Cosmocopia

by Paul Di Filippo

  Lazorg tugged irritably at his caul. “Let’s assume all that you tell me is true. Why do I need to know this?”

  “Because,” said Crutchsump, “we’re going to a séance. Serrapane is going to bring down a ghost. And you have to be mentally prepared.”

  “The point of séance,” added Palisander, “is to converse with a ghost, tease it, seek to learn mystical tidbits, yet not invite or succumb to its blandishments. It’s foolish, almost like racing your flumerfelt mount to the edge of a high cliff and hoping you can pull up short in time. But people do it regardless.”

  “Well, if that’s all the two of you are worried about, then have no fear. I’ve currently got everything I desire. A loving mate, my art, wealth—No ghost is going to fasten on me.”

  No indeed, thought Crutchsump. Any ghost will be drawn to me, and me alone.

  Beneath an ebony-lilac night sky shot through with looping filamentary walls of polychromatic stars, the lead carriage in a long parade pulled up at Serrapane’s doorstep. The driver, high atop his perch, worked a lever, and the curbside carriage door swung open. Out stepped Crutchsump and Lazorg.

  Crutchsump stopped a moment to marvel, her arm entwined with Lazorg’s.

  Whereas she and Lazorg lived in expansive comfort on three floors, Serrapane resided in sheer opulence. Her home, an ancestral manse, squatted on an entire city block, bounded by streets denominated Stanch, Greenwallet, Blackseep and Gandy. The family’s wealth derived from mercantile trade with other regions and cities such as Lyndtorke, East Pitchblende, Fazzbazz and distant Tarsialand, beyond the Rapeseed Mountains.

  Now the palazzo shone with the light of torches along its first-floor façade. Candlelight poured forth from the windows. Music drifted out: sackbut, hautboy, kora and thumb piano.

  Crutchsump stood in awe of the manse, with its walls of amber sandstone, lintels of travertine, and stained glass windows exhibiting the ideational family crest: a trader’s barquentine with sails bellied out in an imaginary wind. At five stories, the building was the tallest in the whole district.

  Every moment new guests arrived, being discharged from their carriages and pushing past Lazorg and Crutchsump.

  Finally Lazorg grew impatient. “Enough gawping. Let’s go inside.”

  Crutchsump regarded Lazorg, big and handsome in his suit of lisle and swallows-silk. By now, his cruel lack of an introciptor hardly registered on her apprehension of his innate selfhood. Especially since she knew his secret virility.

  She tugged nervously at the hem of her own maroon trapunto jacket, thinking of the fateful séance that lay ahead. “All right, I’m ready.”

  They climbed a broad set of steps and were ushered by liveried servants into a capacious ballroom already half-filled with partygoers. They found their hands almost immediately occupied with drinks and finger foods.

  Across the wide room their hostess, domineering and impressive in an exotic caftan and caul adorned with gemstones, presided over an adoring claque.

  Lazorg’s gaze went to Serrapane, but then jagged off. “There’s Arbogast,” he said. “I need to ask him why my Brumidi tranche is giving me resistance along the fourth integral. You feel free to mingle, little Moley.”

  Lazorg patted her shoulder affectionately, then stepped off.

  Crutchsump meandered slowly through the crowd, listening to snatches of conversation, admiring the clothes, saying hello to and chatting with the minority of people she recognized from among Lazorg’s clients. The necessity for partially unfastened cauls to accommodate eating gave the whole evening a louche cast.

  Her gut brain fluttered nervously, anticipating the séance.

  That risky recreation, she knew, would not be open to the masses, but only to a select coterie. Crutchsump had no intention of being excluded, and so stayed always in sight of Serrapane. She did not try to track Lazorg’s path through the crowd, certain that he would soon affix himself to his patron. And without fail, before too long he validated her instincts, stationing himself at Serrapane’s elbow.

  As the hour approached midnight, Crutchsump, in the midst of a yawn, noted Serrapane, Lazorg and several others trending slyly toward an exit from the ballroom. She hastened to attach herself to the elite subset.

