THE DIVINE CARCASS
WHEN GOD DIED, we first thought that it was from lack of faith. Perhaps prayers nourished the body of the lord as much as they nourished the spirits of the faithful. Perhaps too many people had lost their faith, turned away from prayers, and god had starved.
But it was more likely that god had just been hit by an asteroid.
Trudy, who had seen god twice, once in a dream and once in person when a monsignor summoned her to the nave to fix a leaking arthropoid gasket, insists that the asteroid theory was entirely possible.
“It’s really not that big,” she says. “You would think it would be fucking massive, but it’s not.”
Her face is bathed in the harsh red light from the neon OPEN sign outside the window; it makes the whole diner look hellish, but Trudy still looks beautiful. You’ve always thought that she was beautiful, even with her ginger hair shorn down to the roots and her body hidden in the folds of her regulation red jumpsuit. You’ve been friends for as long as you remember, occasionally lovers, more often just companions. What a stupid awful world to strand you both on this cathedral. You push a dumpling around on your plate.
“He was much bigger when I saw him in the dream,” she says.
“You’re not supposed to dream,” you say.
It’s true. Everyone on board The Garden of Earthly Delights is on, at minimum, 200 mg daily of the yellow pills for dream suppression. If anyone experiences dreams, they’re to report to the onboard pharmacy to have their doses adjusted.
She shrugs.
“Do you dream?” she asks.
You shake your head. “No.”
But, of course, you do dream now, for the first time in years. You dream of a verdant green forest, tall pine and fir trees reaching for a blue sky, a crisp bite in the air. It’s a beautiful day. You recognize this forest, you were here as a child. You remember that you’ve buried something very important here, in the crook below an alder tree, but you don’t remember what. You move from tree to tree, searching for the right one, but you never find it.
A fox emerges from under a bush, sleek and red, and it says something to you in a human voice, but you don’t understand it.
When you wake, you can’t recall if you actually ever did see that forest as a child or if it’s just dream deja vu.
Trudy reaches across the table and touches the back of your hand. “I’m glad you agreed to come to the service.”
Officially, all religious events are banned aboard The Garden of Earthly Delights, at least until you make delivery and dump the carcass of god into some far-distant star the name of which you can never remember. But being so close to the carcass seems to have filled people with a certain thirst. Despite the ban, dozens of underground churches flourish in the restaurant and brothel districts and even further down in the catacombs.
Trudy’s gone down to the catacombs twice this week to take in some services. Before you both enlisted aboard this cathedral, Trudy was always the spiritual one. When you lived together in that tiny room over the dockside parochial tower, she must have visited with dozens of sorcerers and soothsayers, hoping to find something. You were more concerned with the daily reality that was the empty refrigerator and the leaking roof. Working the docks wasn’t paying the bills anymore, not since that fat priest raised the rent. What a stupid awful world to let the priest toss you both out like that.
That’s when you both signed up to work a cathedral.
***
The Garden of Earthly Delights is an Augustine-class interstellar cathedral, its nave one hundred miles long, its transept seventy-five miles wide. Its walls are ten feet thick in places to hold out the cold vacuum of space and the buttresses are caked with frosted ether, pocked with asteroid holes. Beyond the main cathedral is the city—the brothels and casinos and bars—that exists to cater to the off-duty crew. The cathedral requires a crew of over two thousand, engineers and sextons and monsignors and bishops, all under the command of one overpope. You don’t know how many people, all the clerks and whores and sorcerers that run the city, live down in the catacombs.
Out here, in space, this was the first place that you understood what Trudy was looking for.
You were scrubbing the hull, peeling an exploded angel off the abutments. Trudy was inside the reliquary, pumping the bellows to keep the air flowing into your suit. But you looked up and you saw the universe—stars twinkling in the black void, the waving radiance of distant galaxies softened into blue and purple clouds by the infinite distance.
So you agreed to come to the service.
