The Fowl Twins Deny All Charges

by Eoin Colfer

  Which a person might think was a poor use of brain space at such a critical time, but it was all part of one of his many contingency plans.

  A handful of seconds later, the Fowl Twins drew level with the second elevator in the shaft—the one housing two hostile dwarves who would be considered villains from a human perspective but possibly heroes from the fairy point of view.

  Myles wasted no time, as there was patently no time to waste, and initiated the supervillain showdown with a suitably dramatic line:

  “Ah, General Horteknut, we meet again.”

  Neither Gveld nor Gundred reacted. They kept beavering over a control panel with their backs turned to the Fowl Twins.

  Myles tried again, aiming his mouth at the speaker in the wall. “I said, we meet again, General Horteknut. I imagine you weren’t expecting to see me here.”

  Still nothing.

  “NANNI,” said Myles to his smart glasses, “did you get into all the building systems as I ordered?”

  “Not exactly,” said NANNI.

  “Are you telling me you failed?”

  “I half succeeded, Master,” hedged NANNI.

  “Half succeeded? Does that mean I control half of the systems?”

  “Approximately. These systems are the latest tech, Master, and I have been in a dolphin’s innards for the past year.”

  “No excuses,” snapped Myles. “How am I supposed to communicate with the adjacent elevator?”

  “There is a handset on the wall,” said NANNI, vibrating the words into Myles’s jawbone. “I can patch you through to the speaker.”

  Myles shuddered. “A handset? I am expected to use a handset now? The other supposedly identical elevator doesn’t have a handset.”

  Nevertheless, Myles gingerly unhooked the handset as though there might be a deadly bacteria smeared on the handle.

  “Half succeeded indeed,” he muttered, and then spoke into the mouthpiece. “We meet again, General Horteknut.”

  “You have to press the call button,” said NANNI.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Myles. “Why don’t I simply write on the glass with my bodily fluids?”

  “That is not actually glass,” noted NANNI.

  Myles missed fully operational NANNI. Oh, how he missed her.

  He pressed the CALL button. “General Horteknut. I imagine you were not expecting to see me.”

  Gveld removed her Sharkgirl helmet but did not turn from her work. “I could hardly miss you, Mud Boy. You have been banging around in there for an eternity.”

  Myles stayed on script. “I believe it is time for our showdown.”

  Now Gveld did turn. “Showdown? Are you a child? Oh yes, that is exactly what you are.”

  Two burns for Myles, but perhaps he could claw back some ground by summarizing Gveld’s plan. “I imagine your Reclaimers are going to blow the rods holding up this building, and when the seismic activity registers, the ACRONYM treasure will be shunted to the elevator to keep it safe. When the dust clears you will burrow out of here with the last of the Horteknut gold.”

  “Well done,” said Gveld. “Although I believe I already told you most of my plan.”

  “You did,” said Myles. “But some of it I worked out all by my lonesome. For example, how you trapped those ACRONYM agents in the elevators in order to kill them.”

  Gveld shrugged. “A bonus. We’ll put an end to ACRONYM and restore the Horteknut name.”

  “And Gundred has no objection to this mass murder?”

  “I do not, boy,” said Gundred. “My general leads and I follow willingly.”

  Gveld was satisfied. “I hope that answers your question.”

  The remaining free ACRONYM agents were now firing at will toward both elevators. Not that their bullets had any effect on silicon nitride other than to make an odd musical tinkling on the surface. Myles could have sworn that he heard Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Flight of the Bumblebee” hidden inside the pings, which was amusing.

  “It seems the ACRONYM agents might have something to say about that,” he said.

  “They can say what they like,” retorted Gveld. “No one can hear them. And soon no one will hear from them ever again.”

  Myles took a breath before playing his trump card. It was a volatile one, so to speak. “Of course, you won’t be killing all the ACRONYM agents in the building.”

  Gveld sighed. “I was hoping to enjoy this moment, Fowl. It has been millennia in the making. Many of my own family died so that I may stand here today on the brink of ultimate triumph, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t remind me of all the humans I won’t be killing. The agency will be obliterated, and that will be enough for me.”

