THIRTY THOUSAND FEET

OVER THE GULF OF MEXICO,
25° N 88° W

LAZULI WAS FALLING FAST, AND SHE KNEW THAT stabilising herself was imperative because, if she deployed her equipment while corkscrewing, her only lifeline would be plucked from its frame by the wind like the wings of a tortured fly.

Of course, she did not make these observations rationally, as the wind spinning her end to end in a gyroscopic whirl made it hard to think straight. Instinct and training took over and, somewhere deep inside the chaos of her mind, Lazuli screamed at herself: Stabilise, Specialist!

Lazuli had been trained in how to fall properly, and the desired air-shape was known as the banana, which meant pulling the legs and chin up while forcing the torso down, thus forming a rigid frame that could ride the airflow. Further tumbling was prevented by extending both arms like paddles to guide the skydiver’s fall to earth. Lazuli followed these steps now and soon had her descent under some sort of control. She was still falling, of course, but at least the world now made sense visually. Below her, she could see the vastness of a twinkling blue ocean dotted with human vessels, and out of the corner of her eye she could make out the hatch from which she had been pulled, surrounded by the failing camouflage of the plummeting capsule.

Lazuli waited five more seconds and then whipped her body as vertical as possible, praying that this new suit was old enough to feature a particular backup system that the newer model didn’t have.

‘Activate!’ she screamed at her suit, also remembering to press the button in the gloves. ‘Activate!’

And, once the suit’s mechanical spirit level, altimeter and anemometer assessed Lazuli’s altitude and descent rate, and found them compatible with deployment, it did indeed activate. Gossamer-thin wings built into Lazuli’s suit slid out and connected to a dynamo that she could power through her own efforts.

Thank goodness for old equipment, she thought.

I don’t know if any of you have ever tried pedalling through a free fall, but this is what Lazuli did now. She felt her jumpsuit legs stiffen as the epicyclic gear-and-cog system slotted into place and the soles of her boots effectively became pedals. The efficient gears soon built up enough power to set the wings flapping and slowed her descent.

Everything went reasonably well, even though the air was thin at this altitude and she began panting a lot faster than usual this early into a cardio exercise. Nevertheless, Lazuli persevered and she was even able to take stock of what exactly was beneath her and what her options might be. As a result, when the abandoned capsule impacted on the ocean surface, sending up a plume of water and debris that rose to a height of around a hundred metres, it was nowhere near enough to touch Lazuli. It did cause her to miss a stroke in her pedalling and drop a lurching ten metres, but she soon had the rig under control again. The gigantic splashdown attracted the attention of a passing cargo ship, which ponderously altered its course to come closer for a look.

Lazuli inspected the ship from above and noticed that there were rectangles of impenetrable shadow between the towers of metal containers.

Perfect spots for an LEP officer to hitch a ride without attracting any attention.

The ship was going the wrong way, but her only option was to tread water, or sky, until something came along going in the other direction.

And that something would be too slow.

Lazuli switched into a lower gear and set the clockwork wings’ flap to descend.

THE ISLAND OF ST GEORGE, SCILLY ISLES

The Fowl Twins found themselves outnumbered by one person, as it were. To explain, there were a few dozen versions of Lord Teddy at various stages of development, from early twenties to late fifties, positioned strategically in the laboratory, all pointing electric rifles at the Fowl Twins – which seemed a little like overkill, considering the fact that both Irish boys were strapped into operating frames and completely helpless for the moment. The real Lord Teddy, who was the only one with a meticulously shaped Vandyke-style goatee, was running through diagnostics for the upcoming decapitation operation, pinging each one of the helmet sensors to make sure there was solid contact.

‘It would be a terrible shame, scientifically speaking, if you woke up with all systems firing except your sense of taste, for example,’ said Teddy as he triple-checked the Bluetooth. ‘I’d consider it a failure. And it would be especially galling if it was because of something perfectly avoidable, like a low battery charge. Oh, my word, how embarrassed would I be?’

Myles’s response was a barely audible grunt, which was unusually rude for him, but, in the boy’s defence, he was distracted by the cheese wire’s buzzing as a heating charge ran through its coils.

Beckett was also grunting, but in a more complex fashion, almost as if he were communicating. Or trying to. At the moment, it seemed to be a bit of a one-way street.

