Penelope March Is Melting

by Jeffrey Michael Ruby

  “Heavens! Is that the tale he’s spinning? You want to know how Paul lost his toe? He saw a mouse—a very small one—and dropped the chain saw on his foot. And he didn’t lose a toe; he lost the tip of his toe. Very lucky. Then the stubborn dunderhead refused to go to the hospital because he didn’t want his parents to find out. As if they wouldn’t notice their son’s bloody foot.”

  A penguin poked his head from the submarine and tapped his little watch. “Let’s go, let’s go.”

  Buzzardstock handed Penelope a small box topped with ribbon and a red bow. “Don’t open it until you’ve submerged.” He offered his wrinkled hand for a handshake, and instead Penelope threw her arms around the old man. He seemed surprised at first, and then his brittle body relaxed. The harder Penelope squeezed, the more she fought back the nagging feeling that she would never see him again.

  “Don’t you worry, Penelope March,” Buzzardstock said. “Some people are destined for glory. Others are destined to drop a chain saw on their foot.”

  A whistle blew. Then a dive alarm so loud it rattled the Ice House’s walls. Penelope ducked aboard the AF Delphia and a penguin closed the hatch behind her.

  Voices boomed from all over the submarine. While Penelope and Miles leaned against a ladder near the entrance to stay out of the way, each sailor around them knew exactly what to do.

  “Sir, ship rigged for dive!”

  “Sir, request permission to submerge ship to two-zero-zero feet.”

  “Request permission to attain one-third trim, sir.”

  “Very well. Take her down.”

  “Mark the dive point!”

  “Dive, dive!”

  “Open the main ballast tank vents!”

  “Venting forward!”

  “Venting aft!”

  “We’re at depth zero two zero…zero three zero…zero four zero…”

  Down they went, slowly, or so it felt to Penelope. The submarine had no windows to give her any perspective. But she imagined the layer of ice receding above her like a white sheet lifted from a bed, the water growing blacker and thicker as they dove farther toward a barren and rocky sea bottom.

  Penelope turned to Miles. “I’m sorry I called you a coward.”

  He shrugged. “I’m still scared.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “I had a dream last night. It was you, leading an army into battle.”

  It sounded so absurd that Penelope almost laughed. But her ears hummed with a weird electricity. “What were you doing in this dream?”

  Miles’s face, grim and gray since all this started, came to life. “Following.”

  Once the sub was two hundred feet underwater and plodding ahead at four knots, a serious pint-sized penguin approached Penelope and Miles. “I’m LaRouche. But my friends call me—”

  “Twickie, right?” Penelope said.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Decker told us.”

  The little guy’s mouth fell open. “Decker talked about me? What did he say?”

  “That you were twenty-three inches tall,” Miles said.

  The penguin looked mortified.

  “He also said that you were a promising sailor,” Penelope lied.

  Twickie stood as tall as he could muster. “Twenty-three-and-a-quarter. Anyway, I’ve been granted the honor of giving you a tour. Shall we?”

  “Ow!” Miles bonked his head on a pipe running along the ceiling. He was still getting accustomed to the constant lurch of the submarine, and glared up as though it were the pipe’s fault.

  “Do watch your head there,” said Twickie. “The interior has been designed with”—he motioned to his compact body—“a smaller frame in mind.”

  “So I see,” grumbled Miles. If he bent slightly, his head had two inches of clearance from the ceiling. He looked like a hunchback in a dwarf’s cottage.

  “You’ll see that the craft has been equipped with all the latest military technology,” said Twickie, leading the pair through decks and passageways, past the periscope, oxygen generator, auxiliary generator, and ballast tanks. The tight space rang with the hum and clank of machinery. “State-of-the-art digital visualization, infrared cameras, and three wide-aperture arrays that give us the ability to look up and down the sub’s exterior.”

  “I can’t believe how much stuff you crammed in here,” Penelope said.

  Twickie nodded. “Yes, ma’am. As Decker says, there’s room for everything aboard a submarine except a mistake.”

