Uncanny Magazine Issue 39

by Lynne M. Thomas

  “She came to us in good faith, sir,” Matt said. “It seems…dishonorable to trick them.”

  Tom gave him such a look, as if he could wish him to vanish. “You forget your place, Vale.”

  Humbolt was calm, as if Matthew’s outburst was so inconsequential it didn’t even warrant a reprimand. “We’re at war with America, she is American. We are within our rights, I think. I would even say it’s our duty. Now, make yourself useful, Mr. Vale.”

  The simple dismissal was better than he deserved. “Yes, sir,” he answered, and followed Tom below decks to the sail room.

  Tom recruited a couple of seamen to help, and they sorted through stores to find equipment that might serve. There was netting, coils of spare lines for the shrouds and stays that could be used to secure a great thrashing beast. They might coat canvas with tar and thereby make a container that would hold water. One of them suggested stuffing the creature into a barrel, but it was acknowledged that they didn’t have a barrel big enough to contain the squid, unless it was dead.

  Matthew couldn’t countenance this. “Tom. We can’t do this.”

  “It’ll be just like catching frogs in the pond back home.”

  “A thirty-foot frog! Do you really think that creature will let herself be caught? That Miss Carver will allow it without a fight?” Just because she hadn’t revealed a musket or two among her stores didn’t mean she didn’t have them.

  Tom huffed a frustrated sigh. “Captain Humbolt is determined.”

  “He won’t be the one down there trying to stuff a dozen tentacles into a canvas bag. It’ll be Easton, or Johnson, or Young Joe facing the danger. Or all of them!”

  “We are all prepared to face danger in the service.” They stretched out the canvas and secured lines around the edges. Once they’d tangled the squid with the netting, they could dip the canvas bag in the water, ease the squid over top, and lift. Tom sent the men up on deck with the contraption to report to Captain Humbolt.

  Matthew took hold of Tom’s arm. His brother had always been so tall and strong, so admired. He already had a decade in the navy and Matthew was bobbing along in his wake, trying to keep his head above water. He’d always looked up to Tom—had he ever had a choice not to? He suddenly realized that he was now only a couple of inches shorter than his brother. Another year or so, they’d be eye-to-eye.

  “You know it’s wrong. She came under a flag of truce and the captain would betray that—”

  “These circumstances are…unusual.”

  “Well yes, of course they are or we wouldn’t be talking like this. But it isn’t fair, she’s on a quest, and she asked for help—”

  Tom leaned back, tilted his head. “Have you gone lovesick on me, Matt?”

  “No! I just—” He blushed, because he might perhaps admire anyone who had tamed a giant squid and trained it to go in harness across the ocean. “I think we could win more advantage befriending Miss Carver and Archi than by capturing them.”

  “Ah. Diplomacy.”

  Sullenly, he said, “Yes, sir.” He expected his brother to sneer and put him off again. Use his rank and quash Matthew, as was the right and proper order of family and navy both. But he didn’t.

  “Matthew. You mustn’t question orders. I know it’s difficult for a clever boy like you, but you’re a naval officer and you must—”

  “But if the orders are wrong, what do you do?”

  Tom pressed his lips in a line. “There’s nothing to be done. Now, come up and let’s get this over with.”

  “I just need a moment to gather myself. Sir.” He straightened his spine and smoothed out his coat in a show of steeling himself. Stiffening his upper lip and all that.

  “Very well. Don’t take long.”

  Tom went up the stairs through the hatch.

  Matthew raced to the midshipmen’s berth and his sea chest. He had a couple of small bottles that had held ointment and remedies of one sort or another, but they were empty now and more importantly, the corks were still good and tight. He got out his letter writing kit, and made himself slow down or he would spill the ink and break his pen. He didn’t need to write much, just a few words.

  It is a trap. Flee.

  He managed it without making too much of a mess. Blew on the strip of paper to make it dry quicker—waited only as long as he dared—then rolled it up and stuck in the bottle. Pressed the cork in extra hard.

  He knew exactly where Carver’s launch sat, outside the Selene, and he counted back gun ports to find the right spot. There. He clambered past the secured gun and pressed himself to the port. There she was, leaning up against the bow, looking up at the Selene’s main deck.

  “Miss Carver!” he hissed, and threw the bottle out the gun port before anyone could see. Heard the splash. He didn’t dare linger to see her reaction—he’d be found out any moment if he stayed. But he caught a glimpse of her eyes widening in her freckled face. She had heard him, she had seen the bottle.

  He raced up on deck before Tom could miss him.

  The netting and large stretch of canvas were laid out on the deck. Tom was arranging seamen around it, to help with the deployment. They were crouched low, out of sight of the water, and keeping suspiciously quiet.

  Captain Humbolt surveyed the activity from the quarterdeck. The purser ran up then with a folded letter, which he handed to Humbolt, who strode over to the side and held it up enticingly. The bait.

  “Miss Carver,” Captain Humbolt called down to her. “I have the information for you. I’ll lower it down momentarily. But I wondered if we might see your extraordinary creature one more time before you go on your way.”

  She was standing in her craft, a small bottle in hand, cork still secured. She had retrieved the bottle but had not read the message. Matthew despaired.

  “Vale. Come help with this,” Tom commanded, and Matthew nearly cursed at him. In her boat, Margaret Carver was leaning over to touch the water. Archi had risen to the surface. Most of the squid was visible now, an astonishing sight, the big sloping head, the mass of tentacles trailing after like a banner. The sea monsters in the old stories were real, and here was the proof.

  “Mr. Vale!” Tom called again, lifting the tarp. Some of the others already had the net near the side, ready to throw over, waiting for Humbolt’s signal. Matthew went to join his brother, preparing to once again implore that they needed to leave off, to stop Humbolt somehow. And destroy both their careers in the process.

  “Let’s get this in place, shall we? We must follow orders. Trust me.” Tom said this last slowly, carefully. And for just a moment, he wasn’t Lieutenant Vale anymore but Tom, his older brother who taught him to fish, dried his tears when he was small, and never shamed him for having those tears in the first place. Matthew had almost forgotten.

  “Yes, sir,” Matthew breathed.

  They pulled the canvas to the side, and four men lined up to throw the trap over, right after the net.

  “Now!” Humbolt called, chopping his hand.

  The net went over the side, and Johnson came up with his musket, aimed at the water.

  Matthew was ready to tackle the marine, but Tom held him back, and things happened quickly. A great thrashing in the water meant the net had hit its mark. The creature seemed to expand, its head puffing out, all the tentacles curling and reaching, but they quickly became tangled in the net’s fibers, and as it twisted in an attempt to free itself, it became more bound. Its splashing sounded like a storm, the terrible wracking of waves.

  For some reason Matthew expected Margaret Carver to scream, but she did not. Instead, she grabbed her own musket from some hidden nook. She aimed it at Humbolt.

  “Put that down or we’ll shoot your pet,” Humbolt said sternly, the amiable mask gone. “Be easy, Miss Carver, I mean you no harm but I can’t let you simply leave. Not with so wondrous a creature.”

  At the captain’s command she lowered the weapon. She would not risk Archi.

  “Lieutenant, at your leisure,” Humb
olt said to Tom.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Matthew was ready to shout, but Tom caught his gaze and glanced down at the corner of the tarp he was holding. Just for a moment, then he looked away.

  The knot holding the rope to the grommet there was done wrong. It would slip loose the minute anyone pulled on it. The lieutenant nodded slightly, and handed the end of that rope to Matthew. Matthew set his jaw and nodded back.

  The scene below was strangely quiet. There should have been cries of terror, shouting. But the squid seemed to have no voice and could only splash its displeasure. Miss Carver’s anger was quiet.

  “You are a bastard, Captain,” she said.

  “I am an officer in His Majesty’s navy doing his duty.”

  “Same difference.” Margaret had taken up a knife and swung a leg over the side of her boat, foot dangling in the water, and started cutting at the net. Humbolt didn’t seem bothered—she couldn’t possibly free the squid before they got it secured in their trap. She reached out, patted one of Archi’s writhing tentacles, whispering wordless comforts as she cut. Tears might have dampened her cheeks, or it might just have been splashing seawater.

