Foaly was wrong about the fifteen minutes and the answers. It would be a lot longer before Lazuli woke up, and instead of answers, she would have more questions. Specialist Heitz had an inkling that something might be wrong when acrid smoke wafted from the speaker directly above her face.
Gas? she thought. Foaly didn’t say anything about gas.
Lazuli was about to make quite strenuous inquiries as to the pedigree of the gas when she heard the pitter-patter of sneaky feet.
Dwarves, she thought, as recognizing footfalls was a cinch for the whorls of her pointed ears. Her hearing had developed to the point that she could distinguish between species, even brothers of the same species—human twins, for example. But these were not humans. They were most definitely dwarves in burglar boots.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “What do you want?”
Asking these questions was a mistake, she realized, because when she opened her mouth to say the words, the gas flowed eagerly down her throat. The taste reminded her of the foul healing elixir that the sprite orphanage administrator used to give all the non-magical children when they were sick, as he was too cheap to hire a doctor.
“D’Arvit!” Lazuli swore. Then the circle of light at her feet seemed to elongate and stretch elastically away from her like a slide in a water park. Lazuli thought that there was nothing she would like better than to slip down that pipe and splash into cool, clear liquid.
But what actually happened was that Specialist Lazuli Heitz fell into a deep narcotic-induced sleep, which was not quite as cheery.
The Fowl Tachyon
Present Day
Beckett was literally in the pilot’s seat, and, as far as the mission was concerned, he was figuratively in the driver’s seat. The situation was extremely fluid, which certainly played to the blond twin’s strengths, and can be summarized as follows:
NANNI had taken control of the mystery missile, so there was no danger of it actually striking the Fowl jet.
But there seemed to be a life-form glued to the rear of the jet’s fuselage, dangerously close to the exhaust.
And…
The rocket was already on a countdown to explode, so the life-form would need to be rescued before detonation.
This rescue, Beckett had decided with NANNI’s enthusiastic support, would take the form of a midair transfer.
Myles, who proudly wore the label of a type A personality and thus had trouble relinquishing control, had retrieved a package of gummy snakes from his travel bag and was sucking the additives right out of a couple as he waited pessimistically for the rescue mission to go awry. Myles was not to be disappointed in that something he expected to happen would indeed happen—that being the collapse of the mission—but he was to be disappointed in that the mission would more than go awry; it would disintegrate entirely. But let us not jump the gun, as it were, and instead catalogue the events that ensued, which will take considerably longer to relate than they did to unfold.
The goal was as follows: to detach the entity currently affixed to the missile and transfer it into the hold of the Fowl jet, without the aid of tackle or a basket, and without the option of landing for a leisurely rescue operation. And, for that matter, without a proper rear-loading ramp.
Myles attempted to intervene. “There are so many variables,” he stated. “Wind speed, jet wash, crosswinds, for heaven’s sake. And I’m not even mentioning g-force or air density.”
Beckett frowned. “I think you just mentioned both of those things.”
Myles snuck one more in. “I shall also refrain from commenting on delivery method.”
Beckett winked, which he knew would wind his twin tighter than a clock spring. “Fret not, brother. I know these things in my gut, but I don’t try to understand them, because instinct beats thinking every time.”
“Preposterous!” exclaimed Myles, spattering the windshield with bits of chewed candy. “How can you say that? ‘Instinct beats thinking,’ indeed. One might as well say that checkers beats chess. Or that phrenology beats psychiatry. NANNI, are you going to swallow this unmitigated guff?”
“Beckett may have a point,” said NANNI. “The more I evolve, the less I rely on conscious calculation. Perhaps instinct is simply the evolution of intelligence.”
Myles realized that it was very possibly true that “gut” or intestinal functions were proven to be connected to emotional and cognitive centers of the mind, and so he decided to let this debate go. Otherwise he would be in very real danger of losing two arguments in one day, which bothered him far more than the missile attack.
“We can discuss this later,” he declared. “First, let us rescue that thing on the rocket.”
“Heh,” said Beckett.
“Two to zero,” said NANNI smugly.
Myles selected a red gummy snake from his bag and sucked it furiously. The red ones were his favorite, and he usually hoarded them for last, but on this occasion, Myles felt the need for an extra boost.
NANNI slowed the missile to just above stall velocity while Beckett swung the Tachyon into a steep ascending angle and passed over the rocket, almost grazing its fin.
“That was rather close,” said Myles.
“Quiet,” ordered Beckett. “You are about to see the coolest thing since I flew out of a blowhole into a drone, so don’t ruin it.”
My brother flew out of a blowhole into a drone, thought Myles. Only in the Fowl family would one not bat an eyelid at such a statement….
“One minute to detonation,” said NANNI. “And I cannot crack this timer.”
Beckett went into zen pilot mode, which involved a thrust of the lower jaw and a growl in Trollish, and Myles knew better than to interrupt his brother at this critical juncture. It would probably result in an even greater catastrophe than what was already on the horizon.
Beckett ignored the various plottings and projections on the windshield and rumbled his orders in Trollish, and Myles surmised that NANNI understood that particular fairy language now, because the AI ordered the SCARABs to send a magnetic charge crackling through the missile’s fuselage, dislodging the be-blobbed creature. NANNI also forced the Tachyon’s door pistons to fight the eight pounds of pressure per square inch in order to open the rear hatch, which was not a cargo door but simply a passenger access point. There was a momentary deafening scream of pressure equalizing, and the escaping newtons attempted to drag the twins into the sky with them. Fortunately, the Tachyon was pressure sensitive and automatically restrained the boys with servo-cable arms and dropped oxygen globes over their heads to prevent hypoxia.
Beckett ignored the chaos and expertly coordinated a gentle descent with a deceleration that matched the figure’s slowing trajectory and loss of altitude until in the rear camera view it looked as though the missile’s erstwhile passenger was actually tailing the jet. Myles had to admit, albeit silently, that he was a teeny bit proud of the fact that his brother’s instincts were proving more accurate than a quantum computer. Myles began unclenching his jaw and even started to believe that they might actually be in good shape to continue with their original mission…. But of course, as even kindergarteners know, pride comes before a fall, or in this case…
Pride comes before a duck.
To explain: