WE HAVE arrived at that point in our narrative where, traditionally, the protagonists engage in an ultimate showdown. Our account breaks from this tradition, as we have not one but three—and arguably, four—showdowns. In order to keep these narratives straight in our heads, let us remind ourselves how our main combatants are arranged:

Gveld Horteknut and Gundred, her second, are in a central transparent elevator on the first floor, both disguised from head to toe as human little people in manga cosplay that makes them look less homicidal than they are. Gundred has interfaced with the elevator’s control panel and from there with all the non-central elevators, of which there are eighteen cable-free, multidirectional, magnet-based drive units running through a network of vertical and horizontal shafts. Gveld’s intrusion into the security systems has triggered an alarm, prompting the building’s workforce of over three hundred ACRONYM agents to flash burn their computer drives and stride in rehearsed formation into sixteen of the aforementioned eighteen elevators, which promptly lock behind them. The lucky ones take the stairs, which proves to have more health benefits than simply getting their steps in, for they avoid getting stuck in the shortly-to-collapse building. And, of course, the building is bathed in the unnatural glow of its own lighting system, as the sun has tucked itself behind the moon and will be out of commission for a little more than seven minutes, ensuring that, even should the plan go awry, the Horteknut Reclaimers will have some leeway for their escape. It is a dastardly scheme that even Artemis Fowl would have to admire, if not approve of, and that was without even mentioning the cosplaying horde that seemed to be setting up camp in the basement.

Picture if you will twin central elevators constructed of silicon nitride, which is the hardest and toughest transparent spinel ceramic ever made. The right-hand elevator serves a dual purpose, both as a private escape pod for the ACRONYM station chief and as an unbreakable safe for the group’s greatest treasure should the building’s integrity be breached by missile attack or seismic activity. Currently, Gveld and Gundred are calmly riding in this right-hand elevator toward the top floor while all around them armed ACRONYM agents are wondering why the heck those two kids are traveling up while they themselves appear to be locked down inside their respective flimsier elevators. These agents are not trying to shoot their way out just yet, but it won’t be long now.

This does seem like a lot to take in. So many plans and counter plans. Fortunately, our lead protagonists are fond of both monologuing and dialoguing, so the situation will shortly become abundantly clear.

Gveld shall begin:

“At last,” she said, as the NOK-NOK burrowed deep into the ACRONYM network. “I am on the verge of taking back the lost Horteknut treasure. Our world shall be made whole. I am tempted to actually laugh, Gundred, honestly I am.”

Gundred was not in the least tempted to laugh. “Gveld, I am not comfortable with this. We are exposed here, with all these witnesses.”

“Oh, dear Gundred,” said Gveld, deciding that it was time to come clean(ish). “We are not in the least exposed. The sun is safely behind the moon and we are in an indestructible box. And I have decided to not simply steal the gold but also wipe out the last remaining agents from this most despicable of organizations with a sequence of explosions.”

This second strand of the plan was news to Gundred. “But aren’t those humans in reinforced elevators, like ours? They are safe.”

Now Gveld did laugh, though it segued into a consumptive cough. “I am afraid, my kindhearted friend, that the two central elevators are the building’s only silicon nitride capsules. The other elevators are mere toughened Plexiglas. Those humans will be squashed by the very earth they poison. ACRONYM will be finished.”

Gundred stood between her leader and the elevator interface. “This is not our way, Gveld. We do not create martyrs for others to follow.”

Gveld shrugged. “What martyrs? The earth swallows a building. Will the humans punish the earth? Indeed, can they punish it any more than they already have? Trust me, no one except agents of ACRONYM would suspect mythological creatures. And the ACRONYM agents…”

Gundred inferred the missing clause: will all be dead.

A horrifying thought occurred to her. “But, my general, what of the innocent children?”

Gveld waved this question away. “There are no innocent humans.”

From the atrium beyond came the muted sound of gunfire as a few quick-witted agents realized that they were, in fact, under attack. This gunfire had the effect of galvanizing the Supermassive fans, who decided en masse that perhaps a walk-on part in a TV show was not worth getting caught in whatever cross fire was going on here. Pandemonium erupted and ensued.

Meanwhile, Gundred chewed on Gveld’s argument and could find no fault with it aside from the massive body count, which was only a human body count after all, which she shouldn’t have cared about. But she did, because…

Gundred had a secret.

“We could simply take the treasure,” she offered weakly, “and be gone before the sun shows her face.”

This argument was so pathetic that Gveld returned to her work while she dismissed it. “In that scenario we become fugitives, and I will not set humans on our trail. These Mud People die, and that is the end of it. Our work can finally be done, and I can rest contented.”

A bullet pinged against the casing of their elevator and cut short the conversation. The agents were growing restless.

“The eclipse won’t last forever,” continued Gveld gruffly. “The time has come to destroy this den of fairy killers.”

The Fowl Twins went without hesitation into the building that was about to collapse around them. Myles had something of a spring in his step now that he had a pair of graphene eyeglasses cupping his ears, and he lapsed into his habit of lecturing while he walked.

“The convention center was more or less demolished some years ago, and the mortgage was picked up for a song, supposedly by an American vulture company,” he explained to a disinterested Beckett.

“Worms are useless for conversation,” said Beckett, determinedly off-topic. “It’s all romantic poetry with them.”

Myles rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why I bother.”

But he did know. The more Myles lectured, the less he worried, and so he continued to talk as they strode through the giant glass barrel of the open atrium against the tide of costumed teenagers whose flight seemed almost comical, made awkward by platform space boots and vision-obscuring masks.

Myles put a pin in his lecture when they reached the central double elevator shaft.

“Hack the building’s systems, NANNI,” Myles told his glasses. “Give me access to all security. I want to control everything from the sprinklers to the elevators. And, for heaven’s sake, shut off that emergency siren.”

“Yes, Myles,” said NANNI.

And to Beckett, for appearances’ sake, Myles said, “Keep up, brother mine. We have a city to save.”

And a treasure to win, he thought, but kept that morsel of info to himself for the moment. A person could never tell who was listening. Myles knew this to be true, as he was usually the one listening.

The deafening siren mercifully sputtered out with a Morse code of final shrieks, and Myles estimated that his concentration levels increased 15 percent as a direct consequence.

Very well, he thought. Time to share a few painful truths with the Horteknuts.

The central elevator shaft had two cars. The right-hand car was elevated and peopled by two small figures.

Gveld and Gundred, Myles surmised.

The left-hand car was at ground level and waiting for someone with an authorized thumbprint to access it.

And guess who now has an authorized thumbprint? thought Myles, pressing his thumb against the sensor.

“Access granted,” said the elevator in a voice that was, in Myles’s opinion, a little smug. It seemed to say, I am not just a common elevator; I am a private executive elevator.

Elevators in general are smug, thought Myles, who was somewhat of an expert on the subject of smugness. But not as smarmy as sat navs, which are completely insufferable.

Nevertheless, Myles stepped inside when the doors whooshed open, with Beckett close to his side, still muttering his complaints about worms and their lack of conversational skills. “Worms are all me-me-me,” he said. “They never think outside the tunnel.”

The elevator took off remarkably smoothly.

Very low friction, thought Myles. But not as low as the cable-less multidirectional units, I imagine.

Which a person might think was a poor use of brain space at such a critical time, but it was all part of one of his many contingency plans.

A handful of seconds later, the Fowl Twins drew level with the second elevator in the shaft—the one housing two hostile dwarves who would be considered villains from a human perspective but possibly heroes from the fairy point of view.

Myles wasted no time, as there was patently no time to waste, and initiated the supervillain showdown with a suitably dramatic line:

“Ah, General Horteknut, we meet again.”

Neither Gveld nor Gundred reacted. They kept beavering over a control panel with their backs turned to the Fowl Twins.

Myles tried again, aiming his mouth at the speaker in the wall. “I said, we meet again, General Horteknut. I imagine you weren’t expecting to see me here.”

Still nothing.

“NANNI,” said Myles to his smart glasses, “did you get into all the building systems as I ordered?”

“Not exactly,” said NANNI.

“Are you telling me you failed?”

“I half succeeded, Master,” hedged NANNI.

“Half succeeded? Does that mean I control half of the systems?”

“Approximately. These systems are the latest tech, Master, and I have been in a dolphin’s innards for the past year.”

“No excuses,” snapped Myles. “How am I supposed to communicate with the adjacent elevator?”

“There is a handset on the wall,” said NANNI, vibrating the words into Myles’s jawbone. “I can patch you through to the speaker.”

Myles shuddered. “A handset? I am expected to use a handset now? The other supposedly identical elevator doesn’t have a handset.”

Nevertheless, Myles gingerly unhooked the handset as though there might be a deadly bacteria smeared on the handle.

“Half succeeded indeed,” he muttered, and then spoke into the mouthpiece. “We meet again, General Horteknut.”

“You have to press the call button,” said NANNI.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Myles. “Why don’t I simply write on the glass with my bodily fluids?”

“That is not actually glass,” noted NANNI.

Myles missed fully operational NANNI. Oh, how he missed her.

He pressed the CALL button. “General Horteknut. I imagine you were not expecting to see me.”

Gveld removed her Sharkgirl helmet but did not turn from her work. “I could hardly miss you, Mud Boy. You have been banging around in there for an eternity.”

Myles stayed on script. “I believe it is time for our showdown.”

Now Gveld did turn. “Showdown? Are you a child? Oh yes, that is exactly what you are.”

Two burns for Myles, but perhaps he could claw back some ground by summarizing Gveld’s plan. “I imagine your Reclaimers are going to blow the rods holding up this building, and when the seismic activity registers, the ACRONYM treasure will be shunted to the elevator to keep it safe. When the dust clears you will burrow out of here with the last of the Horteknut gold.”

“Well done,” said Gveld. “Although I believe I already told you most of my plan.”

“You did,” said Myles. “But some of it I worked out all by my lonesome. For example, how you trapped those ACRONYM agents in the elevators in order to kill them.”

Gveld shrugged. “A bonus. We’ll put an end to ACRONYM and restore the Horteknut name.”

“And Gundred has no objection to this mass murder?”

“I do not, boy,” said Gundred. “My general leads and I follow willingly.”

Gveld was satisfied. “I hope that answers your question.”

The remaining free ACRONYM agents were now firing at will toward both elevators. Not that their bullets had any effect on silicon nitride other than to make an odd musical tinkling on the surface. Myles could have sworn that he heard Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Flight of the Bumblebee” hidden inside the pings, which was amusing.

“It seems the ACRONYM agents might have something to say about that,” he said.

“They can say what they like,” retorted Gveld. “No one can hear them. And soon no one will hear from them ever again.”

Myles took a breath before playing his trump card. It was a volatile one, so to speak. “Of course, you won’t be killing all the ACRONYM agents in the building.”

Gveld sighed. “I was hoping to enjoy this moment, Fowl. It has been millennia in the making. Many of my own family died so that I may stand here today on the brink of ultimate triumph, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t remind me of all the humans I won’t be killing. The agency will be obliterated, and that will be enough for me.”

Myles waited a moment to absorb this impressive rant, staring at Gundred while he did so. “You’re missing the point, Gveld. There’s an ACRONYM agent closer than you know. She’s been there for quite some time. Twenty years, I would think.”

Gveld huffed. “Games, boy. Schoolyard games. People think we call you Mud People because that’s where you lived when we ruled the surface: in the mud. But I think it’s because of all the mud you sling.”

Myles gripped the handset tightly. He knew how dangerous these waters were. “This is no game, is it, Gundred?”

Gundred did not answer, but Myles knew from the brimstone in her eyes that if she could strangle him at that moment, she would. Nevertheless, Myles forged ahead.

“I read the ACRONYM files, as you know, and they have tried many times to embed an agent with the Fairy People. But how could a human pretend to be a fairy? It just wouldn’t work, unless that human looked like a fairy. In the way that perhaps a human little person might resemble a fairy dwarf. Even then it would have to be a female, because the males have tunneling abilities. But females—some could tunnel, yes, but most could not. And there is a recognized dwarf affliction called Boldart’s syndrome, named after the dwarf who discovered it, in which dissolved nitrogen comes out of the bloodstream, forming gas bubbles in circulation. Those who suffer from this syndrome are called surface dwarves. It’s rare, to be sure, but it means a dwarf cannot endure the same pressure as her fellows. So maybe a very clever female little person might persuade a band of dwarves that she had Boldart’s syndrome. Can you see where this is going, Ms. Horteknut?”

Myles was speaking to Gveld, but he was looking straight at Gundred, who was not enjoying this conversation one bit.

As for Gveld, she was staring at her communicator but not sending any commands.

I have their attention, thought Myles. I shall continue.

“My suspicions were first aroused when Gundred recognized an old ACRONYM call sign during my interrogation. And then you told me that Gundred was a surface dwarf. That would be very convenient for an ACRONYM spy. To never have to put herself in high-pressure situations of any sort.”

