by Eoin Colfer
Myishi drones, I would bet, thought Jeronima, and when laser sights painted both choppers, her suspicions were confirmed.
“Shoot them down,” she ordered. “All of them.”
There followed a brief but deadly firefight.
The drones under NANNI’s command threw everything they had at the two helicopters. Everything they had included laser beams, small-caliber bullets, buzz blades, hedge clippers, weed killer, and even some bug spray. Most of the missiles fell well short of the mark, and even the lasers did little damage against the tough hides of the helicopters. The helicopters, on the other hand, rained devastating destruction on the drones. They hit them with machine-gun fire, mortars, and flamethrowers. Within minutes there were only soot and sparks where the drones had been, and still the small blue fairy stood defiantly in Peter Pan style, as though she were the one in charge.
“I gotta give it to her,” said the copilot. “That little creature has guts. Standing right out there in the open. Making a target of herself. And look at those other guys, relaxing on the bench like they’re at a baseball game.”
It is true, thought Jeronima. It is as if they are knowing something that I myself am not knowing.
“No matter,” she said. “Take the shot at the fairy as soon as you have one. I want to be out of here before the coast guard arrives.”
“I got a shot right now,” said the sharpshooter in the second chopper.
“Well, then, tranq her,” said Jeronima. She flicked off the safety on her own weapon, thinking: And I will shoot the Fowl Twins.
Jeronima tucked the stock of her weapon into her shoulder, took a breath, put a finger on the trigger, closed her eyes for a long second so she would not need to blink, then…
…opened her eyes to find she was somewhere she did not recognize doing something unfamiliar.
Or maybe not familiar yet.
Becoming familiar.
Around and round. Over and over. A rough wooden stick in her grip.
Cranking.
She was cranking a handle.
And beside her was a child. Maybe nine years old. A girl whose name was…Mercy.
The girl’s name was Mercy.
I like this girl, Jeronima realized. I like her and every-one here.
Jeronima took a break from her work and looked around. She was in a village of mud huts with brightly painted walls, each one with a curtain across the doorway. There were people everywhere.
The Baka, she realized. The Baka of eastern Cameroon.
The Baka were swarming around her, tapping her shoulder, singing a local melody that someone had told her weeks ago was about carrying water along the trail.
No more, thought Jeronima. From now on, there will be water right here in the village from this well.
She wiped her neck with a kerchief and then bent to her work with renewed vigor, joining in the simple repetitive song.
“Carry the water, carry the water.”
In her mind adding the suffix no more.
Nine-year-olds like Mercy shouldn’t have to carry water.
A thought popped into her head: This is how a nun should live. Not hunting other life-forms with guns.
Other life-forms with guns? That was estúpido. Why would a nun need a gun? Or a helicopter?
Sister Jeronima shook these crazy thoughts from her head. She was daydreaming when there was work to be done. She cranked the handle one more time, and the engine it was connected to caught. The engine was also connected to a pump, which created a vacuum in a pipe running deep into the ground.
A cheer rose up around her, decorated with beautiful laughs and singing, and Jeronima thought she could endure heat and mosquitoes for the rest of her life to hear that sound just once a year.
For a few seconds the pipe coughed dryly, like an old man’s windpipe, but then it spat brown sludge and finally a sparkling stream of clear water. Jeronima sank back on her knees, accepting the hugs and kisses of her new friends, and she thanked the Lord for the benefactor who had sponsored the well, and, as she listened to the delighted laughs and songs of the children float above her head like sonic butterflies, she thought that days like this would help to erase the shadows in her past that she couldn’t quite remember.
Jeronima did not notice, standing at the back of the crowd, one member of the Baka who was perhaps a head shorter than the other tribespeople and wearing a cap pulled down over his ears in spite of the heat. She did not see this fellow pull a matchbox from his pocket and speak into it as though it were a smartphone. And she did not hear him say “Relocation a success. Everyone’s a winner. Requesting evac.”