  Serrapane grudgingly acknowledged Crutchsump’s arrival with a slight nod.

  “Ah, dear Crutchsump. We couldn’t spot you anywhere, you blend into the background so demurely. Thank goodness you found us. The ghosts would have lamented your absence, I’m sure.”

  “They would have been alone in that emotion, I fear.”

  Lazorg had the good graces to look guilty. He took Crutchsump by the arm. “Don’t feel bad, I wouldn’t have left you behind.”

  Crutchsump squeezed his bicep. “I’ll always be by your side, Lazorg, no matter what happens.”

  Serrapane partially suppressed a rude noise. “Follow me, everyone. The night is ripe for our taunting of the ghosts—and, by proxy, the Conceptus himself!”

  Led by Serrapane, the party went down a long corridor that terminated in a lesser staircase seemingly devoted to the use of servants. Ascending, the guests nervously chattered among themselves about the upcoming brush with the ghosts.

  The long staircase finally debouched on a portion of the manse’s rooftop that stretched flat across many square yards. The only illumination came from the starry weft overhead. A squad of servants awaited instructions.

  As on every rooftop across the entire city, ghost traps—ornate pots and vases and basins with intricate topologies—were mounted here and there. But unlike elsewhere, these particular ghost catchers on the Serrapane roof were about to be nullified by canvas coverings pooled at their bases.

  Serrapane gave a hand signal, and the servants hastened to cover the ghost traps.

  A chill seemed to pass across the roof. The guests had fallen silent, their brave boasts and satirical quips now extinguished. They shifted nervously from foot to foot, eyes raised to the skies.

  Suddenly a voice rang out. “There, I see one!”

  Crutchsump spotted the ghost, high up, a blot against the starscape. It was dropping rapidly.

  “Steel yourself against melancholy and morbidity!” exhorted their hostess. “Prepare your questions and bring them to the forefront of your mind. The pallid, timorous noetics will pay handsomely for any data we learn tonight!”

  Shortly the lineaments of the ghost became discernible.

  The ghost’s translucent body was amorphous and constantly in flux, like jelly shaken on a plate. Large as a carriage, its features erupted and were reabsorbed every minute: horns, fins, lobes, fans, tendrils, maws. The only constant: two white, saucer-like, pupil-less eyes. Faintly luminescent, it changed colors in subtle gradations: pastel blue to rose pink to flower yellow to smaragdine.

  The ghost halted about ten feet above the people, as if probing their mentalities and choosing the recipient of its miraculous benefactions, determining if any needs were great enough to draw it down the final distance to the messy mortal sphere.

  Stunned by the living cubic aurora, Serrapane and her guests were initially silent, despite all their prior determination to extract secrets. But then Serrapane called out boldly.

  “Ghost! Tell us what the Conceptus has planned for our world!”

  A gelatinous voice resonated from above. “Marvels and illuminations. Strange conceptions and uncanny births. …”

  Along with the rest, Crutchsump had felt herself frozen, mentally and physically. But the voice of the ghost reawakened her to her purpose.

  With the totality of her being, she projected forth her desires, her lack, her needs.

  Ghost, help me—please! Conceptus, lift my burdens! Grant me my wish!

  At first, there was no response from the ghost. Crutchsump began to despair.

  And then, as if the despair itself had provided the missing essential strong flavor of her request, the ghost began to descend upon her.


  All the other frightened séance-goers scurried away from the ghost’s target, tripping and falling over each other in their haste to vacate a circle of space around Crutchsump. Even Lazorg, despite his fine bold talk in Palisander’s, reacted at first with mindless fear.

  In a moment, Crutchsump was completely enveloped in ghost flesh.

  The cool tissues of the hollowed-out ghost allowed her to breathe, but tinted her vision in rainbow hues. She felt enwrapped in a sentient fog that permeated her every fiber. She witnessed all the fellow guests recoiling from her. Lazorg, recovering his nerve, extended a sympathetic arm toward her, but was pulled back by others.

  Her envelopment seemed to last forever. Crutchsump could feel changes within her.

