I realised that the fairies were attracted to us because of the residual magic in the Fowl estate.’

‘Which was the real reason you sold it,’ Myles deduced.

‘Exactly. The only things on those grounds now are organic vegetables. Not a single prospective Fowl mastermind in sight.’

‘Magic carrots!’ said Beckett, who still didn’t quite grasp how deep in the organic manure he and his brother were.

‘That’s right, Beckett,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘That’s about as much as I’m prepared to give the fairies from now on: magic carrots. This family will not spill one more drop of blood for the People.’

Myles decided to make what he thought was an important point. ‘If all Artemis’s stories are indeed true, and they do appear to be, then, if I recall correctly, it was the fairies who saved your life when a, quite frankly, ill-advised scheme of yours went disastrously wrong in Murmansk.’

Artemis Senior had reached his tolerance level for Myles’s interruptions.

‘Stand up straight, boy!’ he barked. ‘Both of you. Up straight and no fidgeting.’

This was perhaps the first time in their lives the twins had been spoken to in this manner by Artemis Senior, and some instinct snapped them both to attention before their conscious minds could fully digest the order.

Artemis Senior circled them like a sergeant major.

‘I do not want to be the person I was in my previous job,’ he said, ‘but it seems that reason does not work with sons of mine. So, if reason won’t work, we’re going to have some rules, and you two are going to abide by them. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ said Beckett, and he meant it at the time.

‘Of course, father mine,’ said Myles smoothly, not meaning it for a second. His plan was to press on with his quest for knowledge, but be a little sneakier about it.

‘So, rule number one: no contact with the fairies whatsoever. Commodore Short and I have had several video chats in the week since you returned home from your last adventure, and the LEP have agreed to lift their surveillance in exchange for me reining in my sons. They wanted to mind-wipe the pair of you, but Holly managed to talk them out of it. So, no fairy-related antics. Say, “Yes, Father.”’

This was a hard pill to swallow for both boys. Beckett would miss his friend Lazuli Heitz, while Myles would sorely miss the access to fairy technology, so neither spoke until Artemis Senior repeated in a more insistent tone, ‘Say, “Yes, Father!” Like you mean it.’

‘Yes, Father!’ shouted both boys.

‘Good. Next: you no longer have access to NANNI.’

Myles actually shrieked. ‘You propose to deprive me of NANNI? But she’s superintelligent.’

‘It’s no proposal, my boy. I’m simply doing you the courtesy of letting you know. And anyway you are more than adequately superintelligent without her,’ said Artemis Senior, holding out his hand. ‘Now give.’

Myles made no move to hand over his eyeglasses, and so his father plucked them right off his face.

‘I feel better already,’ said the twins’ father, folding the spectacles with decisive double clicks. ‘From now on, your eyeglasses will be just that. Glasses.’

Artemis Senior waved a hand over his desk to activate the smart surface and allowed the camera to scan his iris. Then he ordered NANNI to deactivate herself until further notice.

Once Myles had recovered from the initial shock of losing NANNI, he realised that the AI was loyal to him, and it would only take a few minutes to work round Father’s security and reactivate her. Also, Myles had hidden some NANNI lites in the area. They wouldn’t be superintelligent, but they would be smart enough.

‘When I reboot the island’s systems, NANNI won’t be a part of them,’ Artemis Senior announced. ‘You’re probably thinking, So what? I can hack in any time I want.’

Myles didn’t bother denying it.

‘And undoubtedly you can,’ continued his father. ‘But you will choose not to.’

Myles did not like the sound of this prediction.

Artemis Senior continued to roll out the new Fowl order.

‘Third, there will be no more excursions off the island. You will not so much as take a swim in the channel without parental supervision.’

‘The dolphins will be worried,’ said Beckett, which was not as outlandish a statement as one might think. As a side-effect of being possessed by a fairy ghost some years previously (see LEP file: The Last Guardian), Beckett had become a trans-species polyglot or, simply put, he could communicate with any human and most animals with a few exceptions, one being cats, which probably understood him, but didn’t care to answer.

‘The dolphins will get over it,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘They’ll moon about for a while, but then move on. That’s how dolphins are.’

‘It’s true,’ said Beckett. ‘Everyone thinks dolphins are all smiles, but that’s just the shape of their faces. They can be fickle friends.’

Myles felt exposed without his glasses on. ‘How long do you intend to maintain this cruel regime, Pater?’

His father barked a short, humourless laugh. ‘Oh, you poor boy. You think that’s all of it?’

‘There’s more?!’ squeaked Myles, who would have committed quite grievous bodily harm on someone for a few red gummy worms just about then.

