by C. Vandyke
* * *
[Long pause]
* * *
Sorry. I’m getting to what you’re after. We saw the kraken on one of our last flight drills. All the final year cadets were on board Falcon’s Cradle in the Finnegan Sea, south of the Hub, prepping our planes for our patrol route. They don’t give cadets state-of-the-art equipment, but we were fully outfitted for this one. Amelia and I copiloted a Tangsin Swallowsnap, a beautiful bird, canvas biplane—an antique, now, but it had gorgeous lines and wings that caught the air, caught it like you didn’t need an engine at all.
* * *
[Clears throat.]
* * *
Anyway, we’d taken off, Amelia was lead pilot so I sat behind her, had a good view of our surroundings. Everything going according to plan. We had Williams and Sima in the plane behind us. But soon as we dropped from the Cradle into clear air, the sun went out. The sun went out, and a storm took its place.
* * *
That’s what it felt like: a fire snuffed out, then wind roaring against your skin, rain and hail so hard they stung through your gloves. Couldn’t see at all, at first, my eyes had to adjust. Amelia kept us in the air, lord knows how—the other plane lost their horizon and ended up in the water. She kept us level, flying blind, and I was so sure the plane would crash, so sure we’d die together, right then, and I had a—had an epiphany. That I was a coward, a coward about to die with the woman I loved. We—
* * *
[Crackling sounds]
* * *
Weiland: Sorry. Please go on, I had to change the wax.
* * *
Carragher: I thought we would die. We didn’t. I almost regret that, sometimes. Because when our eyes adjusted, the darkness took shape. Nonsense forms, mountains in the sky and rivers twisting, twisting in the air like waterspouts. And when I understood it was the kraken, my stomach fell out. Just like a diving maneuver. Amelia kept us in the air, flying like she was born with wings—dodging around arms and debris. You see, the kraken doesn’t just appear on its own, it brings things. It brings water, which disperses to rain. It brings biting cold that frosts your skin. It brings trees that drop like darts thrown from the sky. Somehow, Amelia kept us flying. But it wasn’t enough. We were losing speed. The kraken filled our view, horizon to horizon, and we simply had nowhere to go.
* * *
One arm stretched out in front of us, so large I had no sense where its root was or where it reached. Amelia and I, we couldn’t talk, but we had the same thought. I know we did. That arm looked like a runway. And we had nowhere else to go.
* * *
It was a rough landing. There was no grip, and we slid. Probably we would have tumbled over, dropped into the water. That’s not what happened. I think what we did was strange enough that, for a moment, we had the monster’s attention. Or maybe it was all a coincidence. I’ve thought about it again and again, all these years, and I still don’t know. The fact is that the kraken caught our plane. One moment, we were sliding along, the next, there was a wall around the bird, a wall covered in suction rings from the size of my fist to ones big enough to swallow the Cradle. The plane breaking apart, torn wings fluttering like, like leaves down to the water, and we ended up on this wall like bugs on flypaper. Amelia and I, still in our cockpits, stuck along with most of the fuselage. I could just reach her. I tried to get her attention, but she was unconscious.
* * *
The wall we were against—the tentacle—it moved. You could see it travel down the length of the arm, a wave of motion. And when the next wave came, rivets popped and canvas tore. It was only a matter of time before the plane was destroyed. We had parachutes. They might not work, with all that debris, but it was all we had. It was a chance. We just had to get out of the cockpits.
* * *
But I was clumsy. I had managed to lever myself out, but lost my footing on the wet deck. My right leg slid outside the cockpit and against the kraken’s arm. A sucker got hold of me. I saw another wave of movement coming, and I braced myself against the plane, thinking maybe the ring would let loose for a second. Before I had the chance, the world turned black again.
* * *
I couldn’t breathe. And you wouldn’t believe me, even after all this, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you the things I saw. Rainbow clouds against a starred sky, and fleets of ships sailing through them; I saw civilizations under the sea, monuments in ruin—I saw great sprawling cities devoid of skyports, as though people feared to fly. I saw worlds, Issen. And then I was back in ours, back over the black ocean, and I could breathe once more.
* * *
Was it the kraken’s touch? Had I been to those other worlds, physically? I don’t know. What I was sure about was that I wouldn’t survive much longer. I had to get free. I had to get Amelia out. Desperation, that’s what it came down to; that’s what gave me the strength.
* * *
Standard equipment on every plane includes a survival kit. In case you’ve had to abandon the plane and become stranded. Each kit contains, among other things, a hatchet and a set of flares. That’s how I lost my leg, Issen. I cut it from me, one arm swinging, and the other holding a burning flare to cauterize the work I did. Swing twice and burn. Swing twice and burn. I’m sure I screamed, but I wasn’t the one doing these things to myself. It was the desperation. It had to be done. Of course, I tried to cut the sucker off, first, but nothing I did made a mark on that kraken’s skin.