  At Tom’s direction, they lowered the canvas to the water. Matthew’s heart was in his throat. He wanted to apologize, to call to her that all would be well, to have patience. She was in such a panic, and while the leviathan made no cry, its flesh trembled and its color seemed to grow pale.

  The tarp filled with water, sinking to form a bag that they worked to draw under the thrashing squid. Margaret eyed the canvas in a panic and cut faster, calling to Archi to be calm so she would not cut her by accident. Under her touch, the squid stilled. The net was falling away, the squid would be free of it—but not before the canvas closed around it.

  “Now,” Tom said.

  The men pulled hard on their lines, to draw up the canvas around the squid. Matthew pulled extra hard—and his line slipped free as the knot failed. He fell back on the deck as a shout went up. There was a great splash, and a young woman’s victorious cry.

  Matthew scrambled to look over the side.

  One end of the canvas flapped loosely, spilling out water—and yes, squid. Archi tumbled back into the sea, shedding cut pieces of netting as she went, flicking them away with shuddering tentacles.

  On the Selene there was some confusion as lines became tangled and officers and seamen stumbled into each other trying to sort out what had happened. Captain Humbolt cursed.

  Then, the small boat moved. It was being pushed. The creature had come half out of the water, wrapped a pair of tentacles around the side, and the rest churned under the surface to propel the craft and Margaret away. She was still perched on the bow. Her cap had fallen off, her brown hair was wet and stuck her to her cheeks and shoulders, but she laughed.

  “Till next time!” she shouted, waving.

  Grinning, Matthew enthusiastically waved back until Tom poked at his shoulder for him to stop. Right. This was supposed to have been a failure. He schooled himself to appear somber.

  “Sorry sir,” Tom said evenly. “Something must have happened with the line. I take full responsibility.”

  “I don’t suppose the odds were ever good that we could carry that thing back home.”

  Tom waited a polite beat before answering, with a convincing tone of disappointment, “No, sir, likely not. It could be the creature was far more powerful than we realized.”

  “I still wonder how she tamed such a beast,” Humbolt said.

  Kindness, Matthew wanted to say. Wasn’t it obvious?

  The captain added, “Ah well, it would have been quite a thing to bring to the Royal Academy. Perhaps another time.” Tucking his hands behind his back and donning his customary frown, Humbolt walked back to the quarterdeck.

  Margaret and Archi were far distant now, a speck amid churning waves. Matthew watched until he could no longer make them out in the chop. He hoped she found her brother.

  “Convincing performance, Vale,” Tom said, coming alongside him.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you. Likewise, if I may be so bold.”

  “You may not. Aren’t you supposed to be on look-out up the mast?”

  From the quarterdeck, Captain Humbolt spoke to the sailing master, who then called out orders. A new heading, and the crew raced to adjust sails, rigging for speed.

  “That’s south, isn’t it?” Matthew said. “Weren’t we meant to continue north up the coast?”

  Tom said. “Looks like we’re going to the Carolinas instead.”

  The Carolinas. To hunt the pirate.

  (Editors’ Note: “The Book of the Kraken” is read by Joy Piedmont on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, 39B.)

  © 2021 Carrie Vaughn

  Carrie Vaughn’s work includes the Philip K. Dick Award-winning novel Bannerless, the New York Times Bestselling Kitty Norville urban fantasy series, over twenty novels and upwards of 100 short stories, two of which have been finalists for the Hugo Award. Her most recent work includes a pair of novellas about Robin Hood’s children, The Ghosts of Sherwood and The Heirs of Locksley. She’s a contributor to the Wild Cards series of shared world superhero books edited by George R. R. Martin and a graduate of the Odyssey Fantasy Writing Workshop. An Air Force brat, she survived her nomadic childhood and managed to put down roots in Boulder, Colorado. Visit her at www.carrievaughn.com.

  Eighteen Days of Barbareek

  by Rati Mehrotra

  Barbareek’s head perches on the hilltop, watching the battle for the throne of Hastinapur unfold before him. His hands—several miles away—itch to pick up his bow and join the fray.