‘There’s more.’ Artemis Senior counted off the rules on his fingers. ‘No internet. No access to any vehicles. No field trips. No plots. No plans. No “accidentally” leaving the island. No devising any linguistic or theoretical workarounds to get out of following my orders. No firearms. No weapons of any kind. No using common household objects as weapons. No cluster-punching – that one is specifically for you, Beckett. No climbing of any structures. Both of you must read a book every day.’

‘One book?’ said Myles, stamping a foot, which he for some reason thought might weaken his father’s resolve. ‘I refuse to be limited to one book.’

Beckett raised a hand, but Artemis Senior anticipated his question.

‘No, Beckett. It can’t be the same book every day.’ And then he went on with his list, which apparently was memorised. ‘No phones. No fraternising with known criminals besides myself, no consorting with unknown criminals, no tempting people to the dark side. Timetabled chores starting at seven a.m. You will report in to me or your mother five times a day, in person. Beckett, no more sugar or fast food. Myles, fast food for you every day.’

‘That is monstrous!’ protested Myles.

‘And also bad,’ said Beckett.

‘This is a punishment, after all,’ said their father. ‘Not a visit to the soda fountain.’

Myles frowned. ‘Amazingly, I don’t get that reference.’

‘Good,’ snapped his father. ‘And let me tell you, my boy, no one even listens to your references, they’re so obscure.’

This was a rare demeaning comment from the Fowl patriarch, but perhaps he could be forgiven, considering the circumstances.

‘Some people listen to my references,’ said Myles, edging close to a sulk. ‘It’s not as though I’m a Moravian friar expounding on DNA theories in an Augustinian monastery.’

Artemis Senior waited a moment to see if Myles was being sarcastic, but apparently he was not.

‘I rest my case,’ he said. ‘So, that’s almost it. Your new life starts immediately.’

Artemis Senior sat down at his desk and massaged both temples, which did little to alleviate the stress he was under. It is, in fact, astounding to think that, were Artemis Fowl Senior’s stress levels to be graphed, it would be apparent that they had not spiked to this extent since Artemis Junior was involved in basically shutting down the world some years previously, during what the media now referred to as the Big Dark.

‘In spite of your monumental lack of regard for your parents’ feelings, we continue to love you both. Your mother, in fact, adores you, though I myself find the shine wearing off a little. Nevertheless, I will keep you alive if it kills me, and I would rather have you alive in a virtual prison than killed during some fabulous adventure.’

‘May I ask …’ began Myles.

‘No,’ said his father. ‘You may not. What you may do is report to your mother in the main house. She has a list of chores for you.’

Myles bowed. ‘Very well, Father,’ he said, already plotting how to circumvent these new rules, most especially the ones about not circumventing the rules.

‘Ha,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘I see what you’re doing. I know that face.’

‘What face?’ asked Myles.

His father waggled a finger towards Myles’s general feature area. ‘That one. The eager-to-please one. We all know that face, Myles.’

‘We do,’ agreed Beckett. ‘He’s planning. It’s as plain as the face on his … face.’

‘I know what you’re thinking, son,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘You’re thinking, How can Father stop me from breaking his rules? If the entire LEP couldn’t stop me, then how can he?’

Myles nodded, even though he had actually been miles away, wondering whether Lazuli would allow him to take a patch of her blue skin for testing. A fifteen-centimetre square should be more than sufficient, and he should make sure to include some of the yellow markings when excising the sample. Myles wasn’t really thinking about breaking his father’s rules, because Myles felt, in all humility, that this goal would be well within his intellectual means.

‘Yes, father mine,’ said Myles, trying not to look too innocent. ‘That’s exactly the problem I was ruminating on. However, I see now that it is as unsolvable as Gödel’s incompleteness theorems.’

The first of which I have already solved, he thought.

‘The first of which you have undoubtedly already solved,’ continued Artemis Senior. ‘The missing variable in the second is magic, in case you’re interested.’

And this simple statement brought home to Myles how much he had underestimated his own father and how much trouble they were actually in.

‘So how do I intend to make you stick to the rules?’ continued Artemis Senior. ‘Allow me to enlighten you. What I’m going to do is as follows: nothing. You two are going to police each other. And I will invoke your most sacred vow to make you do it.’

Since Myles was actually listening now, he caught on immediately.

‘You wouldn’t! That is not a place you can go.’

‘Is it lollipops?’ asked Beckett, vaguely aware that Artemis Junior had always detested lollipops and everything that most demeaning of treats stood for. ‘Are you going to make us eat lollipops? Because I’m telling you right now that I love lollipops, so that will backfire big-time.’