***
You take the portside pneumatic shaft down to the casino district and then a dorsal shaft to the catacombs. The alleys are narrow and moisture from the oxygen filtering system constantly drizzles down from above like a gentle rain. Almost every apartment’s window is illuminated by some sigil, signs to guide acolytes to their new faiths.
Trudy knocks at a door inscribed with an image of the crescent moon. The door creaks open to reveal a young, dark-eyed boy. A musky blast of incense accompanies him.
“What do you seek?” he asks.
“I seek truth,” says Trudy.
The boy looks at you. Oh. Apparently, you’re supposed to say something.
“Uh . . . I’m also seeking truth. I guess?”
The boy opens the door and gestures for you both to enter.
The apartment is small and dark, lit only by the glow of candles. You can make out the vague forms of about a half-dozen people here, smell their sweat, feel their warmth. They’re sitting on the floor.
Trudy sits at the back of the group, and you follow her example. You wait until a woman in a fox mask and a black kimono emerges from nowhere. A tiny dog waddles at her side, wagging its curled tail eagerly.
“I know why each one of you has come,” says the masked woman. “You have each had a dream, a dream whose meaning can only be known by you if it can be known at all. You come because you know that you should not be dreaming, that the yellow pills should stop them and yet you dream still. You have come to ask the Mother of Claws about your dreams.”
She notices you staring at her dog.
“She is my aspect,” she says. She holds something out to you. “Take it in your mouth.”
You take it in your mouth. It’s a chocolate bonbon. It’s decadent and delicious.
The Mother of Claws turns to Trudy.
“Take it in your mouth.”
Trudy opens her mouth and the Mother of Claws places a chocolate on her lolling tongue. You notice that the Mother of Claws has long black talons on her fingers.
She moves from person to person, repeating her instructions and placing a chocolate on each tongue. Then, she bends down to her dog and holds out a chocolate before suddenly snatching it away with a laugh.
“Take it in your mouth . . . noooooooooooooo! Ha ha ha!” She points at the dog. “She thought she had it all figured out! She thought, ‘oh if I act like these big dogs, I’ll get a chocolate too!’ Ha ha ha!”
Still laughing, she shuffles a deck of cards between her long-taloned fingers. She turns to you.
“Pick one.”
You pick a card. It’s the nine of swords from the Rider-Waite tarot deck.
“It is the nine of swords,” says the Mother of Claws. “A man lies awake in bed, crying. He has so many swords! Too many swords! There are great many swords upon the wall and those that fall pierce him; they pierce him in the wounds of Christ and in additional wounds suffered by gods we know not the names of, gods we cannot conceive of. And yet in these gods was hosted the truth that was sought. But what truth is there in this world? You know that god is dead, so the universe now stands empty and an empty house invites squatters. Old gods will rise again and new gods will rise for the first time.”
The dog is licking its asshole in the apartment’s kitchenette. The Mother of Claws throws an annoyed glance at it.
“Aspect! Aspect!”
The dog ignores her.
The Mother of Claws instructs the dark-eyed boy: “Call her mortal name.”
“Snuggles!” says the dark-eyed boy, bounding after the dog into the kitchen. “Come on, Snuggles, come on!” He gathers the dog up in his arms and together they silently slide out the front door.
She holds out the block of cards to Trudy. Trudy draws The Moon.
“It is the Moon. Two dogs look up to the moon, to gaze upon her face as dogs do. Ponder the courage that the moon takes to rise each evening to serve the needs of those who bow and pray.”
The chocolate is really starting to hit.
“Yet the moon knows only benevolence. She passes these things like water from her many orifices . . . the water flows, it flows down, through a heaven of stars, to the earth where it gathers in a lake and now we drink it-”
trudy looks at you, her face bathed in light. everything looks very purple
trudy places her hand atop yours, giggling
you’re always here, says trudy we’ve always been together
yes you say. you and me
you’re laughing too, you can’t help it. it’s so clear.
whata beautiful universe the motherof claws has shown you
a hand sliding between your legs, tugging at your cock, teasing it to attention
a rough tongue scraping your cheek
your lips on a vulva, slippery and rank, saliva dripping down your chin
You dream of the forest again, the beautiful day, the fox in the bushes, and the treasure lost that you can’t recall. The fox looks at you. It has human eyes.