  Myles waited a moment to absorb this impressive rant, staring at Gundred while he did so. “You’re missing the point, Gveld. There’s an ACRONYM agent closer than you know. She’s been there for quite some time. Twenty years, I would think.”

  Gveld huffed. “Games, boy. Schoolyard games. People think we call you Mud People because that’s where you lived when we ruled the surface: in the mud. But I think it’s because of all the mud you sling.”

  Myles gripped the handset tightly. He knew how dangerous these waters were. “This is no game, is it, Gundred?”

  Gundred did not answer, but Myles knew from the brimstone in her eyes that if she could strangle him at that moment, she would. Nevertheless, Myles forged ahead.

  “I read the ACRONYM files, as you know, and they have tried many times to embed an agent with the Fairy People. But how could a human pretend to be a fairy? It just wouldn’t work, unless that human looked like a fairy. In the way that perhaps a human little person might resemble a fairy dwarf. Even then it would have to be a female, because the males have tunneling abilities. But females—some could tunnel, yes, but most could not. And there is a recognized dwarf affliction called Boldart’s syndrome, named after the dwarf who discovered it, in which dissolved nitrogen comes out of the bloodstream, forming gas bubbles in circulation. Those who suffer from this syndrome are called surface dwarves. It’s rare, to be sure, but it means a dwarf cannot endure the same pressure as her fellows. So maybe a very clever female little person might persuade a band of dwarves that she had Boldart’s syndrome. Can you see where this is going, Ms. Horteknut?”

  Myles was speaking to Gveld, but he was looking straight at Gundred, who was not enjoying this conversation one bit.

  As for Gveld, she was staring at her communicator but not sending any commands.

  I have their attention, thought Myles. I shall continue.

  “My suspicions were first aroused when Gundred recognized an old ACRONYM call sign during my interrogation. And then you told me that Gundred was a surface dwarf. That would be very convenient for an ACRONYM spy. To never have to put herself in high-pressure situations of any sort.”

  Now Gveld spoke, without looking up. “Stop, Fowl. Stop this. Gundred is as a sister to me. More. She is my fellow warrior. She has done things to humans that no human would ever do.”

  Myles laughed, because Gveld’s comment was either incredibly naive or just plain stupid. “You of all people should not be surprised by what humans will do to each other, especially when they’re under orders.”

  “Don’t listen to this toxic human, Gveld,” said Gundred. “He is trying to distract you.”

  “I know that, sister,” said Gveld, placing a hand on her comrade’s forearm. “He is running down the clock in the vain hope that the pixel specialist will be able to stop our Reclaimers.”

  “That is exactly what I am doing,” agreed Myles. “But that doesn’t mean I am not also speaking the truth. So, since there is nothing you can do about it, I shall continue with my hypothetical, if that’s what it is, and surely you can spare an ear to listen while I talk.”

  Gveld snarled. “I don’t appear to have a choice.”

  It was true. They were all stuck in their respective elevators until the ACRONYM agents ceased firing.

  Gundred had an
idea. “We can destroy the speaker, Gveld.”

  But Gveld shook her head no, and Myles knew he had found the chink in their armor.

  “So, article one for the prosecution was Gundred’s supposed Boldart’s syndrome. Then I found out that she was not a born Horteknut, which isn’t damning evidence in itself, until you cross-reference it with the disappearance of an ACRONYM agent code-named Zelda a few months before Gundred’s appearance in the rubble. And even that isn’t conclusive, until you realize that Zelda Rubinstein was a famous little person actress in Hollywood movies. I think somebody was being a little obvious with their code name.”

  Something changed in Gveld. Perhaps she slumped a little, or perhaps her fist closed a notch tighter, so Myles forged ahead.

  “But still I wasn’t sure. Yes, there’s a lot of circumstantial evidence, but no proof. Give it up, Myles, I told myself. You are making massive leaps to unlikely conclusions. But then I heard how Gundred was only half-buried by the rubble yet even so lost her ability to speak due to temporary asphyxiation.”

