The Fowl Twins Deny All Charges

by Eoin Colfer

  And then he promptly tripped up the first step.

  Which was not easy to do.

  OUR universe is so vast and varied that it is reasonably accurate to say that there is nothing new under our, or indeed any, sun. Everything that is currently happening has more or less happened before at some point. Any combination of character types and circumstances that you can possibly imagine has been combined somewhere along the timeline. Simply put, history inevitably repeats itself.

  There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. In fact, there is a scroll in Haven City’s Hey Hey Temple on which the pixie monks attempt to catalogue those exceptions as far as this planet is concerned, and they have concluded that there have been, to this point, forty-one events involving such outlandish and unlikely conditions that they could be considered truly unique. These events are known as singularities, and it is a testament to the Fowl family that they were involved in four singularities so far. The event that would become known as the ACRONYM Convergence increased the number of singularities to forty-two and the Fowl family’s personal tally to five, which is a staggering statistic considering the hundred-billion-plus sentient beings who have so far existed on or beneath the surface of the earth. Having said that, those familiar with the Fowls’ outlandish exploits consider the percentage a little on the low side.

  It is indisputable that the ACRONYM Convergence deserves its place on the list, for the combination of players and events is bordering on incredible, but we must believe the monks that the convergence occurred as recorded. After all, to quote the famous elfin F-pop star Merry Sparx, Hey, if you can’t trust the Hey Hey, then hey hey? Followed by several more elongated heys. This lyric does not really make any sense unless one is an F-pop devotee.

  Perhaps the most damning indictment of the ACRONYM Convergence is the reaction of LEP Commander Trouble Kelp when he read the bare-bones report the following day. His exact words were:

  “What?”

  “Really?”

  “Ha-ha, very funny.”

  “Is that even possible?”

  “I am not buying this for a second.”

  “Are we sure Artemis Fowl is in space?”

  “I’m going to lie down on the sofa in my office for an hour. Bring me two kilos of raw chocolate, then no interruptions.”

  “Oh, and ignore any sobbing noises you might hear.”

  It is tricky to establish the exact starting point of the Convergence. Perhaps it was when humans stole dwarf gold over ten thousand years ago. Or perhaps it was when the first team of Horteknut Reclaimers was formed to initiate their vendetta against humanity. Or perhaps it was when Gveld Horteknut took over the helm at Reclaimer Central. This, however, is a debate for historians. We will concentrate on the Convergence’s events, leading up to and including the climactic showdown that takes place in and around the convention center on Dublin’s Spencer Docks, which had recently been completely remodeled following a mysterious major subsidence some years earlier.

  Let us observe actions as they unfold from the Convergence’s event horizon, that being the point when the protagonists are committed to their goals and there is no chance the mission can be abandoned. For Gveld and her Reclaimers, this moment arrived when they took up their positions in the convention center environs. Gveld Horteknut and Gundred, her second, were across the street in the upper gantry of a hulking gray traffic bridge outside the center, both disguised from head to toe in manga cosplay as Sharkgirl and Yumi Dragonella, which made them look a lot less homicidal than they were. Vigor and an additional two Reclaimers waited in the bowels of the convention center, ready to blow shaped charges to bring down the building when the Horteknut hoard was secure.

  Gundred was not privy to that last bringing down the building bit but was shortly to find out. The original plan had been to trip the building’s seismic sensors with a small explosion in the parking basement, which would automatically shunt the gold into the one section of the building that was indestructible, that being the executive elevator. Even if the entire building collapsed, anything and anyone inside would be protected. Gveld and Gundred would be waiting in the elevator to secure the gold, and once they had, they would override the elevator controls and ride into the subbasement, where the Reclaimers would spirit away their treasure.

  But…

  Gveld had decided that, as this was the final ACRONYM facility, she had the perfect opportunity to shut down the despicable organization once and for all. And so she had instructed her demolitions expert, Vigor, to plant six charges instead of one.

  “Turn this place into rubble,” she’d ordered. “Then dig us out.”

