The Fowl Twins

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 …