“One book?” said Myles, stamping a foot, which he for some reason thought might weaken his father’s resolve. “I refuse to be limited to one book.”
Beckett raised a hand, but Artemis Senior anticipated his question.
“No, Beckett. It can’t be the same book every day.” And then he went on with his list, which apparently was memorized. “No phones. No fraternizing with known criminals besides myself, no consorting with unknown criminals, no tempting people to the dark side. Timetabled chores starting at seven a.m. You report in to me or your mother five times a day, in person. Beckett, no more sugar or fast food. Myles, fast food for you every day.”
“That is monstrous!” protested Myles.
“And also bad,” said Beckett.
“This is a punishment, after all,” said their father. “Not a visit to the seltzer fountain.”
Myles frowned. “Amazingly, I don’t get that reference.”
“Good,” snapped his father. “And let me tell you, my boy, no one even listens to your references, they’re so obscure.”
This was a rare demeaning comment from the Fowl father, but perhaps he could be forgiven, considering the circumstances.
“Some people listen to my references,” said Myles, edging close to a sulk. “It’s not as though I’m a Moravian friar expounding on DNA theories in an Augustinian monastery.”
Artemis Senior waited a moment to see if Myles was being sarcastic, but apparently he was not.
“I rest my case,” he said. “So, that’s almost it. Your new life starts immediately.”
Artemis Senior sat down at his desk and massaged both temples, which did little to alleviate the stress he was under. It is, in fact, astounding to think that, were Artemis Fowl Senior’s stress levels to be graphed, it would be apparent that they had not spiked to this extent since Artemis Junior was involved in basically shutting down the world some years previously, during what the media now referred to as the Big Dark.
“In spite of your monumental lack of regard for your parents’ feelings, we continue to love you both. Your mother, in fact, adores you, though I myself find the shine wearing off a little. Nevertheless, I will keep you alive if it kills me, and I would rather have you alive in a virtual prison than killed during some fabulous adventure.”
“May I ask—” began Myles.
“No,” said his father. “You may not. What you may do is report to your mother in the main house. She has a list of chores for you.”
Myles bowed. “Very well, Father,” he said, already plotting how to circumvent these new rules, most especially the ones about not circumventing the rules.
“Ha,” said Artemis Senior. “I see what you’re doing. I know that face.”
“What face?” asked Myles.
His father waggled a finger toward Myles’s general feature area. “That one. The eager-to-please one. We all know that face, Myles.”
“We do,” agreed Beckett. “He’s planning. It’s as plain as the face on his…face.”
“I know what you’re thinking, son,” said Artemis Senior. “You’re thinking How can Father stop me from breaking his rules? If the entire LEP couldn’t stop me, then how can he?”
Myles nodded, even though he had actually been miles away, wondering whether Lazuli would allow him to take a patch of her blue skin for testing. A six-inch square should be more than sufficient, and he should make sure to include some of the yellow markings when excising the samples. Myles wasn’t really thinking about breaking his father’s rules, because Myles felt, in all humility, that this goal would be well within his intellectual means.
“Yes, father mine,” said Myles, trying not to look too innocent. “That’s exactly the problem I was ruminating on. However, I see now that it is as unsolvable as Gödel’s incompleteness theorems.”
The first of which I have already solved, thought Myles.
“The first of which you have undoubtedly already solved,” continued Artemis Senior. “The missing variable in the second is magic, in case you’re interested.”
And this simple statement brought home to Myles how much he had underestimated his own father and how much trouble they actually were in.
“So how do I intend to make you stick to the rules?” continued Artemis Senior. “Allow me to enlighten you. What I’m going to do is as follows: nothing. You two are going to police each other. And I will invoke your most sacred vow to make you do it.”
Since Myles was actually listening now, he caught on immediately.
“You wouldn’t! That is not a place you can go.”
“Is it lollipops?” asked Beckett, vaguely aware that Artemis Junior had always detested lollipops and everything that most demeaning of candies stood for. “Are you going to make us eat lollipops? Because I’m telling you right now that I love lollipops, so that will backfire big-time.”
Myles grabbed his twin by the shoulders and shook the lollipop notion right out of his brain.
“Don’t you see, Beck?” he said. “Father plans to force us to make a wrist-bump promise.”
Beckett was puzzled. “But that’s our thing. No one can make us do a wrist bump.”
“Beck is correct, Father,” said Myles, frowning quite severely. “Only a Fowl Twin can initiate the sacred gesture. That code is inviolate, and neither god nor mortal man can force us to bump scars.”
“Bump scars,” said Artemis Senior. “Do it now.”
“Dad!” said Beckett, on the verge of tears. “I know we destroyed your jet, but this is serious.”
Artemis Senior was undeterred. “I said bump wrists, or, heaven help me, I shall be quite cross with you both for several days. And while your mother and I will continue to love you, we will not like you for a while.”
That was enough for Beckett. His mind could not accommodate the idea of his parents not liking him for so much as a moment.
“Myles,” he said, “we should bump.”
But Myles wasn’t there yet.
Wrist-bumping went to the very core of what it meant to be a Fowl Twin.
“I appeal to you, Father,” said Myles. “Do not co-opt our ritual into your disciplinary program. We are Fowls, and certain things are sacrosanct to us. Honor, for one.”
Artemis Senior had no trouble meeting his son’s eyes. “Love trumps honor,” he said. “Now bump.”
“Please, Father…Dad.”
Father/Dad laughed. “Dad? It’s Dad now? You must be desperate, son. Bump. Or, so help me, you’re both going down in my bad book. And my bad book does not make for good reading.”
Myles let that atrocious metaphor pass and looked to Beckett, whose left hand was already in position to receive the bump.
“Whenever you’re ready, my boy,” said Artemis Senior, and Myles knew the battle was lost. They were being tied into their father’s conditions by a contract of their own devising. A wrist-bump promise.
Myles raised his hand slowly, searching his mind for some way to void the promise. Perhaps if the scars were not precisely aligned?
“Honor the bump, Myles,” warned Artemis Senior. “No crossing your fingers or some such nonsense. You said it yourself, the bump is sacred.”