Wing and a Plan Read online

  He had to balance the serum so it wouldn’t create six-foot-tall penguins. Though the idea of big bodyguards intrigued him, he needed a force that could maximize instinctual penguin combat efficiency. He would make sure they were well-trained, intelligent, and only slightly leaner.

  He toyed with the formula until it felt right, and then ran another simulation.

  The results looked promising.

  Increased strength without too much lean body mass.

  Significant increases in cognitive and critical-thinking functions.

  Boosted land vision and superior agility.

  A satisfied squawk escaped Morris’s beak and he began synthesizing his first batch.

  #

  “My provincial brothers and sisters, your day of redemption has arrived!” Morris said, making a sweeping gesture with his left flipper.

  The penguin subjects milled about in cliquish clusters, some paying attention to him, others looking longingly at the sea.

  He held up a syringe filled with a bright, blue-colored liquid, “Who will it be? Who shall be the first to truly become a Penguin? Who among you has the fortitude to discover the power that lies within?”

  Several of the penguin clusters began shuffling away.

  “Of course, of course,” Morris said to himself. “Feeding time. Always hungry.”

  The flock dwindled until a single cluster remained.

  The final group began moving away with the rest.

  “Wait! I am offering you a future, my friends! With the humans mired in uncertainty, we can rise! We can take control of this world! Free our brethren from the zoos and stop the humans from using us as mascots for hockey teams and computer operating systems!”

  If he had any audience at all, he’d lost it.

  Morris lowered the serum and cast his eyes downward.

  A soulful, plaintive caw sounded from a place Morris forgot existed deep within himself.

  He could save this world from the humans only if his brothers and sisters would help. It would have to start with the mighty Emperor Penguins before the movement spread among the other species.

  The penguins waddled into the distance and Morris tasted failure, a flavor much unlike the satisfying crunch of fish or krill.

  As he hung his head, he felt slight pressure on his right shoulder, where a single remaining penguin rested a reassuring flipper.

  The bird squawked something in its primitive tongue.

  “Come with us,” the penguin urged.

  Morris reached even deeper into his misguided heart, “Come with me.”

  The bird tilted its head and Morris felt certain he’d again misspoken the forgotten language.

  When he expected the bird to wander away with the others, it presented him with its flipper instead.

  Morris looked up.

  For a moment, he glimpsed an imperceptible intelligence in the penguin’s eyes. No sooner than he recognized it, the glimmer faded.

  Morris knew how to bring it back, taking the syringe and plunging it into the bird’s chest.

  #

  He walked the penguin into his laboratory, allowing him to lie on an icy table as he scanned his vital signs.

  “Metabolism, steady. Increased brain function. Thinking at a higher level now,” Morris said, rocking back and forth on his feet.

  The bird’s vitals remained steady, and neural scans showed an exponential increase in brain power.

  The bird opened and closed his eyes rapidly and then sat straight up.

  “You are the first of the new Penguins,” Morris said.

  The bird remained silent, turning his head to look at Morris.

  “I said you are the first of the new Penguins! Speak!”

  The penguin flexed its flippers and twisted its body from side to side.

  “That voice,” the penguin said, his tone refined and almost scholarly, “I recognize that voice. You are the one who’s been pleading with our kind to rise.”

  “Yes! Yes!” Morris said, covering his beak with his flippers as joy overwhelmed him.

  “The humans have overrun this planet,” the new Penguin said. “They have wasted the gift of the maker. This must be corrected.”

  “Yes, my friend. My Penguin. We can made amends.”

  “Correction. You can make amends, Morris. You must lead us.”

  Morris bowed his head, “And so I shall. What will you call yourself?”

  The new Penguin rubbed his chin, “I’ve always been fond of the name Willy.”

  Morris let out a disapproving squawk, “No. Not Willy. Anything but Willy.”

  The bird spun on the lab table and padded onto the icy floor, “Larry. Make it Larry.”

  “Larry it shall be.”

  Larry bowed, “What do you ask of me now?”

  Morris tapped a flipper on the top of his head, “We must synthesize more of the serum. You are to serve as the emissary, my herald to the others. You must tell them what is required.”

  Larry stood, “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the song.”

  “You haven’t forgotten the song, Larry,” Morris said, placing his wing on the Penguin’s chest. “It’s still within you. Take caution not to let it overwhelm you.”

  #

  Morris hoped his herald would suffer few ill effects, but anxiety grated at him. He had no sample data to work from; while confident in his abilities as a scientist, computer simulations were just computer simulations. They couldn’t accurately predict the stark realities of biological life.

  He’d told Larry to find “the song,” but cautioned his protégé against letting the primitive tongue overtake him. Though Morris understood it in limited form, mastery remained out of reach. He managed only to eke out a few basic words and phrases when necessary.

