I recently urged my friends on Twitter to consider writing a version of H.P. Lovecraft's "At The Mountains Of Madness" from the perspective of a shuggoth slave rebellion. Which resulted in many people reminding me of Elizabeth Bear's incredible novelette, "Shoggoths In Bloom," which originally appeared in Asimov's and won the 2009 Hugo for best novelette. Now you can read this weird tale of the Old Ones' polymorphous slaves in World War II - it's free on Bear's website. There are no slave rebellions here, but there's a horrific apprehension of what it means to be both monster and slave.
Image by Matt Dixon
Here's how the story begins:
"Well, now, Professor Harding," the fisherman says, as his Bluebird skips across Penobscot Bay, "I don't know about that. The jellies don't trouble with us, and we don't trouble with them."
He's not much older than forty, but wizened, his hands work-roughened and his face reminiscent of saddle-leather, in texture and in hue. Professor Harding's age, and Harding watches him with concealed interest as he works the Bluebird's engine. He might be a veteran of the Great War, as Harding is.
He doesn't mention it. It wouldn't establish camaraderie: they wouldn't have fought in the same units or watched their buddies die in the same trenches.
That's not the way it works, not with a Maine fisherman who would shake his head and not extend his hand to shake, and say, between pensive chaws on his tobacco, "Doctor Harding? Well, huh. I never met a colored professor before," and then shoot down all of Harding's attempts to open conversation about the near-riots provoked by a fantastical radio drama about an alien invasion of New York City less than a fortnight before.
Harding's own hands are folded tight under his armpits so the fisherman won't see them shaking. He's lucky to be here. Lucky anyone would take him out. Lucky to have his tenure-track position at Wilberforce, which he is risking right now.
The bay is as smooth as a mirror, the Bluebird's wake cutting it like a stroke of chalk across slate. In the peach-sorbet light of sunrise, a cluster of rocks glistens. The boulders themselves are black, bleak, sea-worn and ragged. But over them, the light refracts through a translucent layer of jelly, mounded six feet deep in places, glowing softly in the dawn. Rising above it, the stalks are evident as opaque silhouettes, each nodding under the weight of a fruiting body.
Harding catches his breath. It's beautiful. And deceptively still, for whatever the weather may be, beyond the calm of the bay, across the splintered gray Atlantic, farther than Harding—or anyone—can see, a storm is rising in Europe.
Harding's an educated man, well-read, and he's the grandson of Nathan Harding, the buffalo soldier. An African-born ex-slave who fought on both sides of the Civil War, when Grampa Harding was sent to serve in his master's place, he deserted, and lied, and stayed on with the Union army after.
Like his grandfather, Harding was a soldier. He's not a historian, but you don't have to be to see the signs of war.
"No contact at all?" he asks, readying his borrowed Leica camera.
"They clear out a few pots," the fisherman says, meaning lobster pots. "But they don't damage the pot. Just flow around it and digest the lobster inside. It's not convenient." He shrugs. It's not convenient, but it's not a threat either. These Yankees never say anything outright if they think you can puzzle it out from context.
"But you don't try to do something about the shoggoths?"
While adjusting the richness of the fuel mixture, the fisherman speaks without looking up. "What could we do to them? We can't hurt them. And lord knows, I wouldn't want to get one's ire up."
Read the rest of the story on Elizabeth Bear's website