* * *
Don’t know if it was the light or my voice, but Amelia came to. I can’t imagine what she thought, or felt, seeing me lit red like a devil, bloody hatchet in hand, probably screaming like an engine about to blow. Smart as she was, she understood immediately. When my work was done, she reached out, helped me away from the kraken so I wouldn’t touch any more of those godforsaken suckers.
* * *
I told her we had to jump. She said all right. I said we’d jump together, and she grabbed my hand and—
* * *
She told me she loved me.
* * *
It was all the years of hiding, I think. I’d trained myself not to say anything. Not to share. It would have been so easy. I love you too. So easy. I don’t even know what I said. “Jump first, talk later.” Maybe. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t tell her.
* * *
We jumped. And the sun came back. Blinding bright, I had to shut my eyes. When I opened them, the kraken was gone. And so was Amelia.
* * *
Weiland: I… I’m so sorry.
* * *
Carragher: Are you? I ‘chuted down safely. Wreckage was everywhere. I thought maybe she’d forgotten to deploy, that maybe her body was in the water, but I knew. Soon as the sun came back, I knew the kraken had taken her.
* * *
Braddock’s crew picked me up. His ships were there like lightning, and they scoured the waters. Not for survivors. But for loot. From other worlds. That’s where the big money comes in, Issen. Do you see now? You want to learn something, go find Braddock. Go ask him how the Cumulocarta tells him where the kraken will appear. Maybe you’ll get what you’re after, then.
* * *
Weiland: Carragher, I—
* * *
Carragher: No, I don’t need your sympathy. I’ve found my peace. The pirates took me in, fitted me my leg. And they gave me the chance to do exactly what I wanted to do.
* * *
I wanted to find her, find Amelia or some sign that she survived, proof she made it in another world. I’m sure she has. She always got her way. Gone and taken over whatever world she landed on, and they still don’t know what hit them.
* * *
The pirates know me, trust me with the kraken’s stowaways. And I do what I can to help them. I suppose I hope that, in some way, my work tilts the cosmic balance. That it might repay whoever might have found and helped Amelia. Or that my work paves the way for her to be helped, if she’s been borne off to a far-off future. For twenty years I
followed Braddock on the Midnight Scythe, twenty years of dredging the kraken’s wake. Years of seeking those who’d come into our world from another. I can never say the words to her, but I’ve done my part.
* * *
ADDENDUM
In addendum to the preceding exhibit, the following is a transcript of a wax fragment recovered from the damaged phonocorder, also in evidence, and deciphered with the aid of Drs. Hwyver and Kan.
* * *
Weiland: It’s not right, Jacques. If Carragher’s telling the truth, there’s real and valuable knowledge Braddock’s hiding from the world! If he knows where the kraken will appear, we can warn people. Tragedies like what happened to the crew of Falcon’s Cradle won’t happen again.
* * *
Jacques: You know yourself that hardly ever happens. It’s not a factor. People aren’t around when the kraken appears, almost never.
* * *
Weiland: So we leave a pirate to make these moral choices?
* * *
Jacques: Issen, please. I want you to listen to what I’m saying. You’re voicing dangerous thoughts. Dangerous words. This is not a world you want to be a part of, okay? Carragher is good people, but most her old colleagues are not. Do you understand?
* * *
Weiland: If we tell the corps, tell the cartographers that their work is being abused—
* * *
Jacques: Issen, your life is at risk.
* * *
Weiland: The secret’s out, it’s on the record. Everything we need to start an investigation. I’ve made copies. With this, we’re going to change the world.
* * *
[END OF TRANSCRIPT]
* * *
INDIVIDUALS IDENTIFIED ON PHONOCORDER
* * *
Dr. Issen Weiland. Victim of suspected homicide. Postdoctoral researcher and founding member of The Cryptozoological Society.
Dr. Hyacinth Hwyer. Founding member of The Cryptozoological Society, friend to Dr. Weiland.
Dr. Emil Kan. Founding member of The Cryptozoological Society, colleague of Dr. Weiland at the Cardinal Institute at Hub.
Jebediah Jacques. Proprietor of The Merry Grappler.
Unknown Speaker. Wanted for questioning, suspected of involvement in Dr. Weiland’s death. Jacques would not identify this individual, claiming he arrived in disguise.
Sigurd Mettlesworn.Corpsman of the Halfaway Air and Navy Patrol, now retired.
“Flaxus.”A regular at the Merry Grappler and potential Person of Concern; claimed identity could not be corroborated by officials at the Rustowne Archives.
Unknown Speaker 2. Customer at The Crimson Cog. Not currently wanted for questioning.
Patrick Stone. Longtime proprietor of The Crimson Cog. Investigation has revealed discrepancies in Stone’s file, likely due to a lapse in skyport entry protocol; not a current enforcement priority.