  Elephants trumpet, horses snort, swords clash against shields, and arrows whiz through the air. The biggest battle of all their lives, and he—the strongest warrior in Bharat—is a bodiless spectator.

  There are many things he feels in that moment: rage, shame, humiliation, relief. Mostly, he misses his torso. And his mother.

  At night, when funeral pyres speckle the field and the groans of the wounded rend the air, the five Pandavas come to visit.

  “Grandson.” Bhimasen lays a heavy, battle-scarred hand upon Barbareek’s luxurious curls. “How are you?”

  Still decapitated, thanks for asking, Barbareek nearly says.

  But his current state is not his grandfather’s fault. Bhimasen may have been the one who lovingly placed Barbareek’s head on this tree stump, but he wasn’t the one who removed it from Barbareek’s body.

  No, that was Barbareek himself. And that is so messed up, Barbareek refuses to think about it.

  “I am fine, Grandfather,” he says mendaciously. “I have a nice view of the battlefield from here.”

  “Are you thirsty?” asks Yudhishthira, the eldest. “We brought water.”

  Where do you think the water would go? His head would look like it was peeing. “No, thank you, Great-Uncle,” says Barbareek with heroic self-restraint.

  They make small talk for a bit, discussing the day’s fighting. All five Pandavas are exhausted; they have suffered bitter losses on the first day of the war with their evil cousins, the Kauravas. Yet, they have made the effort to visit Barbareek. He knows he should feel grateful; the fact that he doesn’t is just one more thorn in the heart he can remember having.

  “Your name will go down in history, my boy,” Arjun tells him before they leave.

  Barbareek has no doubt about that. How many fools have been manipulated into chopping off their own heads? He is the first, and he will surely be the last. He is a lesson to be learned, an object of pity, a tale of caution. As for history, he’s witnessing it right now. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

  The second day of fighting is as grisly as the first. Tens of thousands die, hearts pierced by arrows, limbs chopped off by swords, heads crushed by maces. Barbareek chafes at the losses suffered by the Pandavas. He should have been with them, fighting by their side. With his divine bow and arrows, he could have ended this war in one minute—theoretically speaking. />
  In practice, it would have been much more messy. He didn’t realize how messy until Krishna explained it to him.

  But thinking of Krishna, as always, gives him a throbbing headache. And when a head is all you have, you take care of it. Barbareek turns his attention back to the battlefield and is heartened to see his grandfather tearing through Kaurava forces like a scythe through blades of grass. Only the arrival of Bhishma Pitamah, the formidable old commander-in-chief of the Kaurava army, saves it from annihilation.

  Bhishma has the boon of self-willed death; he is invincible, undefeatable, a white-clad mountain of fury that drives back the Pandava armies like ants before a storm—until one of the Pandava commanders shoots and kills his charioteer.

  Bhishma’s horses bolt, dragging his chariot away from the battlefield. In vain, Bhishma tries to control them. His forces scatter, and Barbareek grins in relief. The sun sets, ending the day’s fighting.

  That night, it is the venerable Bhishma Pitamah who climbs Barbareek’s hill—the oldest warrior of the Kuru clan, visiting the youngest.

  “Barbareek, dear child,” says Bhishma in his gravelly voice, “how are you?”

  Why does everyone ask him this?

  “I am ashamed, Pitamah, that I cannot bow to you,” says Barbareek, half-sincere, half-sarcastic.

  “My child, you bow to no one,” says Bhishma. “The world bows to you.”

  To Barbareek’s discomfiture, Bhishma proceeds to press his palms together and bow to him. It’s like watching a tree bend in half.

  “Do you regret your vow?” Barbareek blurts out.

  Bhishma’s aged eyes glint. “Do you?”

  It is an unfair comparison. Both their vows are equally stupid, but Barbareek had little choice in the matter. His guru Vijay asked him to make the vow as his gurudakshina—the sacred payment due to a guru for all the learning he has bestowed on his pupil. You must only fight for the weaker side, he had thundered. Promise me, Barbareek! How could Barbareek have refused?