And even if Jeronima had heard these terse sentences, she would not have understood, as the nun did not speak Gnommish.
The Westland helicopters froze with their rotors in mid-whirl. With the blades static like that, there was no way the birds should have stayed in the air, but something held them up. Myles could clearly see the muzzle flares of two weapons that were in the process of picking off the remaining drones. The flares should have faded, but they didn’t, and the half dozen paratroopers who had started rappelling to ground were stuck in the air, torsos leaned back, legs splayed in the descend position, but completely still.
“Time-stop,” said Myles, with no small amount of admiration in his tone. “I need to get a few of those.”
If Myles tilted his head to the right angle and squinted, he could just about make out spheres of sparkling poly-hedrons enclosing both helicopters and tethers leading back into a cloud.
Myles straightened what was left of his tie and checked that the remains of his pants at least covered his bottom, for he felt certain they were about to be introduced to someone.
The LEP shuttle emerged from the clouds, visible only because of the absence of vapor where it passed. It was an ugly ship, judging by the outline, all jutting sections and angular gun ports, and this impression of ugliness was only compounded when the shield was deactivated and, section by section, the LEP bird became fully visible.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” said Lazuli, waving the craft in for a landing on the lawn of Childerblaine House.
“Not in the least,” said Myles sincerely. “That craft spits in the face of Newton’s ghost. I thought the Fairy People were supposed to be advanced.”
“We are advanced,” retorted Lazuli. “Everything you think you know about aerodynamics is wrong. But don’t worry, you’ll get there.”
“Not in one of these things, I hope,” said Myles.
One might assume that his dismissal of fairy technology was due to intimidation, but one would be wrong. Myles was genuinely unimpressed.
The shuttle touched down on the lawn without crushing so much as a daisy, and a few seconds later, as the boosters cycled down, a hatch opened in the shuttle’s belly and a female elf in a flight suit and auburn crew cut strolled down the escalator backlit by the shuttle’s interior lights. It was quite a dramatic moment.
“Specialist Heitz,” said the figure. “We have been looking for you.”
Lazuli saluted the elf who was her angel. “Yes, Commodore. There have been some exceptional circumstances. I got a beacon out as soon as my suit regenerated.”
The elf tugged off her mirrored Wayfarers and took a look around. “Exceptional, indeed. But hardly surprising when there are Fowls involved. Are you injured in any way?”
“No, Commodore. I am fit for duty. Thanks in no small part to these humans.”
Beckett had been trying to put his finger on something since the elf’s first word, and then the lightbulb suddenly turned on. “NANNI,” he said. “You’re NANNI in real life.”
“Holly Short,” surmised Myles. “Artemis used your voice for our Artificial Intelligence program. I remember he said: Finally she will have some intelligence. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time.”
One half of Holly Short’s mouth smiled while the other grimaced. It was an odd expression, which usually meant that the wearer had spent time i
n the company of one Fowl or other.
“That sounds like Artemis,” she said. “Believe it or not, I miss the Mud Boy, bad jokes and all.”
“And now you have been promoted to commodore?”
“I control half a dozen LEP shuttles and also mentor specialists like Lazuli. Though I don’t seem to have done a very good job at that.”
“That is true,” said Myles. “As a mentor, you should have anticipated every possible scenario.”
Holly ignored the remark and stepped off the ramp. She surveyed the devastation all around. The twisted and smoking carapaces of a hundred perforated drones, and the manor house itself, pocked with bullet holes, made the island look like the epicenter of a war zone, which it had been, for a few minutes at least.
“You seem to have involved yourself in a Retrieval operation, Specialist Heitz,” she commented. “I expect a very detailed report.”
“Of course, Commodore,” said Lazuli. “I can explain everything.”
Myles could not help but comment unhelpfully once more. “Most things can be explained, Specialist. Cause and effect and so on. Explanations do little to clarify the morality of our actions.”