“It is time to wake up,” it says.
***
You awaken in your own bed, your head pounding.
Shit. How’d you get back to your quarters? You were so fucked up. Trudy must have brought you home. Shit. Trudy. You might have fucked Trudy last night. Or someone else? It’s not clear. This is going to complicate things. What time is it?
It’s half past vespers; you’re late for your shift in the reliquary.
You stumble out of bed and turn on the sink. Throw some water on your face. Take a look at yourself. Your eyes are bloodshot, your hair is matted, and your dick is red and bruised. Your sides are raked with scratches, but no one will see that once you’re in your jumpsuit.
***
Monsignor Bexler is a harried-looking man in his early fifties. He wears the same jumpsuit that you do; other than the cross embroidered on his collar, you wouldn’t know he was clergy. Now you’re going to hear it. Worse, your dick still hurts from last night. God, you must have fucked like a champ.
“I won’t be late again,” you say.
“Hmm?” He isn’t even paying attention to you. He rummages around in the drawer of his desk and pulls out a clipboard and a photo. He slides the photo toward you. It’s Trudy.
Shit.
“Nothing to worry about, just standard procedure,” says Bexler, reading your expression. “According to ship logs, Class 8 Able Crewman (Laity) Trudy Speckler was summoned to the nave at early Matins on third Iunius to repair an arthropoid gasket. Exposure to the, er, cargo can sometimes be traumatic, so it’s standard procedure to follow up on any laity who’ve been to the nave. We just want you to help us understand Crewman Speckler’s mental state, make sure everything’s okay with her. We just want to help.”
He reads from the clipboard.
“In the time that you’ve associated with the crewman in question, have you noticed any indications of increased religiosity?”
“Increased? No.” Your dick is really starting to itch.
Bexler nods and marks a mark on his paper with a pen.
“Has he/she/they spoken of receiving signs from authorities beyond the physical realm? Please note that he/she/they may refer to such authorities as angels, demons, spirits, gods, entities, or by other names.”
“No.”
He makes another mark. God, your dick feels like it’s on fire. You hope this is almost done.
“Has he/she/they reported having dreams?”
ARGHHHH
“No.”
“Okay, last question. To your knowledge, has this crewman associated with individuals going by any of the following names: The Light Bender, the Innocent Man, the Mother of Claws, Anubis the Reincarnated, or the Princess of the Air?”
Shit. You can’t take it anymore. “C-could I use your bathroom?”
Bexler looks confused. “What? Uh . . . sure.” He points to a narrow door in the portside wall. You walk to it as quickly as possible without arousing suspicion.
There’s barely enough room in here for you and the chemical toilet. Quickly, you unzip your jumpsuit and tear yourself out of your clothes. You grab at your crotch to get a better look.
Your penis sloughs off suddenly, dropping into the shallow turquoise water of the toilet with a wet, definitive splut.
fuck
There’s no pain and no blood, only a sudden gout of oily black fluid. It gushes from the open wound, sliming your hands and coating your inner thighs before slowing to a trickle. You idly wonder what you should do with your severed dick.
Shit shit shit
Okay. You pull the flush and, to your immense surprise, the toilet sucks your penis down into the pipes. You half-expected it to clog but no. It goes down smooth.
Well. Okay, then.
You look at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are sunken and your skin looks pale and blotchy. You zip yourself back into your jumpsuit and exit the bathroom. You smile a wide, totally normal smile at Bexler.
“Feeling okay?” he asks.
You smile a wider, even more normal smile.
