The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  William Alaret, a settler with some zoological training, had heard the translation and decided to find out just what it was all about. He went into the first cave he could find and emerged seconds later, screaming and clawing at the furry little thing on his head. He became the first of many fatalities attributed to the killing-thing-on-the-ceilings-of-caves, which were named "alarets" in his honor.

  Dalt threw the alaret husk aside, got his bearings, and headed for his hidden shuttlecraft. He anticipated little trouble this time. No scouting party, if any were abroad at this hour, would be likely to spot him, and Kwashi had few large carnivores.

  The ship was as he had left it. He lifted slowly to fifty thousand meters and then cut in the orbital thrust. That was when he first heard the voice.

  ("Hello, Steve.")

  If it hadn’t been for the G-forces against him at that moment, Dalt would have leaped out of his chair in surprise.

  ("This pressure is quite uncomfortable, isn’t it?") the voice said, and Dalt realized that it was coming from inside his head. The thrust automatically cut off as orbit was reached and his stomach gave its familiar free-fall lurch.

  ("Ah! This is much better.")

  "What’s going on?" Dalt cried aloud as he glanced frantically about. "Is this someone’s idea of a joke?"

  ("No joke, Steve. I’m what’s left of the alaret that landed on your head back in that cave. You’re quite lucky, you know. Mutual death is a sure result – most of the time, at least – whenever a creature of high-level intelligence is a target for pairing.")

  I’m going mad! Dalt thought.

  ("No, you’re not, at least not yet. But it is a possibility if you don’t sit back and relax and accept what’s happened to you.")

  Dalt leaned back and rested his eyes on the growing metal cone that was the Star Ways Corporation mothership, on the forward viewer. The glowing signal on the console indicated that the bigger ship had him in traction and was reeling him in.

  "Okay, then. Just what has happened to me?" He felt a little ridiculous speaking out loud in an empty cabin.

  ("Well, to put it in a nutshell: You’ve got yourself a roommate, Steve. From now on, you and I will be sharing your body.")

  "In other words, I’ve been invaded!"

  ("That’s a loaded term, Steve, and not quite accurate. I’m not really taking anything from you except some of your privacy, and that shouldn’t really matter since the two of us will be so intimately associated.")

  "And just what gives you the right to invade my mind?" Dalt asked quickly, then added: " – and my privacy?"

  ("Nothing gives me the right to do so, but there are extenuating circumstances. You see, a few hours ago I was furry, lichen-eating cave slug with no intelligence to speak of–”)

  "For a slug you have a pretty good command of the language!" Dalt interrupted.

  ("No better and no worse than yours, for I derive whatever intelligence I have from you. You see, we alarets, as you call us, invade the nervous system of any creature of sufficient size that comes near enough. It’s an instinct with us. If the creature is a dog, then we wind up with the intelligence of a dog – that particular dog. If it’s a human and if he survives, as you have done, the invading alaret finds himself possessing a very high degree of intelligence.")

  "You used the word ‘invade’ yourself just then."

  ("Just an innocent slip, I assure you. I have no intention of taking over. That would be quite immoral.")

  Dalt laughed grimly. "What would an ex-slug know about morality?"

  ("With the aid of your faculties I can reason now, can I not? And if I can reason, why can’t I arrive at a moral code? This is your body and I am here only because of blind instinct. I have the ability to take control – not without a struggle, of course – but it would be immoral to attempt to do so. I couldn’t vacate your mind if I wanted to, so you’re stuck with me, Steve. Might as well make the best of it.")

  "We’ll see how ‘stuck’ I am when I get back to the ship," Dalt muttered. "But I’d like to know how you got into my brain."

  ("I’m not exactly sure of that myself. I know the path I followed to penetrate your skull – if you had the anatomical vocabulary I could describe it to you, but my vocabulary is your vocabulary and yours is very limited in that area.")

  "What do you expect? I was educated in cultural studies, not medicine!"

  ("It’s not important anyway. I remember almost nothing of my existence before entering your skull, for it wasn’t until then that I first became truly aware.")