  A round chap, eyes glittering under his sailor’s cap, waddled up and stuck out his wing. Penelope shook it and looked down at his feet for some reason. He had on tiny rubber-soled tennis shoes, which looked pretty funny on penguin feet. She liked him immediately.

  “This fine fellow is Douglas Floyd,” said Twickie. “He’s the yeoman in charge of all written correspondence on board and has prepared a dossier that will get you up to speed on our operations.”

  Floyd pumped Penelope’s hand with a fleshy wing. “I’m honored to serve aboard this ship with you, Miss March.” He narrowed his eyes at Miles. “You, not so much.”

  Miles’s jaw clenched. “What? Why—”

  Floyd fake-punched Miles in the gut. “Just kidding. You two are legends on this craft.” Floyd handed Penelope a thick document. “Once you get your bearings, come find me. We’ll talk about the mission over a glass of lemonade.” And with that he scurried off.

  Twickie led them to a floor-to-ceiling brown flannel curtain. He slid it open to reveal three levels of tiny bunks—each one a tightly made bed scarcely bigger than a baby’s crib—connected by tiny ladders. “Here’s where the crew sleeps. You two have the bottom racks.”

  Miles and Penelope exchanged a look. Each space would have been roomy and luxurious for a penguin, or a toddler. Miles and Penelope were neither. Their bags, resting beside the pristine bunks, looked cartoonishly large and disheveled.

  “Wow,” Miles said. “Small.”

  “By your standards,” Twickie harrumphed. “By ours, more than enough room for privacy and a few personal belongings. Each equipped with a ventilation duct and a small reading light. Neither of you suffers from claustrophobia?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Our staff undergoes psychological testing to ensure they’re capable of living underwater in close quarters. Some can’t handle it. Perhaps I could make other sleeping arrangements if these are not up to your standards.”

  “These are fine,” Penelope said. “Thank you.”

  “Very well, I’ll leave you two to settle in. You can put your bags in the lockers over there. We’ve got a long journey in front of us. Get some shut-eye, and when you awaken, we’ll arrange a rendezvous with Yeoman Floyd regarding the mission.” Twickie caught Penelope’s eye. “Permission to speak freely?”

  “I’m not in the navy,” she said. “All I do is speak freely.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what is this mission all about?”

  “We don’t know, exactly,” said Penelope. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Twickie eyed the dossier in Penelope’s hands hungrily. “I could…read the dossier for you and, I don’t know, prepare a summary.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Penelope said. “I probably ought to read it myself.”

  “Very well,” Twickie said, disappointed. “Read it carefully. Then you can tell me what it says. Ha-ha. Just kidding.”

  After Twickie had shuffled off, Miles and Penelope stood over the bunks, making mental calculations: If I put my elbows in that corner and my head over here, and hang my feet over the edge, maybe…

  “Which one do you want?” Penelope asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  Miles climbed into the berth on the right and tried to lay his head on the pillow, which was the size of an envelope. Penelope followed into her own bunk. She lifted the thin blanket and curled herself into a ball as best she could.

  Exhausted, she closed her eyes.

 
Just as Penelope was drifting off to the rhythmic groan and sway of the submarine, an earsplitting alarm pierced the air.

  OOOOOH-GAA! OOOOOH-GAA!

  Sharp blasts of noise pounded every nook and cranny of the ship. Penguins groaned from the bunks. Others sprinted down the hallway. A high-pitched voice on the Delphia’s speaker system began squawking over the alarm, something about a code nine in the hold and how all crewmembers were instructed to stay put.

  Miles poked his head into Penelope’s bunk, hands over his ears. “What’s going on?” he hollered.

  Before she could answer, their bunk curtains swung open, and a barrel-chested penguin pushed Penelope’s face into her pillow. “Penelope and Miles March,” he barked. “Put your hands behind your head. You’re under arrest.”

  The crew watched the penguin shove Penelope and Miles against a wall and pat them down from head to toe. He had to stand on a chair to reach the children’s shoulders.

  Another penguin stepped in. “Hey, Popper. Take it easy. They’re just kids.”

  Popper got in the much smaller penguin’s face. “Watch yourself, Private, or you’ll spend your next five watches scrubbing a sewer discharge pump with a toothbrush and a pair of skivvies.” He turned to Penelope and Miles. “Come with me.”