***
You’re on the dorsal pneumatic shaft down to the catacombs. You’re leaning against the railing with all your weight, your breathing coming sharp and ragged, your pulse racing. You feel like shit. Something is not right. How did you get here? You were just with Bexler—
You shift your weight and the open gash between your legs lets loose a torrent of slime into your underpants. “Ughh.”
You stare intently at the back of your hand, willing yourself into calm. Your hand is laced with throbbing purple veins.
The shaft empties onto the catacombs level.
The alleys are confusing, but you finally find the door with the crescent moon. You knock. After a pause, the door cracks open. A young woman with long black hair answers. She clutches a hand-rolled cigarette between her fingers.
“Oh, it’s you. I wasn’t expecting anyone this early. Service isn’t til tonight.”
“My dick fucking fell off.”
“What? The fuck are you talking about?” She motions you to come inside.
With the lights on, you can see that the apartment is cluttered with overstuffed antique furniture. You don’t see the dark-eyed boy anywhere, or the dog.
“Show me,” she says.
You pull down your pants and display your wound. Her eyes widen. She drops into an ornate wing-backed chair, never taking her eyes off you.
“Shit,” she says. She sucks on her cigarette. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. What the fuck.”
“What was supposed to happen?!”
“You were supposed to just have a good time. Jesus. What do you think is supposed to happen when you fuck around and get high?”
“What was in that fucking chocolate?”
“Nothing! Just 200 mg of the green pills. And, you know, some god cartilage. For texture.”
You’re going to be sick. “God cartilage?! What the fuck.”
“Look, it’s nothing weird! We all take it and it’s never done anything like that before. Maybe you’re just . . . allergic.”
She taps her talons against the armrest of her chair.
“Or maybe now you’re a vessel for something beyond. Maybe you’re transcending. But look at you now. You’re stuck inbetween, aren’t you? You can’t claim this house until you’ve cleared out the landlord, eh?”
“Oh my godddd,” you wail. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s why they’re throwing god into the star, you know. Once the carcass is gone, the new god can ascend to the throne. You understand, right? Shit, that’s why they don’t let you have religions on this ship. They don’t want any competition. I bet they’re growing their own replacement god right now. In a vat or something. Jesus Christ almighty.”
You can’t listen to this chatter. “I just came for Trudy! I didn’t mean for this to happen!”
The Mother of Claws regards you through a haze of smoke from the extinguished cigarette.
“You came alone,” she says.
“What? But then . . . Who did I fuck?”
“You didn’t fuck anyone,” she says. Her fingers twitch as if she’s looking for another cigarette. “You just sat there, totally stoned out of your gourd. I don’t know what you saw, but you’ve never fucked anyone any time you’ve been here.”
“Wait, what . . . ‘anytime I’ve been here?’ What day is it?”
She stares at you. “Twenty-fifth Iunius.”
How is it possible that you’ve lost a week? How did Bexler not ream your ass for missing shifts?
But then . . .
“I need more chocolate,” you say.
“I don’t have any more. My supplier works in the pipeworks, so he knows someone who’s got nave access and . . . “
She pauses as the door creaks open. It’s the dark-eyed boy from before.
“Ah,” says the Mother of Claws. “Here he is now.”
The dark-eyed boy has a lead pipe clutched in his hand. He takes a swing at you. Instinctively, you skitter backwards. Without a word, he advances on you and raises his pipe for another swing.
“What the fuck?!” shouts the Mother of Claws, jumping to her feet.
He takes another swing but you leap away, scrambling through puddles of the black goo dripping from your nethers, and the lead pipe connects with the Mother’s head. There’s a sickening crunch, and she falls backwards into her chair. The dark-eyed boy shrieks in horror, dropping his pipe. You grab at it, but you’re not fast enough. The boy has it again, and he’s coming at you. He steps forward . . . and slips in a goo puddle, tumbling to the floor. His mouth opens to scream and his teeth make contact with the edge of the coffee table.
The table shears off his cranium, which flies off his body and across the room to hit the wall with a soft thump. His body flops to the floor, vomiting blood from its ruined jaw. The Mother of Claws sits in her chair, head sagging, eyes glassy. The top of her head is caved in and leaking brains. The apartment is coated with blood and ichor.