  Dalt glanced at the console and straightened up in his seat. "Well, whatever you are, go away for now. I’m ready to dock and I don’t want to be distracted."

  ("Gladly. You have a most fascinating organism and I have much exploring to do before I become fully acquainted with it. So long for now, Steve. It’s nice knowing you.")

  A thought drifted through Dalt’s head: If I’m going nuts, at least I’m not doing it halfheartedly!

  II

  BARRE MET HIM at the dock.

  "No luck, Steve?"

  Dalt shook his head and was about to add a comment when he noticed Barre staring at him with a strange expression.

  "What’s the matter?"

  "You won’t believe me if I tell you," Barre replied.

  He took Dalt’s arm and led him into a nearby men’s room and stood him in front of a mirror.

  Dalt saw what he expected to see: a tall, muscular man in the garb of a Kwashi serf. Tanned face, short, glossy brown hair…

  Dalt suddenly flexed his neck to get a better look at the top of his head. Tufts of hair were missing in a roughly oval patch on his scalp. He ran his hand over it and a light rain of brown hair showered past his eyes. With successive strokes, the oval patch became completely denuded and a shiny expanse of scalp reflected the ceiling lights into the mirror.

  "Well, I’ll be damned! A bald spot." ("Don’t worry, Steve,") said the voice in his head, ("the roots aren’t dead. The hair will grow back.")

  "It damn well better!" Dalt said aloud.

  "It damn well better what?" Barre asked, looking puzzled.

  "Nothing," Dalt replied. "Something dropped onto my head in a cave down there and it looks like it’s given me a bald spot."

  He realized then that he would have to be very careful about talking to his invader; otherwise, even if he really wasn’t crazy, he’d soon have everyone on the ship believing he was.

  "Maybe you’d better see the doc," Barre suggested.

  "I intend to, believe me. But first I’ve got to report to Clarkson. I’m sure he’s waiting."

  "You can bet on it." Barre had been a research head on the brain project and was well acquainted with Dirval Clarkson’s notorious impatience.

  The pair walked briskly toward Clarkson’s office. The rotation of the huge conical ship gave the effect of one-G.

  "Hi, Jean," Dalt said with a smile as he and Barre entered the anteroom of Clarkson’s office. Jean was Clarkson’s secretary-receptionist and she and Dalt had entertained each other on the trip out… the more interesting games had been played during the sleep-time hours.

  She returned his smile. "Glad you’re back in one piece." Dalt realized that from her seated position she couldn’t see the bald spot. Just as well for the moment. He’d explain it to her later.

  Jean spoke into the intercom: "Mr. Dalt is here."

  "Well, send him in!" squawked a voice. "Send him in!"

  Dalt grinned and pushed through the door to Clarkson’s office, with Barre trailing. A huge, graying man leaped from behind a desk and stalked forward at a precarious angle.

  "Dalt! Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to go down, take a look, and then come back up. You could have done the procedure three times in the period you took. And what happened to your head?" Clarkson’s speech was in its usual rapid-fire form.

  "Well, this–”

  "Never mind that now! What’s the story? I can tell right now that you di
dn’t find anything, because Barre is with you. If you’d found the brain he’d be off in some corner now nursing it like a misplaced infant. Well, tell me – how does it look?"

  Dalt hesitated, not quite sure whether the barrage had come to an end. "It doesn’t look good," he said finally.

  "And why not?"

  "Because I couldn’t find a trace of the ship itself. Oh, there’s evidence of some sort of craft having been there a while back, but it must have gotten off-planet again, because there’s not a trace of wreckage to be found."

  Clarkson looked puzzled. "Not even a trace?"

  "Nothing."

  The project director pondered this a moment, then shrugged. "We’ll have to figure that one out later. But right now you should know that we picked up another signal from the brain’s life-support system while you were off on your joyride–”

  "It wasn’t a joyride," Dalt declared. A few moments with Clarkson always managed to rub his nerves raw. "I ran into a pack of unfriendly locals and had to hide in a cave."

  "Be that as it may," Clarkson said, returning to his desk chair, "we’re now certain that the brain, or what’s left of it, is on Kwashi."