‘Release my brother,’ said Myles. ‘Give him his chance. You owe me that much.’

‘I owe you precisely nothing,’ said the duke, testing Myles’s straps with more violent tugging than necessary. ‘However, I did give my word to free your wild-animal brother to a degree. So I will do that. My word is one of the few things sacred to me.’

Myles hid a smirk.

Wild animal.

Teddy had no idea what he was about to release. When Whistle Blower popped out of Beck’s pocket, he would slice through those clones faster than the Osaka 2 Petawatt laser would slice through the atmosphere.

Lord Teddy spun the X-frame so that Beckett faced him. The boy was unusually but understandably glum, and tears slicked his cheeks and dripped from his chin.

‘Don’t be sad, little Fowl,’ said Teddy. ‘You’re possibly going to survive. Now, here’s the game. My lovely clones are programmed to fire at you upon my command. They won’t disobey because they have no brains of their own, just computer chips. And their rifles, which I have rather cleverly named Clonoscopy rifles, fire electric shocks that aren’t strong enough to kill, just incapacitate.’

Teddy squatted down level with Beckett’s face. ‘Although, between us two, I imagine four or five direct hits would stop a heart as small as yours,’ he said as though sharing a playground secret. ‘So, when I undo these straps, I want you to climb on to that shiny table. I will close my eyes for ten seconds, and you see what you can do. Obviously, my beautiful clones will fire upon you if you make a move towards me or your brother, but aside from that your seconds are your own. Nod if you understand.’

Beckett nodded and Myles called to him.

‘Make a run for it, Beck. There’s nothing to be done here. Get help and come back for me.’

Even as he said the words, Myles knew it was never going to happen. His twin would no more leave him than he himself would leave Beckett if the roles were reversed.

The duke undid the straps one by one, talking as he did so, trying to put Beckett off his game. ‘Use the opportunity you’re being given, dear boy,’ he said. ‘It’s your brother I’m after primarily. Specialist Heitz was collateral damage, and you should try to avoid that fate. Survive if you can, and live to climb trees, or whatever it is you do, another day. Believe me, you will be better off without young Myles leading you down all sorts of wrong paths.’

Beckett made no reply to the duke, but he was talking to someone in animalistic grunts and growls.

The straps were thrown aside, and the electric rifles of the clones swivelled as one to zero in on Beckett’s head and torso.

‘Slowly, now,’ said Teddy, taking a step. ‘Up on the table you go. And I should tell you that your famous cluster punch won’t work here. I myself am wearing a kneepad under my trousers, and I took the precaution of adding an elongated kneecap to the clones’ design. But please knock yourself out trying if you feel there’s time to spare.’

Beckett moved in a daze, unable to come to grips with the terrible reality playing out around him. Lazuli was dead, his brother was about to have his head chopped off, and he was being set on a table like a jester on a stage, given a single chance to change the course of the day. Myles was able to do something he called compartmentalise, which meant storing unhelpful emotions in a mind box until he had time to deal with them, but Beckett was a creature who ran on emotions and could not shut them off at will. In fact, he rarely put anything in boxes.

He mounted the table in a most untypical fashion, crawling aboard on his hands and knees as though his legendary coordination had deserted him.

‘There’s a good fellow,’ said Teddy most patronisingly, spinning Myles round to watch his brother’s sad escape attempt. ‘Steady now. Don’t worry, I won’t start counting until you are in position.’

Beckett was certainly not in optimal shape for a breakout, and it seemed as though he might not try anything … until Myles called to him.

‘Beck. The only way we survive is if you use the ten seconds granted. Unleash the beast, if you know what I mean.’

Lord Teddy, surprisingly, agreed. ‘Yes, boy. Listen to your brother and unleash the beast.’

Beckett patted his pocket and felt the shape of Whistle Blower in there.

Unleash the beast. Lord Teddy could not know that I’ve been grunting at Whistle Blower this whole time.

The clones stared at him with their cold eyes and Beckett was certain they would not miss when the time came.

It’s hopeless.

But no. Whistle Blower would spring into action and then, Beckett knew, he himself would be inspired to follow suit. He inched his hand towards the pocket in his cargo shorts, like a cowboy preparing to draw his weapon.

Lord Teddy tut-tutted. ‘Not yet, old chap. Wait for the countdown.’