  “So, what, Mud Boy?” snapped Gundred. “It was worth it. I brought down an ACRONYM facility on my own.”

  “The thing is,” said Myles, “if ACRONYM knew as much about dwarves as I do, they would know about something called cloacal respiration.”

  Gundred made what attorneys would call a rookie mistake, in that she asked a question she should have known the answer to: “Oh, really? And what is cloacal respiration supposed to be?”

  Gveld knew then. Myles could see it in the sag of her features as the truth hit her square in the heart.

  “The cloaca is an orifice that humans do not have but amphibians and dwarves do. In a pinch, a real dwarf can diffuse oxygen through the cloaca. Or, as my brother here might say, and please excuse the scatological language: a real dwarf can breathe through their butt. So, if Ms. Gundred’s lower half was sticking out of the rubble, as you say, then she could not have been asphyxiated. I suspect that ACRONYM sacrificed a facility and carefully buried Agent Zelda in the ruins. The trauma was a cover so she would have time to learn the language.”

  This was quite a speech, especially in dire circumstances, and in his memoirs some fifty years hence, Myles would include it in his top ten monologues.

  “My advice, General,” continued the Fowl twin, “would be to finish up here and then ask your dear friend to subject herself to a simple scan. You will have your answer in five seconds. In fact, I could do it for you now with my fancy spectacles.”

  Gveld took several deep breaths, each one catching painfully in her chest. “Is this true?” she asked, then: “Gundred, my sweet sister. Tell me this human speaks false.”

  “Gveld,” said Gundred, and there were tears in her eyes. “Gveld, it’s been so long.”

  “Are you human?” asked Gveld, and there was a pain in her voice that went far beyond her own illness.

  Gundred pleaded. “Sister. Let me prove myself….”

  “Is it true?” Gveld growled. “Does this despicable boy tell me the truth?”

  “It was so long ago. I am something else now. Something in-between. This is my family. You are my sister, and I would die for you.”

  “Say it,” said the Horteknut First. “Tell me.”

  Gundred found courage from somewhere deep inside and said, “My body may be human, but my heart belongs to you and the dwarves.”

  Gveld held out her communicator. “Prove it,” she said.

  And without hesitation Gundred pressed her thumb to the red button flashing on the screen.

  Red button, thought Myles. That is probably not good.

  He was right. It wasn’t.

  I do hope that I bought Lazuli enough time to disable the basement charges, but I doubt it.

  Once again Myles was right.

  He hadn’t.

  The Subbasement

  Five Minutes Earlier

  If we rewind some minutes before Gundred pressed the DETONATE button, we find Lazuli Heitz was missing her LEP equipment. Not all of it. The standard-issue sunblock was not at the top of her wish list, nor was the pee-straw, which, mercifully, she’d never had to put to the test. But, ideally, she would have faced this Reclaimer with her Oxalis pistol primed to wrap him in genetically modified micro vines, instead of going into battle dressed like a mini version of Myles Fowl without a single armored plate to protect her blue flesh and without any implement that could be considered a weapon.

  Unless my mysterious magic shows up again.

  Mysterious magic was, she supposed, better than nothing.

  The Reclaimer, Vigor, was certainly no class of criminal mastermind, as he did not bother with the melodramatic and pun-laden witticisms typical of that ilk when faced with an opponent.

  For example, upon spying Specialist Heitz, Sir Teddy Bleedham-Drye might have quipped, Ah, Lazuli, it’s about time we took our duel to new Heitz.

  Or the pixie Opal Koboi, who was quite the one for shrieking, may have shrieked, You think you’re blue now, Heitz? I’ll show you just how blue you can be.

  Which is quite a lengthy shriek, but Opal was a practiced shrieker.