Edie Carragher. Retired privateer, once held for questioning over the disappearance of the Erofan Ippon.
An Airship Built for Two
Jayme Bean
“Shit,” Melody hissed as the silk money pouch slipped from her grip and landed with a jingly thunk onto the stone alleyway. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Her boots skidded to a halt as she pivoted, her slight heel kicking up a small cloud of dust around her feet. She glanced up. The large, marble walls of The White Whale loomed over her, casting long shadows onto the streets and the dozens of people flooding Marbletown during the busiest hour of the day. The Cog’s central bank was the last place she needed to run into trouble. Quick deposit, quick exit. By all accounts, it should have run like every other time:
Find a mark—a visiting merchant or sailor who’s wealthy but not too wealthy…
Woo him or her…
Get them nice and drunk…
And make out with the goods before anyone’s the wiser.
Without wasting another breath, Melody flicked the open flaps of her overcoat, bent down, and scooped the money pouch off the ground before spinning back toward the crowded street. She weaved between hurried bodies and pushed her way through the admin district. As she ducked between two traders, her body flinched to a halt. Of course, she’d run into him here. She instinctively tucked the pouch into an inside pocket of her overcoat. Taking a steadying breath, she slipped a loose strand of crimson hair behind her ear as her eyes lifted and settled on the tall, muscular man standing before her. Arlan Something-or-Other. She couldn’t be bothered to remember a mark’s name—it took up too much space for other valuable information, like where they kept their funds and if anyone was expecting them back at their room. Arlan’s broad shoulders and stone-straight posture created an automatic part in the crowd as people skirted around the well-dressed stranger and the buxom barmaid.
“I believe you have something of mine.” Arlan’s uncomfortably calm voice sent prickles along her skin. His brows twitched as his golden brown eyes locked onto hers.
Melody swallowed, pulling herself up straighter to match his domineering posture. This wasn’t her first time being confronted the next morning by one of her targets. She could smooth talk her way out of most situations.
Arlan extended a muscled hand between them, palm up, his gaze unmoving.
Her emerald eyes flashed from his hand to his face, drinking him in. They couldn’t be more of a contrast to each other. In truth, Melody was used to standing out, pale, with fiery red hair and unmistakable curves. Ask anyone around, and they knew Melody Taft—the sultry entertainer who could drink anyone under the table. It was her calling card to every patron looking for a fun time in the ever-constant bustle of The Hub. Melody loved her reputation. In fact, she thrived on it. But Arlan’s deep umber skin and muscled physique dwarfed her among the residents around them. He stood nearly a foot above her. His top hat—covered in brass doodads and metallic adornments—added even more height as he towered above most of the other people in the street. Not the attention she was used to… or wanted.
She scanned Arlan’s face, taking in his sharp jaw and measured stare. Despite her nerves—and being caught mid-extortion—Melody’s mind drifted to last night when she first noticed Arlan as a cask-swigging patron. He didn’t appear as he stood before her now, rigid and stern; he’d been smiling, relaxed, an ale in hand. To her surprise, he’d turned his nose at her first advances, but warmed quickly enough after several rounds of Gear Grease.
“Strongest liquor in all of the neighboring lands, with a quarter of the taste. Tastes like cog grease but will get you the best time of your life.” That line worked every time…especially when followed by a wink and a slight toss of her ginger locks.
Guess Arlan had a bigger tolerance than expected, she thought, snapping herself out of the memories of his cabin and his strong, firm hands…
“My money,” Arlan pressed, clearing his throat.
Melody forced her eyes to his, slowly, purposefully. She dipped a shoulder and popped her hip, letting a playful smirk grow on her face. “Money? Last I checked, I didn’t ask you to pay me.” Melody took a step back, giving him a once-over. “And frankly, I’m a little insulted that you think I’m that kind of woman. I thought we hit it off. No money can beat a fun toss with a rugged sailor like yourself, don’t you think?”
“And yet I find myself missing a decent sum of coin. And right after you snuck out of my cabin this morning. Now,” Arlan closed the distance between them, “if you wouldn’t mind…”
“Like I said, I don’t have the faintest ide—”
“You! Sir!” Arlan’s eyes darted skyward as a loud voice boomed from above. A small, one-manned, ballooned vessel puttered overhead. “Arlan Kalbrunner,” the voice continued, “first mate of The Iron Cutlass, ex-captain of The Ruddy Nimbus, also known as Chip Diviny of The Bon—”
“Chip? Out of all the names, woulda never pegged you for a Chip. Now, why’s the constable hollering your name in the middle of Marbletown?” Melody laughed and threw her hand on her hip. “You’re a fuddy cri
minal, aren’t ya? And you’re over here tryin’ to con me out of some ‘missing coin,’ eh?”