  Together, they trundled down a corridor past scores of crewmembers and into a small room. Inside were nothing but a table and three chairs.

  “What’s going on?” Penelope asked.

  “I have no idea,” Miles said. “One minute I’m drooling on my little pillow, and the next a penguin is shoving me down the hall.”

  The door opened, and in stepped Commander Beardbottom, followed closely by Decker.

  “Mr. and Miss March,” Beardbottom said. “I apologize if you have been treated roughly. We take every precaution after a code nine. We will sort this out shortly.”

  Penelope stepped forward. “Sort what out?”

  “Come with us, please.”

  Penelope and Miles followed them back through the corridor past the same concerned penguins.

  Decker cleared his throat. “It seems we’ve had a stowaway in the cargo hold at least since we submerged. No one’s quite certain how this breach of security happened, though steps have been taken to ensure it won’t again. We thought you might be able to identify the intruder.”

  “Us?” Penelope asked. “Why us?”

  Decker gestured to a small metallic hatch with a circular window at the end of the corridor.

  Sometimes a person’s brain hiccups when they see a familiar face in an unfamiliar place. That was the sensation that pummeled Penelope when she looked in the hatch window and saw Coral Wanamaker.

  “What’s she doing here?” Coral’s pale and passive face rekindled Penelope’s anger.

  “I wish I understood it myself,” said Decker. “Our security procedures are extremely tight, but somehow she snuck in and evaded scrutiny during the security check before we submerged. Now she refuses to speak. So you know her?”

  “Her name is Coral Wanamaker. She lives in Glacier Cove, and she’s in sixth grade, like me.”

  “What the devil is she doing on my ship?” Beardbottom boomed.

  As Penelope watched Coral through the window, something unspoken passed between the two girls. “Forget it,” she told Beardbottom. “Coral is a liar. And she won’t talk.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Decker said darkly. “We have ways of getting prisoners to talk.”

  “Not this one. She’s survived tortures far worse than yours.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “Have you ever been in sixth grade?”

  Beardbottom stood on his tiptoes to peer in at this strange girl, who was silent and motionless, as though she were from another planet. “What does she know about the mission?”

  “She knows about Makara Nyx,” Penelope said. “And the Shard. Basically, everything Buzzardstock told me, he told her too.”

  Beardbottom turned to hide his fury. “Is she trustworthy?”

  “She’s the one who tried to keep me from getting aboard.”

  Beardbottom whirled around, his chest deflating. “Frankly, I’m surprised. The old man’s usually a good judge of character. He obviously misjudged this one.”

  “Sir,” Decker said. “We will not let her, or anyone else, jeopardize Operation Thunder Strike. Rest assured, she will be punished.”

  Beardbottom went toe-to-toe with Decker. “You will not torture this prisoner. Do you hear me?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  The commander took one last look at Coral and walked off.

  “Throw her in solitary,” Decker told his men. “If she won’t talk, that’s the only place for her.”

  Coral was handcuffed and led away by no fewer than fifteen penguins. It was a pretty ridiculous procession. Even with her tiny frame, Coral towered over her captors. She probably could have kicked them half across the ocean without trying. But she did not protest. Nor did she make eye contact with Penelope as she passed.

  Decker turned to Penelope. “She’s an odd one, that friend of yours.”

  “She’s not my friend,” Penelope shot back.

  “Either way, I’m willing to bet she knows more than she’s telling us.”

  “Of course she does. She’s not telling us anything.”

  Decker seemed surprised by Penelope’s sharp tone. “It appears the stereotype is correct—you humans are a prickly bunch. Perhaps you ought to go back to sleep.”

  A rustling sound nudged Penelope’s eyes open. She was startled to see, hanging upside down from the bunk above, three penguin faces watching her. Two of the three popped back up out of sight.

  The third, a burly guy with mischievous eyes that twinkled with all manner of mayhem—even upside down—continued to study her.

  “Hi,” Penelope said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’ve never seen a human up close. You’re not as hairy as I imagined.”

  “Thanks?”

