“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 toward the twins. They maintained an altitude of six feet 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 toward the rear of the house. The drobots lowered them to the safe room, then sealed the tubes with their own shells.
NANNI’s face appeared in a free-floating liquid speaker ball, which was held in shape by an electric charge. “Perhaps this would be a good time to activate the EMP? I know you’ve been dying to try it.”
Myles considered this as he unclipped the servo cable. Villa Éco was outfitted with a localized electromagnetic-pulse generator, which would knock out any electronic systems in the island’s airspace. The Fowls’ main electronics would not be affected, as the entire villa had a Faraday cage embedded in its walls, and the Fowl systems had backups that ran on optical cable. A little old-school, but should the cage fail, the cable would keep systems ticking until the danger was past.
“Hmm,” said Myles. “That seems a bit drastic. What is the nature of the emergency?”
“Sonic boom detected,” said NANNI. “I would guess from a high-powered rifle.”
NANNI is guessing now, thought Myles. She really is developing.
“Guessing is of little use to me, madam,” said Myles. “Scientists do not guess.”
“Oh yes, that’s right. Scientists hypothesize,” said NANNI. “In that case, I hypothesize that the sonic boom was caused by a rifle shot.”
“That’s better,” said Myles. “How certain are you?”
“Reasonably,” replied NANNI. “If I had to offer a percentage, I would say seventy percent.”
A sonic boom could be caused by many things, and the majority of those things were harmless. Still, Myles now had a valid excuse to employ the EMP, something he had been forbidden to do unless absolutely necessary.
It was, in fact, a judgment call.
Beckett, who had somehow become inverted in the delivery chute, tumbled onto the floor and asked, “Will the EMP hurt my insects?”
Beckett kept his extensive bug collection in the safe room so it would be safe.
“No,” said Myles. “Unless some of them are robot insects.”
Beckett pressed his nose to the terrarium’s glass and made some chittering noises.
“No robots,” he pronounced. “So activate the EMP.”
For once Myles found himself in agreement with his brother. While the sonic boom could possibly be the by-product of a harmless event, it also might herald the arrival of an attack force hell-bent on wreaking vengeance on one Artemis or the other. Better to press the button and survive than regret not pressing it just before you died.
So, thought Myles, I should activate the EMP. But before I do…
Myles rooted in the steel trash can until he found some aluminum foil that he had been using for target practice with one of his many lasers. He used it to quickly wrap his spectacles, then stuffed them down to the bottom of the trash can. This would protect the lite version of NANNI that lived in the eyeglasses in the event that both his safeguards failed.
“I concur,” said Myles. “Activate the EMP, NANNI. Tight radius, low intensity. No need to knock out the mainland.”
“Activating EMP,” said NANNI, and promptly collapsed in a puddle on the floor, as her own electronics had not yet been converted to optical cable.
“See, Beck?” said Myles, lifting one black loafer from a glistening wet patch. “That is what we scientists call a design flaw.”
* * *
Lord Bleedham-Drye was doubly miffed and thrice surprised by the developments on Dalkey Island.
Surprise number one: Brother Colman spoke the truth, and trolls did indeed walk the earth.
Surprise the second: The troll was tiny. Who ever heard of a tiny troll?
Surprise the last (for the moment): Flying boys had sequestered his prey.
“What on earth is going on?” he asked no one in particular.
The duke muttered to himself, “These Fowl people seem prepared for full-scale invasion. They have flare counter-measures. Drones flying off with children. Who knows what else? Antitank guns and trained bears, I shouldn’t wonder. Even Churchill couldn’t take that beach.”
It occurred to Lord Teddy that he could blow up the entire island for spite. He was partial to a spot of spite, after all. But after a moment’s consideration, he dismissed the idea. It was a cheery notion, but the person he would ultimately be spiting was none other than the Duke of Scilly, i.e., his noble self. He would hold his fire for now, but when those boys reemerged from their fortified house, he would be ready with his trusty rifle. After all, he was quite excellent with a gun, as his last shot had proven. Off the battlefield, it was unseemly to shoot anything except pheasant, unless one were engaged in a duel. Pistols at dawn, that sort of thing. But he would make an exception for a troll, and for those blooming Fowl boys.
Lord Teddy loaded the rifle with traditional bullets and set it on the balcony floor, muzzle pointed toward the island.