You fall against the wall and slide to the floor. That’s when you notice that the dark-eyed boy, or what’s left of him, is wearing a green jumpsuit.
Shit. The pipeworks. He works . . . worked in the pipeworks.
It must not have gone down as smoothly as you thought. Somewhere, in some bend, it must have got stuck and they had to plunge it and out popped your dick, still dripping that black oil, and they must have figured it out. They know.
They know this is their last chance to stop you.
***
You’re in the forest again. But this time, you see a man.
At first, you don’t recognize him. But then, looking closely, you realize that he’s a mirror image of you.
You suddenly realize that you’re creeping forward on four paws.
“Oh shit,” you say.
Your doppelganger stares at you in confusion. Something passes wordlessly between the two of you and you suddenly know what must be.
“I’ll wake up this time,” you say.
***
You’re stumbling through the narrow alleyways of the catacombs, dribbling black goo. Your jumpsuit is hanging at your waist, your new breasts hanging free and slapping painfully against your chest with every unsteady footfall. Breasts. You have breasts now.
You need to get to the nave. That’s where it is. That’s what you fucked. You fucked god, you’re sure of it. If you could just get there . . .
People are turning to stare. Some of them must already know, but they’re too scared to confront you.
You board a ventral shaft, a gaggle of nymphets spilling out as you enter. They stare at you with frightened eyes, at your blood-soaked jumpsuit, the thick bubbles of black ichor forming on the nipples of your exposed breasts, at . . . something else . . .
“The eyes, did you see her eyes,” gasps one as the door closes.
***
Of course, the shaft stalls eight levels from the nave. They’ve probably shut off all access, anticipating your move. No matter. You don’t need to use the shafts anymore. You can just go to the nave now if you want.
A monsignor looks up as you emerge from nothing.
“No access for laity here!” he snaps, but then he falls silent and drops to the floor.
“Oh god oh god oh god,” he cries.
You shove him aside. Your hand is soft and moist and leaves a sticky handprint on the monsignor’s jumpsuit. Your skin is a deep bruised purple.
You see it.
Trudy was wrong. It’s bigger than you would have thought. It is massive, its bulk filling the nave almost to the vaulted ceiling. It is comprised entirely of enormous siphons, like octopus hyponomes. In theory, there’s probably a body beneath them.
But, you know, with the perfect knowledge of a dream, exactly what it is and exactly what you need to do.
A bishop is approaching you. Several more monsignors are trailing behind him. You recognize Bexler. He’s pointing at you and whispering something to the bishop.
“What the hell, how did you get out of your tank—” says the bishop. He pauses mid-sentence when you turn to look at him.
“Good lord,” he says, tears streaming down his face. “It’s you . . . we found your . . . in the pipes . . . ”
“I know.”
The monsignors avert their eyes; several drop to the ground. Bexler starts bawling. The bishop alone keeps staring, although you can tell it pains him to do so.
“We didn’t think you would be ready so soon,” he says.
“Ready for what?” you say. “Oh, right . . . ”
They thought they could still stop you, but now they must have realized that moment is past. It passed long ago, maybe even before the dark-eyed boy made that first attempt to end you.
The bishop has one last gambit. He drops to a knee. “How can we serve you?”
You can wipe it all clean. It’s gone. With a thought, you end it. You end it all. The awful, stupid universe made by a god too awful and stupid to avoid getting hit with an asteroid. The throne is vacant. You can take it. You take it. It’s yours. Start it all over again.
***
You’re clawing your way through rich loamy dirt, scrabbling up, up, toward the light, until you burst forth from the ground, gasping and wheezing, burst forth from where you were buried right here below the crook of an old alder tree so many years ago.
You’re in a verdant green forest, tall pine and fir trees reaching for a blue sky, a crisp bite in the air. It’s a beautiful day.