  This was the final piece of the puzzle, which Gveld had kept from Gundred.

  I can claim the collapse was unexpected, she told herself. Shoddy construction, simple as that. Gundred will be distressed for a day, but then she will be herself once more.

  Gveld did feel a little guilty.

  Not for killing the humans—she would not lose a wink of sleep over that—but for deceiving her Number Two, who was also her only real friend.

  I also will be distressed for a day, she realized, which will make my story all the more believable.

  But that was in the future. A future that would never come to pass unless Myles Fowl’s plan actually worked.

  Had killing him been a rash decision? Gveld wondered.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t have killed the Fowl boy so quickly,” Gundred said now, as though plucking the thought from her general’s mind.

  Gveld smiled. She knows me so well.

  Aloud she said, “What have I taught you, my friend?”

  Gveld had taught her friend innumerable lessons, but Gundred knew which one was most appropriate here.

  “You told me, my general, that I should never regret the killing of a human. There are always more left alive.”

  “Exactly,” said Gveld. “There are always more. Mischiefs.”

  A mischief, Gundred knew, was the collective noun for rats, which Gveld often applied to humans.

  “And anyway, Number Two,” continued the general, “we have time.”

  They did have some time, but certainly not an abundance of it. Perhaps half an hour before the eclipse began, and then seven minutes while it lasted to get into the elevator before it was called to the penthouse by the seismic alarm.

  Thirty minutes to go, thought Gundred, and she knew in her heart that Gveld would go in whether they had cover or not.

  My general will not miss this opportunity.

  And then they would die together.

  And what was Myles Fowl’s wonderful scheme that would somehow provide cover for the costumed dwarves to penetrate the center’s glass atrium? Myles would be the first to admit that it was a little on the fanciful side for his own liking, but in his defense, when he had put the plan together it had been hypothetical, as he had intended to steal the gold on its way across the Atlantic using one of his father’s underwater lairs as a base of operations.

  The problem was this: how to bring an unregulated crowd of unruly people to a specific point in Dublin within the hour. A crowd in which everyone wore a disguise and no one was identifiable. Myles knew that if that crowd were to be composed mainly of teenagers, the answer was simple: the internet.

  So, Myles hacked the social media accounts of actor Dylan Dee (real name: Sean Barnes), who played starship captain Voopster Mab on the science fiction show Supermassive.

  Dee was notorious for dropping online hints that led fans on treasure hunts to book signings, poetry readings, interpretive-dance flash mobs, special-effects-makeup tutorials, and even walk-on parts on Supermassive. The actor had sixty million followers on social media, and over a million of those were in Ireland, which amounted to almost a quarter of the country’s population, and it had occurred to Myles that it might be very useful to harness the enthusiasm of the actor’s ardent fans. And so, to this end, he had locked Dylan Dee out of his own accounts and posted the following:

&
nbsp; FLASHcon, my little star warriors. Follow me one last time for MAJOR brownie points and rewards. Only for the faithful, CUZ you know who you are. Let’s Con the World where the sun don’t shine. #supermassive #walk-on #voopstermab

  What did all that shorthand jargon mean? To anyone over the age of forty, probably nothing, but if a person was a Dylan Dee fan, and a million Irish people were, it meant that Dee himself was calling a flash convention during the eclipse at the site where Worldcon had just been, and whoever wore the best Supermassive costume would win a walk-on part as a major in the hit show.

  Gveld considered this plan now. It seemed a long shot at best.

  No matter, she thought. Cover or not, we are going in.

  It seemed most unlikely that a swath of humanity could be mobilized in such a short time, but just then a mob descended on Convention Centre Dublin, flowing from the side streets and the harbor. Buses pulled over, disgorging legions of eager cosplayers. Cars triple-parked so that adults could eject kids from their back seats as fast as possible. Within minutes the entire area was shut down with human traffic. What had been a quiet dockside only moments before had transformed into a hive of raucous activity. There was quite of lot of squealing, shouting in alien tongues, toy lasers blasting, and dogs (also in costume) barking, and someone had brought a large hissing snake that had been painted gold, which was all kinds of illegal. Obviously, the sci-fi series featured a giant, as there were several pairs of teenagers on each other’s shoulders, dressed in oversized furry onesies. Two of the giants had a fight. One of the dog/aliens joined in. A couple of dads got involved. The security men made a valiant effort to assure everyone that there was no flashcon here today, but nobody bought it, because the FLASH signage was right there!