Now Gveld spoke, without looking up. “Stop, Fowl. Stop this. Gundred is as a sister to me. More. She is my fellow warrior. She has done things to humans that no human would ever do.”

Myles laughed, because Gveld’s comment was either incredibly naive or just plain stupid. “You of all people should not be surprised by what humans will do to each other, especially when they’re under orders.”

“Don’t listen to this toxic human, Gveld,” said Gundred. “He is trying to distract you.”

“I know that, sister,” said Gveld, placing a hand on her comrade’s forearm. “He is running down the clock in the vain hope that the pixel specialist will be able to stop our Reclaimers.”

“That is exactly what I am doing,” agreed Myles. “But that doesn’t mean I am not also speaking the truth. So, since there is nothing you can do about it, I shall continue with my hypothetical, if that’s what it is, and surely you can spare an ear to listen while I talk.”

Gveld snarled. “I don’t appear to have a choice.”

It was true. They were all stuck in their respective elevators until the ACRONYM agents ceased firing.

Gundred had an idea. “We can destroy the speaker, Gveld.”

But Gveld shook her head no, and Myles knew he had found the chink in their armor.

“So, article one for the prosecution was Gundred’s supposed Boldart’s syndrome. Then I found out that she was not a born Horteknut, which isn’t damning evidence in itself, until you cross-reference it with the disappearance of an ACRONYM agent code-named Zelda a few months before Gundred’s appearance in the rubble. And even that isn’t conclusive, until you realize that Zelda Rubinstein was a famous little person actress in Hollywood movies. I think somebody was being a little obvious with their code name.”

Something changed in Gveld. Perhaps she slumped a little, or perhaps her fist closed a notch tighter, so Myles forged ahead.

“But still I wasn’t sure. Yes, there’s a lot of circumstantial evidence, but no proof. Give it up, Myles, I told myself. You are making massive leaps to unlikely conclusions. But then I heard how Gundred was only half-buried by the rubble yet even so lost her ability to speak due to temporary asphyxiation.”

“So, what, Mud Boy?” snapped Gundred. “It was worth it. I brought down an ACRONYM facility on my own.”

“The thing is,” said Myles, “if ACRONYM knew as much about dwarves as I do, they would know about something called cloacal respiration.”

Gundred made what attorneys would call a rookie mistake, in that she asked a question she should have known the answer to: “Oh, really? And what is cloacal respiration supposed to be?”

Gveld knew then. Myles could see it in the sag of her features as the truth hit her square in the heart.

“The cloaca is an orifice that humans do not have but amphibians and dwarves do. In a pinch, a real dwarf can diffuse oxygen through the cloaca. Or, as my brother here might say, and please excuse the scatological language: a real dwarf can breathe through their butt. So, if Ms. Gundred’s lower half was sticking out of the rubble, as you say, then she could not have been asphyxiated. I suspect that ACRONYM sacrificed a facility and carefully buried Agent Zelda in the ruins. The trauma was a cover so she would have time to learn the language.”

This was quite a speech, especially in dire circumstances, and in his memoirs some fifty years hence, Myles would include it in his top ten monologues.

“My advice, General,” continued the Fowl twin, “would be to finish up here and then ask your dear friend to subject herself to a simple scan. You will have your answer in five seconds. In fact, I could do it for you now with my fancy spectacles.”

Gveld took several deep breaths, each one catching painfully in her chest. “Is this true?” she asked, then: “Gundred, my sweet sister. Tell me this human speaks false.”

“Gveld,” said Gundred, and there were tears in her eyes. “Gveld, it’s been so long.”

“Are you human?” asked Gveld, and there was a pain in her voice that went far beyond her own illness.

Gundred pleaded. “Sister. Let me prove myself….”

“Is it true?” Gveld growled. “Does this despicable boy tell me the truth?”

“It was so long ago. I am something else now. Something in-between. This is my family. You are my sister, and I would die for you.”

“Say it,” said the Horteknut First. “Tell me.”

Gundred found courage from somewhere deep inside and said, “My body may be human, but my heart belongs to you and the dwarves.”

Gveld held out her communicator. “Prove it,” she said.

And without hesitation Gundred pressed her thumb to the red button flashing on the screen.

Red button, thought Myles. That is probably not good.

He was right. It wasn’t.

I do hope that I bought Lazuli enough time to disable the basement charges, but I doubt it.

Once again Myles was right.

He hadn’t.