  Then the ghost was gone, retreating skyward.

  Crutchsump staggered. Lazorg shook off the cautious hands and raced to her side, catching her before she could fall.

  “Lazorg—please—take me home—”

  Serrapane radiated irritation. “Go! The séance is over. Activate the traps once more!”

  In the carriage, huddled in Lazorg’s arms, Crutchsump began to regain her strength and confidence. She knew her wish had been granted.

  Once home, she fell with fervid desire upon Lazorg. She ripped off her caul, burst the snaps of his pants, worked his alien sex rigorously with her hands until he was soon erect, and then socketed him down the wet channel of her introciptor.

  He burst inside her with a howl, spraying his seed deep within her womb.

  Her womb. Infertile for the past year when receiving the seed of this monster from another plane.

  But no longer.

  9. Father and Slug

  CRUTCHSUMP PAUSED OUTSIDE THE door to the chirurgeon’s office in Humble Alley, her hand on the brass latch, undecided.

  Despite the warmth of the day, a long blue swallow-silk scarf enwrapped her neck, from collarbones up to just beneath her jaw.

  Pedestrians passed by without paying any particular notice to her hesitancy. A blood-linnet landed on a ledge and began to sing its curdled song. Two suns shone down merrily, as if intent on illuminating only paradisiacal scenes.

  Did she want to spoil the immense happiness she had experienced over the past three months since the evening of the séance? Her gravid days and nights spent managing her household, companioning an unsuspecting Lazorg at his work, and cultivating her surprise inside herself had been a timeless vista of contentment, pride, and expectation for even greater future happiness. She knew her courting and acceptance of the ghost had been the lone and best way of cementing her relationship with Lazorg, of ensuring that he remained forever hers. Still, a small doubt troubled her. Had there been any selfishness in her actions? What if Lazorg didn’t belong with her? What if Serrapane could provide better for him, make him happier?

  No! Since that day she had rescued the unloved, troubled monster from the Shulgin Mudflats, their fates had been linked. No one could be allowed to intervene between them. The new life being nurtured within her womb would be the final capstone to their relationship.

  But her condition had become so troubling of late. Not normal. And if anything should go really wrong, Lazorg would be deeply impacted. After all, it was his child as well as hers. …

  A small stabbing pain behind her eyes interrupted Crutchsump’s deliberations, settling the issue once and for all.

  Pressing the handle of the latch down, she entered the chirurgeon’s office.

  Moffoletto had been recommended to Crutchsump by Linosariat, the wife of one of Lazorg’s clients. Linosariat had always been one of the few among the rich and mighty who treated Crutchsump with respect and genuine fellow-feeling.

  “He’s very discrete,” the other woman said. “Gentle and quite expert. His services aren’t cheap, you understand, but you can rely on him absolutely.”

  Moffoletto’s elegant office bespoke his stature, outfitted tastefully with and fine furniture and ideations (but none originating with Lazorg, Crutchsump noted critically). Even the examining table resembled a luxurious couch rather than a clinical apparatus, despite the halo frame at its head.

  Moffoletto sat behind his desk. Beneath his plain professional’s caul, his unusually small introciptor rendered him male vis-à-vis most everyone else he might meet, and Crutchsump felt an instinctive trust toward him.

  “Welcome,” said the chirurgeon. “You are Crutchsump?”

  “Yes. Thank you for making time to see me.”

  “This is my work. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  “My—my pregnancy. Within the past few weeks, it seems to have gone wrong somehow.”

  “Off with that scarf, please, and your caul as well.”

  Crutchsump unwound the scarf reluctantly, revealing her irregularly swollen neck. No pregnancy she had ever seen had ever resulted in this degree of engorgement. She took off her caul next, and her introciptor showed distended and tight-skinned.

  Moffoletto came to her and began gently to palpitate her face and neck and organ.

  “Does this hurt?”

  “Not really. But I do have some small pains—inside me.”

  “Come to the couch, please.”

