The Fowl Twins. Eoin Colfer
anomaly. In form and proportion, he was the perfect Ridgeback, with the distinctive thick comb of spiked hair that ran from brow to tailbone, and the blue-veined grey fur on his chest and arms all present and correct. But this creature was no massive predator. In fact, he was a rather tiny one. Standing barely twenty centimetres high, the troll was one of a relatively new variety that had begun to pop up in recent millennia since fairies were forced deep in the Earth’s mantle. Much in the same way as schnauzer dogs had miniature counterparts known as toy schnauzers, some troll breeds also had their shrunken varieties, and this troll was one of perhaps half a dozen toy Ridgebacks in existence and the first to ever reach the surface.
Not at all what Lord Teddy had been expecting. Having seen Brother Colman’s scars, the duke had imagined his quarry to be somewhat larger.
When the little troll’s heat signature had popped up in his eyepiece like an oversized gummy bear, the duke had exclaimed, ‘Good heavens! Could that little fellow be my troll?’
It certainly matched Brother Colman’s description, except for the dimensions. In truth, the duke couldn’t help feeling a little let down. He had been expecting something more substantial. That diminutive creature didn’t look like it could manufacture enough venom to extend the lifespan of a gerbil.
‘Nevertheless,’ muttered the duke, ‘since I’ve come all this way …’
And he squeezed the trigger on his sniper’s rifle.
The supersonic cellophane slug made a distinctive yodelling noise as it sped through the air, and impacted the toy Ridgeback square in the solar plexus, releasing its payload in a sparkling globule that quickly sprawled over the tiny creature, wrapping it in a restrictive layer of cellophane before it could do much more than squeak in indignation.
Beckett Fowl spotted the cartwheeling toy troll, and his first impressions were of fur and teeth, and consequently his first thought was, Angry Hamster!
But the boy chided himself, remembering that Angry Hamster was a sculpture that he himself had constructed from chewed paper and bodily fluids and therefore not a living thing, and so he would have to revise his guess as to what this tumbling figure might be.
But by this time the troll had come to rest at his feet, and Beckett was able to snatch it up and scrutinise it closely, so there was no need for guessing.
Not alive, he realised then. Doll, maybe.
Beckett had thought the figure moved of its own accord, perhaps even made a squealing noise of some kind, but now he could see it was a fantasy action figure with a protective plastic coating.
‘I shall call you Whistle Blower,’ he whispered into the troll’s pointed ear. The boy had chosen this name after barely a second’s consideration, because he had seen on Myles’s preferred news channel that people who squealed were sometimes called whistle-blowers. Also, Beckett was not the kind of fellow who wasted time on decisions.
Beckett turned to show Myles his beach salvage, though his brother had always been a little snooty when it came to toys, claiming they were for children even though he was patently a child himself and would be for a few more years.
‘Look, brother,’ he called, waggling the action figure. ‘I found a new friend.’
Myles sneered as expected, and opened his mouth to pass a derogatory remark along the lines of, Honestly, Beck. We are eleven years old now. Time to leave childish things behind.
But his scorn was interrupted by a deafening series of honks.
The emergency klaxon.
It is true to say that there is hardly a more alarming sound than an alarm klaxon, heralding as it does the arrival of some form of disaster. Most people do not react positively to this sound. Some scream; some faint. There are those who run in circles, wringing their fingers, which is also pointless. And, of course, there are people who have involuntary purges, which shall not be elaborated upon here.
The reactions of the Fowl Twins could seem strange to a casual observer, for Myles discarded his seaweed bucket and uttered a single word: ‘Finally.’
While Beckett spoke to his new toy. ‘Do you hear that, Whistle Blower?’ he asked. ‘We’re going flying!’
To explain: designing the security system had been a fun bonding project for Myles, Artemis and their father, so Myles had a scientific interest in putting the extraction drobots through their paces, as thus far they had only been tested with crash dummies. Beckett, on the other hand, was just dying to be yanked backwards into the air at high speed and dumped down a security chute, and he fervently hoped the ride would last much longer than the projected half a minute.
Myles forgot all about getting to bed on time. He was in action mode now as the countermeasure flares fanned out behind his head like fireworks, painting the undersides of passing cumuli. NANNI broadcast a message to his glasses, and Myles repeated it aloud to Beckett in melodramatic tones that he knew his brother would respond to, as it made him feel like he was on an adventure. And also because Myles had a weakness for melodrama, which he was aware he should at least attempt to control, as drama is the enemy of science.
‘Red alert!’ he called. ‘Extraction position.’
The twins had been drilled on this particular position so often that Beckett reacted to the command with prompt obedience – two words that he would never find written on any of his school report cards.
Extraction position was as follows: chin tucked low, arms stretched overhead, and jaw relaxed to avoid cracked teeth.
‘Ten seconds,’ said Myles, slipping his spectacles into a jacket pocket. ‘Nine, eight …’
Beckett also slipped something into his pocket before assuming the position: Whistle Blower.
‘Three,’ said Myles. ‘Two …’
Then the boy allowed his jaw to relax and spoke no more.
The two drobots shot from under the villa’s eaves and sped unerringly towards the twins. They maintained an altitude of two metres from the ground by dipping their rotors and adjusting their course as they flew, communicating with each other through coded clicks and beeps. With their gears retracted, the drobots resembled nothing more than old propeller hats that children used to wear in simpler times as they rode their bicycles.
The drobots barely slowed as they approached the twins, lowering micro-servo-cable arms that lassoed the boys’ waists, then inflated impact bags to avoid injuring their cargo.
‘Cable loop in place,’ said Myles, lowering his arms. ‘Bags inflated. Most efficient.’
In theory, the ride should be so smooth that his suit would not suffer one wrinkle.
‘No more science talk!’ shouted Beckett impatiently. ‘Let’s go!’
And go they did.
The servo cables retracted smoothly to winch the twins into the air. Myles noted that there had been no discernible impact on his spine, and while acceleration was rapid – zero to sixty miles an hour in four seconds according to his smartwatch – the ride was not jarring.
‘So far so good,’ he said into the wind. He glanced sideways to see Beckett ignoring the flight instructions, waving his arms around as though he were on a roller coaster.
‘Arms folded, Beck!’ he called sternly to his brother. ‘Feet crossed at the ankles. You are increasing your own drag.’
It was possible that Beckett could not hear the instructions, but it was probable that he simply ignored them and continued to treat their emergency extraction like a theme-park ride.
The journey was over almost as soon as it began, and the twins found themselves deposited in two small chimney-like padded tubes towards the rear of the house. The drobots lowered them to the safe room, then sealed the tubes with their own shells.
NANNI’s