“Well done, brother mine,” he murmured softly. “Kudos to you.” And then to NANNI Myles said almost casually, “Deploy the rail gun, then, I suppose, but SCARABs, if you please, NANNI. No need to announce our arrival to the world with an explosion. Also, I would like to get a look at the mechanics of that rocket. The afterburn has an unusual hue.”
“Agreed,” said NANNI. “And I would like to get a look at that thing clamped to the fuselage. Just out of curiosity.”
“Oh yes,” said Beckett. “Let’s take a look at the thing. I love things. And it’s alive, I think. I saw a wiggle.”
“That thing?” said Myles. “What thing?”
NANNI enlarged the image on the smart screen—not that there was much enlargement required, as the missile was getting dangerously close to its target. There was very clearly something attached to the rocket’s fuselage just forward of the tailfins and, if that thing were alive, as Beckett suggested, then there was no question of strafing the missile with ionized particles.
Myles used his own smart lenses to take a closer look and saw that the thing was a glittering translucent blob of sorts and had the approximate dimensions of a laundry bag, and indeed there seemed to be a hairy foot wiggling within it.
“I think we have a hobbit,” said NANNI.
This was a patently outrageous statement that Myles fully intended to debunk at a time when the Tachyon was not being chased down by a missile, right after he explained to Beckett why continuously acting in an unexpected fashion did not make a person predictable. But for the time being, even the perennially long-winded Myles was content to focus on what could now be accurately called the Cuban missile crisis.
“SCARABs, NANNI,” he said tersely. “Now.”
There was no need for him to issue the order, as it was already done. The SCARABs moved too fast for the human eye to follow, so NANNI helpfully charted their course on the smart windshield with a set of animated red arrows.
Myles leaned forward instinctively. This was the first time they had deployed the SCARABs in the field, and he was eager to see how effective they were, as he had spent quite some time boasting about them in a video package sent to Artemis. It would be mortifying if they failed now, not that anyone would be alive to be embarrassed.
He needn’t have wasted a nanosecond worrying. The SCARABs deployed perfectly and embedded themselves in the strange missile’s fuselage, sinking their electronic teeth into its workings.
“Yeah, baby!” exulted NANNI, whose personality was ever evolving. “You are toast.”
“Report,” said Myles through teeth that were most definitely gritted.
“Just a sec,” said NANNI. “Let me wrangle this ole steer.”
Myles groaned. The AI’s superintelligence did not appear to be presenting superintelligently, but the imagery appealed to Beckett, who let out what could only be described as a cowboy holler.
On-screen, the missile turned into a schematic of itself and electronic feelers reached out from the SCARABs’ sensors deep into its workings.
“Okay,” said NANNI. “We’re in. I’ve slowed this sucker down considerably. She’ll fly, but only just. The hobbit is within a bubble that is secured to the missile by some form of adhesive. A magnetic pulse should loosen it up and wind shear will do the rest.”
“Missile design?” asked Myles.
“Unfamiliar,” replied the AI. “Could be fairy, but not like anything we’ve seen. It’s pretty basic by LEP standards.”
“What’s the payload?” Myles wondered.
“Nothing nuclear, which is good. Just some kind of concussive device, barely enough to blow itself up. I can take a closer look at that later—right now we have a slight problem.”
“NANNI,” said Myles through still-gritted teeth, “please relate all pertinent information in a single statement. This piecemeal delivery is quite frustrating.”
“Okay, grumpy,” said NANNI.
“Myles is overtired,” said Beckett. “He needs a gummy.”
“I do not need a gummy,” said Myles emphatically, while also inching his hand toward the supply of candy in his bag. “Just tell me what this ‘slight problem’ is.”
NANNI did so without further ado. “The missile detonates on impact, but it also has a timer, which I can’t seem to access.”
“Simply point the thing into space and let it explode,” said Myles. “How long do we have?”
“Three minutes,” said NANNI.
“Plenty of time,” said Myles. “Not a problem, surely.”
“Unless you’re a hobbit,” said Beckett.
Which was a fair point.
“Hmm,” said Myles. “I—”
Beckett cut him off, giddy with excitement. “Myles said ‘hmm.’ That means he doesn’t know, and that means I’m the boss. And I say: midair transfer.”
NANNI extended a holographic hand from the screen and fist-bumped Beckett. “I agree, partner. Just like we practiced.”
“Wait…” said Myles. “What? Practiced?”
Beckett shook his head sadly. “Those are bad sentences, brother. Use your words.”
But Myles was at a loss for words, or, for that matter, a better idea. And Beckett took his brother’s silence to mean that he was clear to assume control.
Heaven help them both.
And the hobbit.
Haven City
Twelve Hours Earlier
Specialist Lazuli Heitz of the LEPrecon division was in the throes of an exceedingly bad day. It was the caliber of day most people experience only once in their lives—and when they do, they are usually quite dead by suppertime. And though this day would in all probability conclude with a fatality or two, it is accurate to say that Specialist Heitz had already survived a number of such calamitous days, mainly due to the Fowl Twins, who had, in all fairness, usually caused the life-threatening events in the first place.
This day, however, would outshine all others in terms of sheer variety, because it began with a visit to the hospital and ended with an unexpected supersonic trip that we shall presently attempt to keep pace with narrative-wise.
Lazuli had not volunteered for the hospital appointment, nor did she feel especially ill, except for an enduring tickle in her throat that had persisted ever since she spontaneously shot flame out of her mouth during a recent Fowl-related incident on the Island of St. George off the coast of Cornwall (see LEP file: The Fowl Twins). It was this firepower that prompted her elf superior and mentor, Commodore Holly Short, to book her a slot in the recently opened Magitek wing of the J. Argon Clinic in Haven City. Dr. Jerbal Argon had managed to tempt the centaur genius Foaly away from the LEP to run the facility by offering him a huge salary and also a corner office that overlooked both Police Plaza and downtown Haven.
Specialist Heitz sat in this office now, rubbing the spot on her upper arm where she had just been injected. The shot had stung a little, but not as much as the inoculations that all LEP officers had to obtain to be granted above-ground visas. In addition to the pain, Lazuli was feeling a little exposed in one of those paper-thin hospital gowns that somehow contrive to be both oversized in the front and summer-breezy in the rear. She might have objected had Foaly not jammed a tongue depressor down her throat while he took a look at her workings. Just when Lazuli believed she would surely gag, Foaly withdrew the instrument and clopped around to his side of the desk.