  "Yes, but where on Kwashi? It’s not exactly an asteroid, you know."

  "We’ve almost pinpointed its location," Barre broke in excitedly. "Very close to the site you inspected."

  "It’s in Bendelema, I hope," Dalt said.

  "Why?" Clarkson asked.

  "Because when I was on cultural survey down there I posed as a soldier of fortune – a mercenary of sorts – and Duke Kile of Bendelema was a former employer. I’m known and liked in Bendelema. I’m not at all popular in Tependia because they’re the ones I fought against. I repeat: It’s in Bendelema, I hope."

  Clarkson nodded. "It’s in Bendelema."

  "Good!" Dalt exhaled with relief. "That makes everything much simpler. I’ve got an identity in Bendelema: Racso the mercenary. At least that’s a starting place."

  "And you’ll start tomorrow," Clarkson said. "We’ve wasted too much time as it is. If we don’t get that prototype back and start coming up with some pretty good reasons for the malfunction, Star Ways just might cancel the project. There’s a lot riding on you, Dalt. Remember that."

  Dalt turned toward the door. "Who’ll let me forget?" he said with a grim smile. "I’ll check in with you before I leave."

  "Good enough." Clarkson gave him a curt nod, then turned to Barre. "Hold on a minute, Barre. I want to go over a few things with you." Dalt gladly closed the door on the pair.

  "It’s almost lunchtime," said a feminine voice behind him. "How about it?"

  In a single motion, Dalt spun, leaned over Jean’s desk, and gave her a peck on the lips.

  "Sorry, can’t. It may be noon to all of you on ship-time, but it’s some hellish hour of the morning to me. I’ve got to drop in on the doc, then I’ve just got to get some sleep."

  But Jean wasn’t listening. Instead, she was staring fixedly at the bald spot on Dalt’s head.

  "Steve!" she cried. "What happened?"

  Dalt straightened up abruptly. "Nothing much. Something landed on it while I was below and the hair fell out. It’ll grow back, don’t worry."

  "I’m not worried about that," she said, standing up and trying to get another look. But Dalt kept his head high. "Did it hurt?"

  "Not at all. Look, I hate to run off like this, but I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m going back down tomorrow."

  Her face fell. "So soon?"

  "I’m afraid so. Why don’t we make it for dinner tonight. I’ll drop by your room and we’ll go from there."

  The caf wasn’t exactly a restaurant, but if they got there late they could probably have a table all to themselves."

  "And after that?" she asked coyly.

  "I’ll be damned if we’re going to spend my last night on ship for who-knows-how-long in the vid theater!"

  Jean smiled. "I was hoping you’d say that."

  ("WHAT ODD PHYSIOLOGICAL RUMBLINGS that female stirs in you!") the voice said as Dalt walked down the corridor to the medical offices.

  He momentarily broke stride at the sound of it. He’d almost forgotten that he had company.

  "That’s none of your business!" he muttered through tight lips.

  ("I’m afraid much of what you do is my business. I’m not directly connected with you emotionally, but physically… what you feel, I feel; what you see, I see; what you taste–”)

  "Okay! Okay!"

  ("You’re holding up rather well, actually. Better than I would have expected.")

  "Probably my cultural-survey training. They taught me how to keep my reactions under control when faced with an unusual situation."

  ("Glad to hear it. We may well have a long relationship ahead of us if you don’t go the way of most high-order intelligences and suicidally reject me. We can look on your body as a small business and the two of us as partners.")

  "Partners!" Dalt said, somewhat louder than he wished. Luckily, the halls were deserted. "This is my body!"

  ("If it will make you happier, I’ll revise my analogy: You’re the founder of the company and I’ve just bought my way in. How’s that sound, Partner?")

  "Lousy!"

  ("Get used to it,") the voice singsonged.

  "Why bother? You won’t be in there much longer. The doc’ll see to that!"

  ("He won’t find a thing, Steve.")

  "We’ll see."

  The door to the medical complex swished open when Dalt touched the operating plate and he passed into a tiny waiting room.