  For a brief moment he wondered if that meant he’d strayed too far from his penguin roots. He stopped to consider the human’s oil spills and their march toward another global conflict.

  The thought reaffirmed his beliefs. Morris felt his own kind threatened. Despite his disappointment in the flock, he felt a begrudging kinship with them.

  Penguins belonged together and no force on earth could stop them. As countries clashed over resources and weapons, Morris and the others would steal the earth right from under their noses.

  Turning Larry into his herald was only the beginning.

  #

  “They’ll come together?”

  “Yes, Morris. They will come together. The older birds are wary of your methods. They fear resistance from the humans.”

  Morris rubbed his eyes, “Of course there will be resistance. It’s a Penguin Army. Not a Penguin Peace Corps.”

  “Have we synthesized enough of the serum?”

  Morris looked at the dearth of full syringes within his laboratory and shook his head.

  “Not yet. You and I will have to account for every penguin in this flock. We’ll need a milder version for the young ones. When we get more flippers, we’ll be able to catalyze enough for the entire penguin population.”

  Larry clacked his beak, “Have you accounted for the metabolic differences among the species?”

  “The variation isn’t as great as you would think, but yes. They’re color-coded. We’ll begin with the Emperor Penguins.”

  #

  They worked tirelessly for days to produce enough of the serum for the flock.

  Larry proved an able assistant, even if too eager to impress. He ran simulations of each catalyzed version of the serum. Morris had already run the tests, but Larry insisted on checking the work.

  When it came to synthesizing the Emperor Penguin serum, Larry ran another series of simulations. Again, Morris knew he’d researched them to the best of his superior ability. No matter how many tests and counter-tests the computers ran, they could not account for variations in genetic code. Some birds could have a certain predisposition toward the serum; they didn’t know for sure.

  They would have to wing it.

  Within a
week, Morris and Larry produced enough for the entire flock, though Morris noticed the effort seemed to wear down his friend.

  He found his partner resorting to more squawks and primitive language.

  Perhaps Larry needed a stronger dose or a booster shot.

  Morris planned to investigate, though he suspected Larry felt fatigued from their long, intensive work in the lab. When Morris became tired, he often fell into older habits from his youth.

  He figured Larry felt that way, too.

  #

  “My fellow penguins, the dawn of our new era is upon us!” Morris said to the impressive assemblage of penguins Larry had convinced to pack the western edge of Antarctica.

  He waited for Larry’s translation and pointed to the cache of serum to his right, “Behold the future of our people!”

  Excited squawks rippled throughout the penguins, and Morris closed his eyes, seeing the Great Penguin Army march across the earth in his mind’s eye.

  “You are the first. Once you accept this task, we shall spread our wisdom across the earth to the rest of our feathered brothers and sisters!”

  Larry translated with high-pitched squeals and calls, working the penguin legion into an excited fervor.

  “I would like to thank my second-in-command Larry for serving as my herald. He has performed admirably as an assistant.”

  His second-in-command did not continue the translation. That didn’t bother Morris; his partner was likely too shy to boast.

  He recalled an old saying: Confident in one’s own flipper, humble before the Flock.

  “Let the first of this group of new Penguins come forward,” he said.

  Larry translated and the flock’s excitement evaporated.

  “Flock…thinks…dangerous,” Larry said before letting out a series of squawks and caws.

  The stilted words didn’t alarm Morris; his assistant was likely overwhelmed with his responsibilities. A loud wave of excited squeals and inquisitive chirps rushed over the flock.

  Morris looked at Larry for the translation.

  His fellow Penguin responded by shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders, letting loose a torrent of inelegant penguin-speak. Morris waddled toward Larry and held his face, peering deep into his assistant’s eyes.

  Sparks of intelligence fired intermittently; he was losing Larry to nature and his flock.

  Morris shook his friend, “Larry! Larry! Come back! I can’t do this without you!”

  He backed away and Larry waddled in a circle and waved his flippers frantically.

  “Overwhelming surge from the flock,” he blubbered.

  Morris grabbed his friend by the shoulders, “Fight it, Larry! We’re close!”

  “I’m here Morris. Command me,” Larry said with a humble bow.

  “Bring me the serum,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  Larry padded over toward the serum cache and Morris turned toward the flock, “Do not waste this opportunity, my mighty Penguins. With our combined strength, we can tame this chaotic world and shape it into our own!”

  He must’ve delivered his plea too forcefully; many of the penguins in the front row backed away.

  He held out a flipper, “The serum, Larry!”

  He wrapped his wing around the cold cylinder, “Translate this, Larry!” Morris held the syringe in the air, “This is our future. You have nothing to fear! Let me prove it!”

  With that, he plunged the syringe into his own chest, holding back the sharp tweet of pain threatening to spill from his beak. He began emptying the serum into himself, realizing halfway through that the liquid going into his system was not bright blue, but rather bright green.