Lazuli jerked a thumb at Myles. “Commodore, there’s no point in listening to this human.”
“I know,” said Holly. “I’ve got one just like him.”
Beckett was rapping on the shuttle’s paneling, seemingly oblivious to the gun turrets that were following his movements. Whistle Blower was not oblivious to the gun turrets—indeed, he appeared to be trying to eat one.
Holly could not help but be taken aback. “There seems to be a toy troll chewing on my ship, Specialist.”
“That’s why I involved myself. The troll was completely exposed to the duke and the nun.”
Holly blinked rapidly. “It may take some time for me to absorb that last sentence.”
Beckett placed an ear against the hull and listened. From inside the shuttle came the sound of a fairy talking in hushed tones, telling her boyfriend that she was at work and couldn’t chat now, and also, don’t forget to renew the Picflix subscription.
“I better get to ride in this flying machine,” Beckett said, “or there will be trouble.”
Holly smiled and there was a little guilt in there. “You will, human. There is a procedure you need to undergo. Nothing painful, trust me.”
Beckett shook his own hands as he had seen Artemis do in the video. “Fowl and fairy, friends forever. Right?”
Myles knew what the procedure might be. “You intend to mind-wipe us, Commodore. We have seen too much of the fairy world.”
“Of course not, Myles,” said Holly, and then to Lazuli in Gnommish, “We are definitely going to wipe these humans. The last thing the LEP needs is two more Fowls with all of our secrets.”
Beckett laughed. “Ha! She’s so tricky. We are definitely being wiped. It sounds like fun.”
Holly glared at Lazuli, who said, “I was about to warn you. That one speaks our languages.”
“Nevertheless, it must be done,” said Holly, recovering quickly. “It’s not something I would personally choose to do, but there are rules for close encounters. Humans must be wiped and possibly relocated with new legend implants.”
“New legends?” asked Beckett. “Can I be a troll? I already speak the language.”
“Perhaps we could make an exception,” said Lazuli, sticking up for her human comrades. “Without these boys, Whistle Blower and I would have been dissected on a lab tray by now.”
“No exceptions, Specialist,” said Holly, obviously uncomfortable with the regulations but determined to follow them. And then: “Whistle Blower?”
“The toy troll,” explained Lazuli. “Beckett, the second Fowl boy, named him. And it’s true, they can talk to each other.”
Holly was taken aback. “He speaks Troll, too? I had thought I was beyond surprise when it came to the Fowl family, but I was wrong. I am both surprised and intrigued, but nonetheless, I am forever being told by Commander Kelp that the law is the law, so wiped they must be.”
Myles clasped his hands behind his back in a fashion reminiscent of his big brother. “In that case, Commodore,” he said, “I must raise a point of law regarding the legality of our proposed mind-wiping. Artemis left me a video on the subject, which I would like to present as defense exhibit A.”
Holly sighed. “When a Fowl wants to discuss a point, it usually takes a couple of hours at least, and we don’t have time for that.” She pointed to the two helicopters frozen in space above them. “The sun is rising and will soon burn off the cloud cover. And we have a battalion of human paratroopers to relocate.”
“And a duke,” said Beckett.
“Of course, the duke,” said Holly. “And where would we find him?”
“He’s down a hole covered in plastic.”
Holly rubbed her forehead. She had almost forgotten the level of weird that followed the Fowls around. “Of course he is. And that is probably not even the strangest thing I’ll hear today. Very well, we’ll hoist him out of there and do a little poking around in his head. No dissection, though—that’s not how we operate.”
“Mental scars only, eh, Commodore?” asked Myles pointedly.
Holly felt like she had stepped back in time into the argumentative minefield of Fowl-world. “Myles, we have laws to protect our society. And mind-wiping is not the ordeal it used to be. We don’t even use drills anymore.”
“Very droll, Commodore,” said Myles. “But I doubt you will be mind-wiping us. My argument is quite persuasive.”