Myles grabbed his twin by the shoulders and shook the lollipop notion right out of his brain.

‘Don’t you see, Beck?’ he said. ‘Father plans to force us to make a wrist-bump promise.’

Beckett was puzzled. ‘But that’s our thing. No one can make us do a wrist bump.’

‘Beck is correct, Father,’ said Myles, frowning quite severely. ‘Only a Fowl Twin can initiate the sacred gesture. That code is inviolate, and neither God nor mortal can force us to bump scars.’

‘Bump scars,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘Do it now.’

‘Dad!’ said Beckett, on the verge of tears. ‘I know we destroyed your jet, but this is serious.’

Artemis Senior was undeterred. ‘I said bump wrists or, heaven help me, I shall be quite cross with you both for several days. And, while your mother and I will continue to love you, we will not like you for a while.’

That was enough for Beckett. His mind could not accommodate the idea of his parents not liking him for so much as a moment.

‘Myles,’ he said, ‘we should bump.’

But Myles wasn’t there yet. Wrist-bumping went to the very core of what it meant to be a Fowl Twin.

‘I appeal to you, Father,’ said Myles. ‘Do not co-opt our ritual into your disciplinary programme. We are Fowls, and certain things are sacrosanct to us. Honour, for one.’

Artemis Senior had no trouble meeting his son’s eyes. ‘Love trumps honour,’ he said. ‘Now bump.’

‘Please, Father … Dad.’

Father/Dad laughed. ‘Dad? It’s Dad now? You must be desperate, son. Bump. Or, so help me, you’re both going down in my bad book. And my bad book does not make for good reading.’

Myles let that atrocious metaphor pass and looked to Beckett, whose left hand was already in position to receive the bump.

‘Whenever you’re ready, my boy,’ said Artemis Senior, and Myles knew the battle was lost. They were being tied into their father’s conditions by a contract of their own devising. A wrist-bump promise.

Myles raised his hand slowly, searching his mind for some way to void the promise. Perhaps if the scars were not precisely aligned?

‘Honour the bump, Myles,’ warned Artemis Senior. ‘No crossing your fingers or some such nonsense. You said it yourself: the bump is sacred.’

Myles’s vision was blurred now, perhaps from the myopia, or perhaps from the intensity of his concentration, but it seemed to him that Beckett’s pink scar glowed, and he felt his own scar twitch in response, seeking the contact.

If we freeze this moment and examine the psychology, some might say that all this palaver seems a bit much for something that amounts to little more than a pinky promise, but those people hugely underestimate the power of a connection between those born of the same pregnancy. Twins are often at a loss to describe this connection to singletons, but Myles Fowl, unsurprisingly, has tried. He hypothesised in an article for the Journal of Biological Sciences that regarding the emotional pull that exists between twins, we are permanently beyond each other’s event horizons, so to speak, and the mental fortitude necessary to escape that force could possibly have actual physical implications for the amygdala. While Beckett once wrote in rainbow pencil for his English teacher that Myles is like the other me, but boring.

Both boys were correct.

And the sacred wrist bump was a potent reminder to the Fowl Twins of their mental and physical bond. As babies in their double cradle, the twins often slept with their scars aligned, which supposedly reminded them of their time in the womb, and since those days they had used the wrist bump to seal every promise they had made to each other.

It was their thing.

Their gesture.

No one had ever forced it upon them until now.

Myles lifted his hand, and the closer it moved to Beckett’s wrist, the stronger the attraction grew until the scars synched and the twins felt a wave of contentment wash over them, smothering their anxiety somewhat.

Artemis Senior felt jealous of their Zen calm. ‘I wish I had a mystical scar,’ he said. ‘Better than yoga. Now promise you will do as I say.’

‘We promise,’ said Myles, a little too quickly.

Artemis Senior zipped his top up to his chin. ‘One last desperate roll of the dice, eh, son? Now do it properly. Say the magic words.’

‘We will do as you say,’ said the twins in unison. ‘Wrist-bump promise.’

Their father was satisfied. ‘And so it shall be.’

Myles lowered his hand, coming out of their shared mindset into the real world.

‘And now I suppose we must seek out Mother in the main house and get busy with our chores.’

Myles said the word chores with the contempt he usually reserved for Einstein.

‘Just you, Myles,’ said Artemis Senior, and the angry slash in his brow softened. ‘Beckett has a job to do.’

A person didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what that job might be, but Myles was a genius and so he figured it out all the faster, and his heart ached for his brother.

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