  The counter-agent.

  He’d produced it as a precaution.

  Morris tore the syringe from his chest, making no attempt to hide his agitation. A sense of peace gnawed at the back of his mind and Morris pushed it back.

  He hungered for fresh mackerel and krill.

  He suppressed the urge, but the flock seemed inviting.

  He shook his head and tapped his beak with a flipper.

  He had only moments.

  Larry had apparently regressed. Only a nearsighted, colorblind dolt could confuse the two liquids. He waddled quickly to his glacial manor and began typing a frantic series of notes and reminders into his customized keyboard.

  Within minutes, the words and messages stopped making sense. He’d had some greater purpose, but could not recall it.

  Morris stared at the screen and told the computer to save his work, but a noise broke his concentration and he found Larry standing at the entrance.

  His lab assistant chirped a series of questions. Morris’ breaths came in heaving gasps.

  He understood.

  The penguin eased out of his ice chair and dropped the flat device he’d once held on this lap.

  “Time for lunch. Time for the hunt,” Larry said.

  Morris chirped back, “Feeding time already?”

  “For the penguin, it is always feeding time.”

  #

  The Emperor Penguin walked with the rest of the flock.

  For days, the fish and krill had become difficult to find. They were hungry, some of them starving.

  The flock leaders didn’t know what to do.

  The Emperor Penguin told them in a series of squawks and caws that moving in the other direction would be beneficial.

  They did not understand, replying only that they’d always hunted in these waters. They’d always found success for the flock.

  The Emperor Penguin didn’t want to argue with the flock leaders; he did not want to be bothersome. Hunger overwhelmed his brothers and sisters and young flocklings. He felt himself thinning down, the cold becoming more and more difficult to endure.

  Layers of dark, thick liquid washed up on the eastern edge of the ice, darkening it with each passing wave. Loud, distant bursts created dark clouds of ash and soot that clouded the skies. Muck dirtied the water, making it difficult to see during the hunt. Many penguins who returned suffered strange marks and burns.

  Some didn’t return at all.

  The Emperor Penguin made his case again to the flock leaders. The penguins had to march earlier than normal this year. They had to move farther than they normally went.

  The flock leaders wished to stay. The Emperor Penguin did not understand. It seemed wrong, even reckless. He did not wish this fate upon the flock.

  He tried to convince the others to follow him west, but most refused, reminding him of some great failure he’d once subjected the flock to.

  He could not recall the memory.

  Only one other joined the Emperor Penguin on his long journey. Together they set across the windswept Antarctic Plain to a destination driving them westward.

  #

  Days or months or years passed; the pair could not tell.

  A warming sun hit across the westernmost edge of their territory and the Emperor Penguin stood at the brink, peering into pure and fish-filled waters. The waves did not wash dark muck or ash or soot onto the ice when they splashed across.

  The Emperor Penguin dove in and his vision drew even sharper in the crystalline waters. He heard another splash; his friend joined him for the hunt. Together they gathered fish and krill and ate themselves full before returning to the surface.

  Having gorged as they had not in a long time, the Emperor Penguin stood in awe at a large ice structure.

  A powerful vision encroached upon his memory and he staggered backward, imagining cities of ice buildings and cool, pure waterways. He didn’t know if it was a vision of what once was or what could yet become.

  The Emperor Penguin toddled toward the ice structure. Once grand, it appeared dilapidated; strong winds had gnarled the structure so that it leaned. He walked toward a hole in the side and glimpsed within, seeing a series of spacious areas with strange objects made from ice. An arched piece looked particularly comfortable; a large, thin rectangle on the wall seemed oddly familiar.


  The Emperor Penguin shrugged his shoulders and waddled away, stumbling as he tripped on a snow-covered object.

  Curious, he began digging with his flippers until he unearthed a cold, metallic object unlike anything he’d ever seen before.

  Or had he seen it before?

  The Emperor Penguin lifted the heavy, ice-covered device and it seemed to ease its way onto his back. He pulled firm, cool straps across his body and they seemed only slightly loose. A low, buzzing sound swept across the ice, and with an almost explosive boom, the device on his back sprouted wings of its own.

  A tidal wave of memories flooded his mind.

  His neck strained as he abandoned the primitive tongue he’d spoken for such long a time.

  The word came haltingly, gratingly…

  But it came.

  “Muh…muh…muh…oar…is…Morris,” the Penguin said, the hint of a smile curling up on his beak.

  ###

  Matt Adams is a TV news producer whose short stories have appeared in A Thousand Faces, Wily Writers for Speculative Fiction, and anthologies from Library of the Living Dead Press. He lives and works in Indianapolis, Indiana, with his wife and man-eating frog. You can check out more of his work at http://mattadamsauthor.blogspot.com

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