Cosmocopia by Paul di Filippo Read Free Book Online Page A

own capabilities.
    Regarding itself, the monster said, “I’m—I’m different.”
    “Different from me?”
    “No. Different from what I was.”
    “How so?”
    “I was—”
    The monster held its head in both hands for a moment.
    “I seem to remember being old, frail, sick. …”
    “That’s obviously not the case now.”
    The monster regarded its body again. “No, it’s not.”
    “Do you have a name?”
    “Of course. Lazorg.”
    A perfectly acceptable name.
    And with that, the monster was gone, the “it-ness” of it evaporated, and he was only Lazorg.
    “My name is Crutchsump. And that’s Pirkle.”
    Hearing his name, the wurzel began to buzz in a pleasant fashion. Pirkle rubbed against Lazorg’s leg, looking to have his dorsal ridges scratched. But Lazorg recoiled in distaste.
    “This—this is the kind of horror that nearly drove me mad when I first arrived here! Naked, alone, guilty, her blood on my hands—I never—What is it?”
    “It’s my companion, a wurzel. The wild ones of the Merhamet region are dangerous, but the domesticated ones are good, clever friends.”
    Lazorg crumpled back down to the pallet. He cradled his head. “These words, these things—I don’t know any of them! What language are we speaking? It hurts my throat! How can I understand you? Why do you cover your face? What’s the strangeness under your mask?”
    The monster-who-had-been began to weep. Crutchsump felt a renewed stab of pity for Lazorg. Wherever he originated, he was plainly adrift and lost and hopeless, far from his kind.
    She moved to his side, sat down on the pallet, and tentatively rested her arm over his shoulders. Lazorg did not flinch from her touch, but rather buried his face against her flat chest and continued to sob.
    Crutchsump stroked the back of Lazorg’s oddly contoured head through the fabric of his caul. She considered doffing her own head-covering and disclosing herself to him in all her nudity, to satisfy his curiosity. But ultimately, she could not quite bring herself to this level of intimacy—at least, not yet. … So she resorted to words only, ones that might be used with a questioning child.
    “People carry their organs of generation beneath their cauls. This organ is called an introciptor. We go face-naked only with our lovers, or during certain bathing rituals.”
    Lazorg ceased weeping and looked up with an astonished expression at Crutchsump. After a moment he began to laugh, softly at first, then louder and louder, till he verged on the hysterical.
    “Oh, God, no, but this is—this is priceless! I’m in hell for my sins, truly I am—”
    Crutchsump grew offended. She disengaged from Lazorg and stood brusquely up.
    “I don’t know this word ‘hell,” but it’s plainly a place of disgrace. I would have you know that this world is perfect as it stands, and does not deserve your dishonor. The world arises from the Conceptus, and nothing the Conceptus does is less than ideal.”
    Lazorg halted his laughter. He stood up as well, and Crutchsump realized how bulky he was compared to her, how he towered above her. A momentary fright quivered through her. Pirkle stridulated a nascent warning tone.
    Lazorg’s demeanor was repentant, contrite. “I’m very sorry to have mocked the solemn proprieties of your kind, Crutchsump. I did not mean any disrespect, especially to the only being who’s helped me so far during my troubles. It’s just that everything—everything is so alien and strange to me here. For instance, you mentioned a being called the ‘Conceptus’ just now. I have never heard that designation before. Who or what is he?”
    “Why, how can you not know of the Conceptus? The Conceptus is the origin of everything you see around you.”
    “The Conceptus is God?”
    “What is ‘God?’”
    “How can I explain God?”
    “How can I explain the Conceptus?”
    The two fell silent. Then Crutchsump ventured: “We need to visit a noetic. They specialize in such