  “I’m Omar. Special Warfare Operator, First Class. But I’m trying to advance to Chief Petty Officer.”

  “I’m Penelope. I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Well, wakey wakey, eggs and bakey, princess. You’ve been asleep for two days. And the officers are pretty eager to get you up to speed.”

  “Two days?” Penelope jumped up and hit her head on the top of her bunk, upending Omar temporarily.

  “I wanted to wake you, but Martin and Lucas wouldn’t let me,” Omar said.

  At that, the other two penguins popped their heads back down. “I’m Martin,” blurted out a little guy with pointy elbows and thick tufts of black plumage above his eyes that resembled bushy eyebrows. “And this dapper gentleman”—he nudged the other one, a bony bag of an animal studying Penelope with soulful eyes—“is Lucas.”

  “Have you guys seen my brother?”

  Omar plopped down on Penelope’s bed in a silk sleeping robe. “Last I saw, he was in the crew’s mess. But he might’ve moved on to the gym. We worked out together yesterday. Feel these paddle muscles. I can swim eighteen miles an hour. This breastbone here, it’s like the keel of a ship. Okay, so I’ve got a little extra blubber around the middle, but that’s how I withstand the harsh conditions. My body is built to fly. I just happen to do it underwater.”

  Martin squeezed onto Penelope’s bed. “Pay Omar no mind. That nearsighted barbarian’s idea of high culture is wrestling and spiced rum.”

  “We’re SEALs,” Omar said. “I mean, not literally seals. I hate seals. Bunch of sneaky, oily blubber merchants. We’re Navy SEALs. Sea, air, and land, trained in maritime military ops, and we were built for this mission. Check out this dense network of waterproof plumage.”

  Penelope glanced at the third penguin.

  “Lucas doesn’t talk much,” Martin said. “Strong as a beast, though. Once stayed underwater for twenty-six minutes.”

  “Twenty-eight,” Lucas said.

  “The three of us grew up tog
ether, and we’re ready to kick some tail!” Omar roared. The three of them slapped wings. “Okay, okay, enough with the touchy-feely talky. Now, who’s going to ask?”

  Martin smacked Omar on the head. Omar smacked him back twice as hard.

  Penelope followed Omar’s eyes to the foot of her bed, where they landed on the present from Buzzardstock. Someone had obviously opened the box and tried to rewrap it. And failed miserably. The paper had been taped haphazardly, the ribbon shredded as if by claws, and the red bow looked like someone had sat on it. The whole package was covered with black and white feathers.

  Omar shrugged as if to say, What did you expect? You can’t leave a present unopened around penguins.

  “Don’t worry,” Martin said. “We didn’t eat any.”

  Omar stared up at Penelope hopefully. “I really, really wanted to.”

  Penelope opened the package. Inside was a box filled with cookies and a note from Buzzardstock:

  P: Use them wisely. I know you will. —Ore9n.

  The three penguins eyed Penelope as she closed the box. “Probably a good thing you didn’t eat any,” she said. “I don’t think you guys are quite ready for these.”

  —

  Penelope’s stomach rumbled as she entered the mess hall. A rail-thin penguin wearing a puffy white hat popped his head out of the kitchen and thrust a spoon at her. “Taste this, yes?”

  Penelope instinctively pulled back.

  He pushed the spoon closer to Penelope’s mouth. It was filled with clear, brownish liquid. “Hooked squid soup,” he said. “It is delicious and nourishing, and the only one who does not agree is the one too stubborn to try it.”

  Penelope opened her mouth and the chef slid the spoon in.

  “Well? You like it, no?”

  Her face froze. “That is…amazing. I mean, like, the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  The chef nodded. “Culinary specialist Jean-Jacques Dupree. Your lunch choices today are spaghetti and meatballs with fresh-grated Parmesan, jumbo pepperoni pizza, squid soup, sloppy joes, potato chips, crispy double fried chicken, wagon wheel pancakes with fresh maple syrup and whipped cream, hot jelly-filled doughnuts, one hundred seventy-four flavors of ice cream, and a tower of chocolate cake. What would you like, mademoiselle?”