  "What can we do for you, Mr. Dalt?" the nurse-receptionist said. Dalt was a well-known figure about the ship by now.

  He inclined his head toward the woman and pointed to the bald spot. "I want to see the doc about this. I’m going below tomorrow and I want to get this cleared up before I do. So if the doc’s got a moment, I’d like to see him."

  The nurse smiled. "Right away." At the moment, Dalt was a very important man. He was the only one on ship legally allowed on Kwashi. If he thought he needed a doctor, he’d have one.

  A man in a traditional white medical coat poked his head through one of the three doors leading from the waiting room, in answer to the nurse’s buzz.

  "What is it, Lorraine?" he asked.

  "Mr. Dalt would like to see you, Doctor."

  He glanced at Dalt. "Of course. Come in, Mr. Dalt. I’m Doctor Graves." He showed him into a small office. "What seems to be the problem?"

  Dalt explained the incident in the cave. "Legend has it – and colonial experience seems to confirm it – that ‘of every thousand struck down, nine hundred and ninety-nine will die.’ I was floored by an alaret but I’m still kicking and I’d like to know why."

  ("I believe I’ve already explained that by luck of a random constitutional factor, your nervous system didn’t reject me.")

  Shut up! Dalt mentally snarled.

  The doctor shrugged. "I don’t see the problem. You’re alive and all you’ve got to show for your encounter is a bald spot, and even that will disappear – it’s bristly already. I can’t tell you why you’re alive because I don’t know how these alarets kill their victims. As far as I know, no one’s done any research on them. So why don’t you just forget about it and stay out of caves."

  "It’s not that simple, Doc." Dalt spoke carefully. He’d have to phrase things just right; if he came right out and told the truth, he’d sound like a flaming schiz. "I have this feeling that something seeped into my scalp, maybe even into my head. I feel this thickness there." Dalt noticed the slightest narrowing of the doctor’s gaze. "I’m not crazy," he said hurriedly. "You’ve got to admit that the alaret did something up there – the bald spot proves it. Couldn’t you make a few tests or something? Just to ease my mind."

  The doctor nodded. He seemed satisfied that Dalt’s fears had sufficient basis in reality, and the section-eight gleam left his eyes. He led Dalt into the adjoining room and placed a cubical helmetlike apparatus
over his head. A click, a buzz, and the helmet was removed. Dr. Graves pulled out two small transparencies and shoved them into a viewer. The screen came to life with two views of the inside of Dalt’s skull: a lateral and an anterior-posterior.

  "Nothing to worry about," he said after a moment of study. "I scanned you for your own piece of mind. Take a look."

  Dalt looked, even though he didn’t know what he was looking for.

  ("I told you so,") said the voice. ("I’m thoroughly integrated with your nervous system.")

  "Well, thanks for your trouble, Doc. I guess I’ve really got nothing to worry about."

  "Nothing at all. Just consider yourself lucky to be alive if those alarets are as deadly as you say."

  ("Ask him for a medical reference disk!") the voice said.

  I’m going to sleep as soon as I leave here. You won’t get a chance to read them.

  ("You let me worry about that. Just get the disk for me.")

  Why should I do you any favors?

  ("Because I’ll see to it that you have one difficult time of getting to sleep. I’ll keep repeating ‘get the disk, get the disk, get the disk’ until you finally do it.")

  I believe you would!

  ("You can count on it.")

  "Doc," Dalt said, "would you mind lending me a few of your reference disks?"

  "Like what?"

  "Oh, anatomy and physiology, to start."

  Dr. Graves walked into the other room and returned with a pair of silver wafers. "What do you want ’em for?"

  "Nothing much," Dalt said, pocketing them. "Just want to look up a few things."

  "Well, just don’t forget where you got them. And don’t let that incident with the alaret become an obsession with you," the doc said meaningfully.

  Dalt smiled. "I’ve already banished it from my mind."

  ("That’s a laugh!")

  DALT WASTED NO TIME in reaching his quarters after leaving the medical offices. He was on the bed before the door could slide back into the closed position. Putting the medical disks on the night table, he buried his face in the pillow and immediately dropped off to sleep.