“I would expect no less from a Fowl,” said Holly, and she patted Myles fondly on his exposed neck, and then repeated the action on Beckett.
Myles felt a gentle tingling at the point of contact. “Sedative, Commodore? That was very sneaky of you.”
Holly was unapologetic. “Just a thirty-minute snooze patch. There will be no ill effects. In fact, you will wake up completely refreshed, and, if Artemis’s video is persuasive, perhaps you will have your memories intact.”
Beckett sat down in the mud. “My brain is buzzing,” he said. “Tell me a story, brother.”
Myles thought he should ease his brother’s passage into unconsciousness and so began:
“Once upon a time, in a magical land called Harvard University, a team led by physicist Isaac Silvera squeezed two opposing heavy-duty diamonds together to compress gaseous hydrogen.”
Beckett groaned and closed his eyes even before the patch took effect. “Booooring,” he said, and fake-snored for a few seconds before his real C-major snores took over.
Five seconds later, Myles himself succumbed to the LEP snooze patch and found himself being gently lowered to the earth, a fairy at each elbow. The last thing he heard before the velvet darkness took him was Whistle Blower growling Beckett’s name.
Villa Éco
Beckett woke in his own bed and looked up at the 3-D-printed solar system mobile that Myles had suspended from the ceiling in an attempt to access his brother’s learning receptors first thing every morning. Beckett did, in fact, often absorb what his brother tried to teach him, but he enjoyed teasing his brother by pretending to learn absolutely nothing and forgetting what he already knew.
Beckett turned his head to check that Myles was in the other bed, even though he sensed in the way that the twins often did that his brother was lying on his back with both head and feet elevated by pillows to maximize blood flow to both his primary brain and the second brain in his gut.
Myles was indeed there and awake, staring at the poster pinned to the ceiling above him. It was a finger painting of Angry Hamster in the Dimension of Fire, which Beckett had pinned there in an attempt to make his brother less smart.
“Angry Hamster seems more forlorn than angry today,” said Myles, smoothing back his head of thick black hair.
Beckett thought that Myles seemed a bit sad, which he often was in the morning, as he suffered from bad dreams. Myles’s self-diagnosis for his nig
ht terrors was that, while he strived to stay optimistic during the day, his intellect focused on the negative at night—how the world might end and so forth—and therefore, he often woke grumpy.
Beckett decided to cheer him up.
“I made up a thing about the planets,” he said, brushing blond curls from his eyes. “To help me remember.”
“That’s nice, Beck,” said Myles, removing his night guard.
Beckett pointed at the planets on the ceiling. “Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto, right?”
Myles frowned. “Well…”
Beck plowed on. “So what about: Medium Voltage Easily Makes Jumpy Snakes Undulate Near Pylons? That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Undulate,” said Myles. “Nice. But…”
Beckett swung his legs out of bed. “But what?”
Usually Myles would be thrilled that some of his teachings had taken hold on the slippery slopes of Beckett’s mind, but on this morning, he was less than impressed.
“But there are a growing number of scientists advocating for the dwarf planets to be considered actual planets, and I’ve come around to that way of thinking since Pluto is already included in the official list and it is a dwarf planet. In which case, you must add a C for Ceres, an E for Eris, H for Haumea, and M for Makemake for your device to be complete. Of course, Artemis takes the opposite view, because he is a simpleton.”
Beckett grinned. “Artemis simple-toon. I remember.”
When this drew no reaction, Beckett played one of his trusty cards, which was to make a deliberately glaring error in his vocabulary.
“But come on, Myles, I made an acronym. Me, Beckett!”
“No, brother,” said Myles with some weariness. “You constructed a mnemonic. That’s a different thing, as you well know. We covered wordplay devices last term.”
Beckett threw back his covers and began bouncing on his bed. He was pleased to find he was wearing his favorite pajamas, which used to be white but, after being washed with colors, had become art.
“What’s wrong, brother?” he asked. “Why aren’t you more Myles-y?”