  Who are you kidding? they cried.

  Get out of my way, humans, shouted some others, who were clearly human themselves.

  And…

  We want Dylan! was the chant that quickly spread through the crowd until it seemed the entire quayside rocked like boats on the river.

  In the traffic bridge gantry, General Gveld Horteknut smiled. “It looks like the Fowl child did deliver,” she said to her Number Two. “Do you see, Gundred? I was right to kill him.”

  It occurred to Gveld that all these children present would die, too.

  But they were very annoying, and the world would be a better place without them.

  A shadow fell across the river, and Gveld Horteknut checked the skies through her Sharkgirl visor. The eclipse had begun. Now it was safe for them both to stride across the plaza to the convention center without fear of direct sunlight should they be jostled and a gap open in their clothing, because there was no direct sunlight. This might seem like a minor worry, but most dwarves are catastrophically photosensitive and can be burned to a crisp by even milky rays. An elf TV pundit once quipped that Even vampires love the sun more than the average dwarf. Not that fairies believe in vampires, but that’s okay, because vampires by and large don’t believe in fairies. The point being that if a dwarf’s sunblock flaked and a patch of skin got strobed by sunlight, the burn shock could kill them outright. Gundred had built up a resistance because she was a surface dwarf, but Gveld was especially vulnerable and had to be careful that her clothing was not porous. Gveld was not scared of dying as much as dying before her mission was completed. Now, at least solar burn would not be a problem for the next seven minutes or so.

  The dwarves climbed down from the steel bridge gantry and cautiously crossed the road. Both had been out in public before—after all, they were human in appearance—but the security in this facility would be on the lookout for all kinds of fairies, including dwarves, so it was best not to reveal themselves as possible suspects. Also, the rune tattoos on Gveld’s cheeks often shone when she was excited, and even through her Sharkgirl visor the glow was visible.

  Gundred was nervous as they threaded their way through the towering humans, but she drew courage from her general, who strode to the lobby door as though she owned this building and was in command of everyone here.

  My general, thought Gundred. My life.

  A mere hour beforehand there would have been absolutely zero chance that the Reclaimers could have penetrated lobby security, but now the entire floor was a heaving zoo of irritated teens and their beyond-exasperated parents, who had given up their afternoon to drive into the city only to find these security guys denying that there even was a flash convention in spite of the dozen or so banners and signs displaying the word FLASH in bright red letters.

  One dad was offering the receptionist a fat wad of euros to open the turnstiles. “Just let my son Ned, I mean Threepio, and his friends through. That’s all I’m asking. We know the Star Wars guy is here.”

  “Supermassive!” squealed Threepio. “The Supermassive guy. It’s Captain Voopster Mab. Why are you so stupid, Dad?”

  Why indeed? thought Gveld as the Reclaimers ducked under the turnstile.

  Of course they were spotted by half a dozen security men on the ring of the upper balcony, but Gveld bought them some time by switching on the speaker in her helmet and calling out:

  “By the Ruby of Moonstar Twelve, there he is: Dylan Dee!”

  A shrill howl rose from the teenagers. A howl of this magnitude once signified that a great tragedy had befallen the community, such as a Viking raid, or perhaps the eruption of a nearby volcano, but in modern times it could only mean one thing: Someone had laid eyes on a celebrity.

  Gveld added fuel to the fire by pointing at a man guarding the elevator shaft and shouting:

  “There he is! By the elevator door.”