  Once stretched out, with her head immobilized in the rigid halo frame, Crutchsump could only stare at the ceiling, while Moffoletto busied himself elsewhere. But he soon returned to her field of vision, bearing a small ceramic lidded container. From within the container he withdrew a mucousy flatworm.

  “The harmless planarian will travel down your birth canal and trace the outlines of your womb, all without disturbing the fetus. When it emerges, it will convey the memorized information to me by replicating its uterine path in a bowl filled with a livewater tracing medium. Do you understand?”

  Crutchsump felt scared, but tried not to show her feelings. “Yes—yes, I understand. What do I have to do?”

  “Nothing. Simply try to relax.”

  Moffoletto introduced the small planarian into the opening of her introciptor. There was no sexual thrill involved, given the implications of the examination, just an odd interior tickling which ceased when the worm passed deeper within.

  Crutchsump waited patiently for minutes, her mind blank of either hope or fear.

  Moffoletto produced a small cube of aromatic herbs and touched it to the opening of her introciptor.

  “This is the cue for our little friend to make his exit.”

  A short time thereafter, the worm emerged from Crutchsump. Moffoletto handled it tenderly and stepped away. Crutchsump heard the planarian plop into liquid. Moffoletto returned and freed her. She redonned her caul and scarf.

  Using its cilia to swim about, the worm was carving stable lines in the transparent liquid, lines that glowed enduringly white.

  Soon the deep glass bowl contained an intricate three-dimensional representation of Crutchsump’s charted interior.

  Moffoletto studied the liquid schematic from every angle. Crutchsump wanted to question him, but remained silent.

  At last he ceased his examination, and returned to his seat behind his desk. Crutchsump took a seat as well.

  “Are you prepared? The news is not good. This pregnancy is like none I have ever seen. The fetus is excessively large, much bigger than the typical fingerling that can be easily accommodated by the sinusoid womb. As a result, your womb has thrust out extra lymphatic extensions for support. That explains your neck swelling.”

  Crutchsump felt tentative relief. “That’s not so bad then …”

  “No. But the other developments are. The grasping womb is impinging on various arteries and veins. And it is even trespassing on your brain. These irruptions are the source of your internal distress, and they are bound to get worse. I am afraid that if you do not terminate this pregnancy, your life will be in danger. Even if you carry to term, the delivery will be inescapably traumatic.”

  Crutchsump’s mind went blank for an eternal moment. But then she was fi
lled with a serene certainty.

  “That’s impossible. I must have this child. Too much depends on it.”

  Moffoletto was taken aback. “But your health, your very life—”

  “I am doing what I want with my life, what has to be done.”

  Standing, Crutchsump said, “If you could help with the birth, I’d be very appreciative. Now, how much do I owe you for today?”

  The hour was past ten o’clock at night. Lazorg had not attended dinner at home with Crutchsump—no entertaining was scheduled this evening—being busy in his studio for many hours, and she had eaten alone, meditating as positively as possible on the day’s bad news. But Crutchsump had kept a plate warm for the artist atop the stove. She sat now in the kitchen, awaiting his hungry arrival.

  She could hear him now tromping down the hall, muttering to himself.

  “Pull smarter—smarter, not harder. …”

  He entered the kitchen and was taken aback at Crutchsump’s presence.

  “I thought you’d be asleep.”

  “No, dear, I was waiting for you. We have to talk.”

  “Talk? About what? Have the household expenses gone up again? I can afford to give you more money, you know. Just ask. You shouldn’t have to stint. Those days are over forever.”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s this.”

  Crutchsump undid her scarf. Lazorg jumped. They had not been intimate for weeks, and he was seeing her disfiguration for the first time.

  “What—what is it? What’s happened to you?”

  For one brief moment, Crutchsump wanted to accuse, to say, If you had paid more attention to me of late, you’d already know. But then affection supplanted recrimination. She explained everything, calmly, all secrets revealed.

  Lazorg dropped down heavily into a chair. “But this—this is a tragedy. You can’t go on with the pregnancy. It’s absurd. I don’t want to lose you for some—some monster child!”