Paula Guran - The Mammoth Book of Cthulhu

Precedence is the logical order of rank when dealing with matters of protocol at an official function. All military personnel understand the importance of rank, but matters may become complicated when civilians are present. In brief, any Old One automatically assumes highest precedence and must be accorded every traditional honor. They also receive head-of-line privileges while shopping for groceries at the base commissary and get the best reserved-parking spaces.

The traditional descending order of precedence is Old Ones, supernatural creatures, half-breed supernatural creatures, creatures with just one gray drop of supernatural blood, male humans, male humans with aberrant tendencies, humans made male through surgery or other modification, male children, and female humans.

Remember that social niceties are important from the first moment you follow your husband’s footsteps to a new duty station. Social calls must be made and accepted. Respond promptly to RSVPs by note or telephone. Formal receptions celebrating promotions, retirements, and other special occasions will allow your husband to make important political connections, and you should make every effort to be pleasing to the eye. Cocktail parties are more informal, but it is important to dress appropriately. Avoid awkwardness by paying close attention to the difference between casual wear (coat and tie for men, afternoon dress for women) and informal attire (sports shirt for your husband, blouse and skirt for you).

When hosting an event, spend considerable time with menu selection. Never try out a new dish on guests, for something will invariably go wrong. Learn the different grades and cuts of meat. Keep your pantry well stocked with staples. For hors d’oeuvres , keep them simple. Men like good, filling appetizers, such as shrimp with piquant sauce, small knobs of cauliflower, or potato chips to be dipped in Roquefort dressing. Do as much planning and preparing as you can in the morning after sending your husband off with a good breakfast. When he returns, he will appreciate your wanting to be in the living room with him, even if it is only to sit by and watch him read the newspaper.

An important tradition in the officer corps is celebrating the promotion of an officer with a dinner party or other event called a “wetting-down.” Soon your husband will put on his lieutenant’s bars, so definitely share his success with your friends and neighbors. Guests should include his captain. To avoid unpleasantness, do not comment on the absence of his wife. He may not wish to reflect upon the day the military police took her away and certainly can’t answer any questions as to her current whereabouts. He has no “need to know,” and neither do you.

A Navy wife must clean the house, wash clothes, cook meals, tend to the children, and provide for the needs and comfort of her husband. He has the right to good reading lamps, clean ashtrays, and peace and quiet at the end of the day. A Navy wife learns to find satisfaction and happiness in a job well done. She accepts the challenges of the military life with enthusiasm and optimism, and values the traditions and customs passed down to her from earlier generations.

A Navy wife does not dwell on her mistakes. She does not stand on the rocky shore with her coat wrapped tight, contemplating drowning herself in the unforgiving waves. She does not close her eyes and remember dark blue eyes and upswept hair. She does not dream of helpless screams in the city under the sea.

A Navy wife knows that freedom is a fragile thing and must be closely defended.

A Navy wife serves the Old Ones, as does all mankind.

“One of the great appeals of the Mythos — intuitive to those of us who can so easily google the inhuman forces that dominate the twenty-first century — is the idea that knowledge is both irresistibly tempting and overwhelmingly dangerous,” according to Ruthanna Emrys. Her story, “Those Who Watch,” is, she says, “a love letter to the Necronomicon, the Pnakotic Manuscripts, and all those remarkably well-preserved books buried in cyclopean archives beneath the Australian desert.”

Emrys lives in a mysterious manor house in the outskirts of Washington DC, with her wife and their large, strange family. She makes homemade vanilla, obsesses about game design, gives unsolicited advice, occasionally attempts to save the world, and blogs sporadically about these things on LiveJournal and Twitter. Her stories have appeared in a number of venues including Tor.com , Strange Horizons , and Analog .

On my third full day, the library marked me. I should have been holding down the desk — I’d been hired for reference — but instead I was shelving. After a year with an MLIS and no prospects, you don’t whine. Deep in the narrow aisles of the back stacks, the air conditioning struggled against the sticky Louisiana heat outside. I gave up on my itchy suit jacket, draped it over the cart, and tucked Cults and Sects of Eastern Bavaria under my arm while I hooked a rolling stool with my ankle. And felt a piercing sting against the inside of my elbow.

I screamed, almost dropped the book, caught it but lost my balance. My ass is pretty well padded, but now I felt a nasty bruise start up to go along with whatever mutant mosquito had snuck in from the swamps to assault me. I set Cults and Sects gently on floor and examined my arm. The skin swelled, red and inflamed, around a tiny spiral galaxy of indigo and scarlet flame.

I’ve never so much as pierced my ears. I hate pain. A lot of days I hate my body, too, but it’s mine and I don’t expect it’d improve anything to ink it up or poke extra holes in it. But I’ve got braver friends, so I could tell this was unmistakably a tattoo, right about the point some people take off the Band-Aid — a little too early — and send you close-up selfies to make you wince in sympathy. I touched it and shrieked again, a little muffled because I expected the pain this time.

I prodded the book, turned it carefully with the tip of my finger. No needles hidden between pages by urban legend psychopaths, or protruding from the spine like some literary assassin’s poison ring. An ordinary book, cloth bound and stamped along the page ends with “Crique Foudre Community College.”

“Elaine! Are you all right?” My boss hurried around the end of the row. I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping again, left hand clapped over the evidence of whatever screw-up I’d managed.

“Sorry, Sherise,” I managed. Sherise , she’d made clear when I started, not Sherry or Miss Nichols or any of the other variants people had tried — she liked her name and she used it.

“Let me see,” she said. When I didn’t move, she pried my fingers away from the off ending spot. She hummed as she traced the swollen area. “Better get the first aid kit to be safe. Come on.”

She strode confidently through the stacks, a maze I’d already gotten lost in twice that morning. Florescent light gleamed off her brown skin and the darker maps winding around her arms — hers were probably from an actual tattoo parlor. Her hair puffed over her ears; big gold rings strung with lapis beads dangled underneath. I struggled to keep up.

A few more turns, and we’d come all the way around the shelf-lined halls that surrounded the library’s central reading room, back to the staff office with its institutional carpet and laminate desks. Sherise’s, in the corner, stood out by being bigger and uglier than the others, and topped by sort of an old style wooden card catalog, dozens of tiny drawers with brass pulls. She opened one, pulled out a box of what looked like alcohol wipes. She tore open a sealed pack, labeled in an alphabet I didn’t recognize. It smelled of wintergreen and ashes. She rubbed the cool pad over my arm, and stinging gave way to a softer tingle.