  This particular Reclaimer simply body-checked Lazuli through a plastic tarp and into the excavation area without uttering a single word. The air huffed from Lazuli’s lungs and she lay in the dust, her eyes rolling back just far enough so that she could see the network of steel rods holding up the building. She should not have been able to see the rods, for a couple of reasons: 1) because they were usually encased in concrete pillars, and 2) because it was generally pitch-black down there when the crews were not working. There was no human crew currently on the job, but a group of Reclaimers had fired up the arc lights so that the underground site was awash in a white glare, and the concrete had been chipped away from the rods so that the aforementioned Reclaimers could smoosh their spitballs around them.

  Come on, magic! thought Lazuli. Didn’t Myles wake you up?

  What was it he’d said? Your trigger appears to be imminent death, which is morbidly humorous.

  Lazuli heard something between a slash and a rip and knew the Reclaimer had cut through the plastic sheeting.

  She wondered, How soon is imminent? This seems pretty imminent.

  But it was nothing doing on the magic front, it seemed, and Lazuli could not even rise to meet her fate as the dwarf’s boot suddenly stamped on her chest, and whatever air she’d had in her lungs left in a blurt.

  Blurt, the pixel thought. I’m going out with a blurt?

  She was tempted to laugh but didn’t, because maybe then the magic wouldn’t feel that death was imminent.

  My mind is melting, she thought. That’s what happens when you hang around with the Fowl Twins.

  While Lazuli’s mind was melting, Vigor set about doing the job he’d been doing for centuries, that being the dispatching of enemies as efficiently as possible. To this end he spun his crystal blade so that the pointy end was aimed at Lazuli’s heart, and then covered the pommel with his palm for an extra push.

  Imminent, thought Lazuli and managed to raise a hand. Imminent.

  Evidently the Reclaimer decided that a little blue hand couldn’t stop his thrust, because he plunged straight down. Lazuli felt the cold crystal touch her skin, but it did not pierce it, because the magic finally showed up and did its job—though it took a moment for that fact to register with Lazuli, as she was too busy watching her life flash before her eyes.

  It was only when the crystal blade melted down to the hilt and a concussive force blasted Vigor clear across the basement—and rather unfortunately into one of the rod clusters, playing them like a xylophone—that Lazuli realized she was still alive.

  “Ha!” she said, when her breath had returned. “Myles was right. The boy was right.”

  Of course he was.

  But there were still two Reclaimers left to tackle. When her magic had finally shown up it had flitted across her mind that she could use her power to inflict magical damage on the ot
her dwarves, but it seemed that her particular brand of magic was more defensive than offensive, so…If you wouldn’t mind, brain, I need a new plan, please.

  No plan arrived, perhaps because Lazuli was distracted by the sight of her own hands glowing orange, with steam rising from the pores.

  Concentrate, Specialist, she told herself. There’s a building about to come down on your head.

  The underground chamber was vast by fairy real estate standards, possibly the dimensions of three crunchball fields. The space was so big that the human earthmovers strewn around the excavation site seemed like discarded toys. It was difficult to gauge the size for certain, as it stretched off into darkness beyond the supports. Gathered around the giant central column were the last two Reclaimers, their vinesuits coated with mud and dust. They had noticed Lazuli but seemed perfectly content to let her observe the proceedings, making no move to halt any progress the specialist might make or, for that matter, to help their comrade. The dwarves simply packed themselves inside a transparent blue hemispherical structure and waited.

  Lazuli guessed this was a tunnel pod—a superstrong structure used to survive cave-ins.

  The pixel was seized by the urge to flee. Who would blame her for removing herself from this basement? She doubted there was a place for her in the pod.

  But if I leave here without stopping the detonation, Myles will die for certain.

  Because there were some situations that even a Fowl could not talk his way out of.

  And also, Lazuli knew that the only reason the Reclaimers were ignoring her was that she was too late. They figured there was nothing to be done.

  I need to prove them wrong and do something unexpected, Lazuli realized. I need a plan that’s so far out of the box it can’t even see the box.

  And so Specialist Heitz posed a question to herself that no one should ever pose, unless circumstances are so positively dire that good sense no longer applies.

  What would Beckett do?

  The answer came easily. Beckett would marshal an army of rats to hold up the columns with their furry bodies before declaring himself emperor of all rodents.