Beckett froze, but even the small action of reaching for Whistle Blower had fortified him and he felt the palest ray of hope light up neurons in his brain.

Can I do it? Without Myles?

And perhaps Teddy sensed this renewed hope as well, because he chose that moment to deliver a devastating blow.

‘Oh, and by the way, before we kick off, I should say that the little troll fellow in your pocket won’t be of any use to you. I gave him a rather fatal dose of deadly nightshade when I was strapping you in. No sense stacking the deck against myself.’

Myles didn’t believe it. ‘He’s bluffing, Beck. Teddy has coveted Whistle Blower’s venom for years.’

‘Not any more,’ said Teddy airily. ‘I have an unlimited supply of clones to inhabit. I can grow them at will, don’t you know? And slightly different ones, too, thanks to an employee of mine named Jeffluent. Still, there was no need to expose this pristine body to that little mite’s teeth and claws, so I stuck him with a hypodermic of belladonna half an hour ago. I’m well practised in the technique. Many of my relatives went that way when they came between me and the title. If only one of them could have led me to the Lionheart ring … Eh, no matter. That’s a quest for another day.’ The duke closed his eyes. ‘Anyway, your time begins now. Ten, nine …’

Beckett didn’t absorb much of this chatter except for one crucial phrase, though Myles automatically filed everything away in case it might come in handy later. Beckett ripped open his shorts pocket and carefully lifted out the limp frame of his little troll friend. Whistle Blower was not quite dead, but he was in bad shape. Any visible skin was grey, and his mohawk, which was his pride and joy and usually kept vertical with blobs of animal fat, had collapsed completely, giving the troll a fringe that made him seem quite bookish. His eyes were dim and jittering in an alarming manner.

‘Oh, my friend,’ said Beckett. ‘What has he done to you?’

‘Six,’ said Teddy. ‘And five …’

Whistle Blower breathed with difficulty and spittle fizzed on his lips. He coughed an instruction at Beckett. ‘Throw me,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Throw me at those scentless Teddies or my death will be meaningless.’

‘Three,’ said Teddy. ‘Two …’

‘Throw me now!’ ordered Whistle Blower.

It would have seemed incredibly callous had there been witnesses to judge him, but Beckett did as he was told and, against every instinct in every fibre of his young body, he stood and hurled his dying friend directly towards the nearest cluster of impassive clones.

‘One,’ said Teddy, and he opened his eyes just in time to see the little troll fly past him, mouth opened, poison-laced spit trailing behind him.

It was comical, really.

‘Wonderful!’ said Teddy, his revenge proving more entertaining than he’d ever imagined.

Six of the clones fired, and three bolts hit Whistle Blower dead centre, momentarily suspending the toy troll in a nimbus of crackling electricity before the energy transfer sent him back the way he’d come. Like a cannonball, he charged directly into Beckett’s chest, carrying them both through the window behind them, the frame of which had been weakened by the three electrical bolts that had missed Whistle Blower.

‘Well now …’ breathed the duke as tendrils of fog snaked in through the window. ‘That was unexpected. Most unexpected.’

The fall should kill the boy. Of course it should, but of course it wouldn’t. These Fowls never went down easily.

No matter. The clones already abroad on the estate would find him. Find him and execute without prejudice. Or with prejudice. It didn’t really matter to Teddy, as long as one of the Fowls was dead.

‘The boy has flair,’ said Teddy to Myles. ‘I’ll give him that.’

Myles was smiling a mirthless, vicious smile, devoid of all his usual mannerly civility. ‘You should remember this moment, Bleedham-Drye. This is the moment when your demented plan went off the rails.’

Teddy didn’t laugh exactly, but his smile matched Myles’s own for mirthlessness. ‘I think we’re still on the rails, Myles, old chum,’ he said, bonging the X-frame with a knuckle. ‘In fact, you’re tied to them.’

This was an excellent rejoinder, and the force of it took the wind out of Myles’s sails. He slumped in his bonds and waited for the wire to tighten round his neck.

‘Oh, don’t be despondent yet,’ said Teddy cheerfully. ‘Buck up, why don’t you? I still have several items on my pre-op checklist. And then I plan to gloat for a while.’

Myles thought he might stay slumped for the moment and hope that Beckett would somehow escape the island and not have to see his brother’s head in a jar.