The second point of interest, and the cause of Myles’s bewilderment, was another, much smaller figure that had been captured by one camera. The tiny creature had appeared out of thin air, pedaled to keep herself aloft, and then plummeted into the seaweed silo.
Beckett’s confusion was more general in nature, but he did have one question as the brothers reviewed the balloon footage. “A pedaling fairy,” he said. “But where’s her bicycle?”
Myles was not inclined to answer but was inclined to disagree. “There’s no bicycle, brother mine,” he snapped. “And I do not happen to believe in fairies or wizards or demigods or vampires. This is either photo manipulation or interference from a satellite system.”
He rewound the footage and froze the figure in the sky, stepping closer for a decent squint.
“Magnify,” he told his spectacles, which Myles had augmented with various lenses pillaged from his big brother’s sealed laboratory. Artemis had set a twenty-two-digit security code on his door that he did not realize Myles had suggested to him subliminally by whispering into his ear every night for a week as he slept. To add further insult, the numbers Myles had chosen could be decoded using a simple letter-to-number cipher to spell out the Latin phrase Stultus Diana Ephesiorum, which translated to Diana is stupid, Diana being the Roman version of the Greek goddess Artemis, for whom Artemis had been named. It was a very complicated and time-consuming prank, which, in Myles’s opinion, was the best kind.
“Yes,” said Beckett. “Magnify.”
And the blond twin accomplished his magnification simply by taking a step closer to the screen, which, in truth, was both more efficient and cost-effective.
Myles studied the suspended creature. It seemed clear that there was, at the very least, a possibility it was not human.
Beckett jabbed the wall screen with his finger, daubing it with whatever gunk was coating his hand at the time.
“Myles, that’s a fairy on an invisible heli-bike. I am one million percent sure.”
“There is no such animal as a heli-bike and you can’t have a million percent, Beck,” said Myles absently. “Anyway, how can you be so sure?”
“Remember Artemis’s stories?” asked Beckett. “He told us all about the fairies.”
This was true. Their older brother had often tucked in the twins with stories of the Fairy People who lived deep in the earth. The tales always ended with the same lines:
The fairies dig deep and they endure, but if ever they need to breathe fresh air or gaze upon the moon, they know that we will keep their secrets, for the Fowls have ever been friends to the People. Fowl and fairy, fairy and Fowl, as it is now and will ever be.
“Those were stories,” said Myles. “How can you be certain there is a drop of truth to them?”
“I just am,” said Beckett, which was an often-employed phrase guaranteed to drive Myles into paroxysms of indignant rage.
“You just are? You just are?” he squeaked. “That is not a valid argument.”
“Your voice is squeaky,” Beckett pointed out. “Like a little piggie.”
“That is because I am enraged,” said Myles. “I am enraged because you are presenting your opinion as fact, brother. How is one supposed to unravel this mystery when you insist on babbling inanities?”
Beckett reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out a piece of gummy candy.
“Here,” he said, wiggling the worm at Myles as though it were alive. “This gummy is red and you need red, because your face is too white.”
“My face is white because my fight-or-flight response has been activated,” said Myles, glad to have something he was in a position to explain. “Red blood cells have been shunted to my limbs in case I need to either do battle or flee.”
“That is soooo interesting,” said Beckett, winking at his brother to nail home the sarcasm.
“So the last thing I shall do is eat that gummy worm,” declared Myles. “One of us has to be a grown-up eleven-year-old, and that one will be me, as usual. So, whatever I do in the immediate future, gummy-eating will not be a part of it. Do you understand me, brother?”
By which time Myles had actually popped the worm in his mouth and was sucking it noisily.
He had always been a sucker when it came to gummy candy. In this case, he was a sucker for the gummy he was sucking.
Beckett gave him a few seconds to unwind, then asked, “Better?”
“Yes,” admitted Myles. “Much better.”
For, although he was a certified genius, Myles was also anxious by nature and tended to stress over the least little thing.
Beckett smiled. “Good, because a squeaky genius is a stupid genius. I dreamed that one time.”
“That is a crude but accurate statement, Beck,” said Myles. “When a person’s vocal register rises more than an octave, it is usually a result of panic, and panic leads to a certain rashness of behavior untypical of that individual.”
But Myles was more or less talking to himself at this point, because Beckett had wandered away, as he often did during his twin’s lectures, and was peering through the safe room’s panoramic periscope’s eyepiece.
“That’s nice, Myles. But you’d better stop explaining things I don’t care about.”
“And why is that?” asked Myles a little crossly.
“Because,” said Beckett. “Helicopter.”
“I know, Beck,” said Myles, softening. “Helicopter.”
It was true that Beckett didn’t seem to either know or care about very many things, but there were certain subjects he was most informed about—insects being one of those subjects. Trumpets was another. And also, helicopters. Beckett loved helicopters. In times of stress he sometimes mentioned favorite items, but there was little significance to his helicopter references unless he added the model number.
“Helicopter,” insisted Beckett, making room for his brother at the mechanical periscope. “Army model AgustaWestland AW139.”
Time to pay attention, thought Myles.
Myles propped his spectacles on his forehead and studied the periscope view briefly for visual confirmation that there was, in fact, a helicopter cresting the mainland ridge. The chopper bore Irish Army markings and therefore would not need warrants to land on the island, if that were the army’s intention.
And I cannot and will not fire on an Irish army helicopter, Myles thought, even though it seemed inevitable that the army was about to place the twins in some form of custody. For most people this knowledge would be a source of great comfort, but, historically, incarceration did not end well for members of the Fowl family, and so Father had always advised Myles to take certain precautions should arrest or even protective custody seem inevitable.
Give yourself a way out, son, Artemis Senior had said. You’re a twin, remember?
Myles always took what his father said seriously, and so he regularly updated his Ways Out of Incarceration folder.
This calls for a classic, he thought, and said to his brother, “Beck, I need to tell you something.”
“Is it story time?” asked Beckett brightly.
“Yes,” said Myles. “That’s precisely it. Story time.”
“Is it one of Artemis’s? The Arctic Incident or The Eternity Code?”