  If Gundred had had the time or the inclination, she might have felt sorry for the elevator guy, who was swept away on a wriggling wave of superfans who literally tore the hair from his scalp looking for souvenirs, but the Horteknut Number Two had neither commodity. Her goal now was keeping her general in sight and getting into the right-hand elevator in the central column. The left one was useless to them as only the right would take delivery of their precious cargo.

  The Reclaimers caught a break when they found the elevator at ground level. Usually the car would wait outside the penthouse in case it was needed by the station chief, but perhaps the station chief was already checking out the ground floor ruckus or perhaps he was being court-martialed for booting out the tenants. Whatever the reason, the elevator was where it was, which meant the dwarves wouldn’t need to wait for it. Providing the NOK-NOK was up to the job of cracking its seal.

  If there is one thing dwarves are experts on, it is breaking into places. And the NOK-NOK, or Network Override Key, was an ever-evolving piece of burglar’s kit. It had been developed by the LEP as an electronic replacement for the battering ram and then adapted by dwarves to get around increasingly elaborate human security systems. It was the size of a hockey puck, and Gveld had it strapped to the palm of her hand. She held it close to the elevator’s thumb scanner and let it do its thing. It was already finely tuned to ACRONYM’s basic settings, but every site had its own quirks, and even the gauge of the various wirings could slow down the tool.

  The NOK-NOK did indeed do its thing, but the ACRONYM elevator was no pushover and made the Reclaimers wait a full ten seconds before the door slid open, and in that time several people attempted to get close to Gveld. Gundred protected her general with gusto and expertise, incapacitating three security men with well-placed blows and turning back several teens who hoped that perhaps the elevator would ferry them into Dylan Dee’s presence.

  The Reclaimers lurched into the elevator and Gveld passed the NOK-NOK device to her Number Two.

  “Can you feel it?” the general asked dreamily, her eyes locked on to the ceiling panel. “The gold calls. Destiny is almost in our reach.”

  Gundred stripped back the elevator panel and plugged in the electronic key.

  “Time to bring down the house,” she said.

  More than you know, Gveld thought but did not say.

  Ten Minut
es Earlier

  The Regrettables utilized a somewhat unusual mode of transport for their short trip to the convention center. It was certainly not the most unusual mode of transport the Fowl Twins would ever avail themselves of—that honor going to the time Myles had transmitted the brothers’ consciousnesses along a length of an irradiated shoestring into a vat of swamp algae—but it was a memorable trip nonetheless, as it was undertaken on the backs of two dolphins that were none too pleased about being commandeered to ferry bipeds. The cetaceans were additionally put out by the fact that the water in these parts was teeming with bacteria, and furthermore, one of the dolphins, whose name was Ah-ah-eh-eh-eh, had planned to spend the afternoon working on his rom-com screenplay and not pumping out the toxic bilge lining his blowhole. But, as his pal Eh-eh-eh-blooeee had reminded him, Neither of us relish being here, but that gangly human cut you out of those nets a few moon cycles ago, Ah-ah. We owe him a favor.

  To which Ah-ah-eh-eh-eh had replied, Whatever, Blooeee. But if someone catches this little jaunt on film and we end up in a TV show, I’m holding you responsible. And let me tell you something for nothing: I am never going back in a cage.

  To which Eh-eh-eh-blooeee rolled his double split pupils and said, Like you were ever in a cage. And at least you didn’t have to puke up a package.

  To explain the package-puking comment: Myles had always been paranoid about losing his precious graphene eyeglasses, even though his need for them was more psychosomatic than anything else. Myles reasoned that it only made sense to hide several pairs on and off the island in case of emergency, and considering the Fowl lifestyle, an emergency was pretty much inevitable. To this end Myles had tucked away pairs of spectacles in several easy-to-find hiding places and a few less obvious ones. The least obvious one being inside a seaweed egg in the tummy of one of Beckett’s dolphin pals, namely Eh-eh-eh-blooeee.

  The poor aquatic mammal had been asked to hawk up Myles’s graphene spectacles before they set out on their journey. These older glasses did not house a superintelligent NANNI, but the NANNI they did house was still more powerful than any other human techno-glasses in development.