The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume 6: Multiples: 1983-87

  He’d been haunting me a long while. Three or four times a year, his little dry, thin voice would come out of nowhere and I’d hear him telling me again, “Before we go into that jungle, we got to come to an understanding. If a synsym nails me, Chollie, you kill me right away, hear? None of this shit of calling in the paramedics to clean me out. You just kill me right away. And I’ll do the same for you. Is that a deal?”

  This was on a planet called Weinstein in the Servadac system, late in the Second Ovoid War. We were 20 years old and we were volunteers: two dumb kids playing hero. “You bet your ass,” is what I told him, not hesitating a second. “Deal. Absolutely.” Then I gave him a big grin and a hand clasp and we headed off together on spore-spreading duty.

  At the time, I really thought I meant it. Sometimes I still believe that I did.

  Ten years. I could still see the two of us back there on Weinstein, going out to distribute latchenango spores in the enemy-held zone. The planet had been grabbed by the Ovoids early in the war, but we were starting to drive them back from that whole system. Fazio and I were the entire patrol: You get spread pretty thin in galactic warfare. But there was plenty of support force behind us in the hills.

  Weinstein was strategically important; God only knows why. Two small continents—both tropical, mostly thick jungle, air like green soup—surrounded by an enormous turbulent ocean: never colonized by Earth and of no use that anyone had ever successfully explained to me. But the place had once been ours and they had taken it away, and we wanted it back.

  The way you got a planet back was by catching a dozen or so Ovoids, filling them full of latchenango spores and letting them return to their base. There is no life form a latchenango likes better as its host than an Ovoid. The Ovoids, being Ovoids, would usually conceal what had happened to them from their pals, who would kill them instantly if they knew they were carrying deadly parasites. Of course, the carriers were going to die anyway—latchenango infestation is invariably fatal to Ovoids—but by the time they did, in about six standard weeks, the latchenangos had gone through three or four reproductive cycles and the entire army would be infested. All we needed to do was wait until all the Ovoids were dead and then go in, clean the place up and raise the flag again. The latchenangos were generally dead, too, by then, since they rarely could find other suitable hosts. But even if they weren’t, we didn’t worry about it. Latchenangos don’t cause any serious problems for humans. About the worst of it is that you usually inhale some spores while you’re handling them, and it irritates your lungs for a couple of weeks so you do some pretty ugly coughing until you’re desporified.

  In return for our latchenangos, the Ovoids gave us synsyms.

  Synsyms were the first things you heard about when you arrived in the war zone, and what you heard was horrendous. You didn’t know how much of it was myth and how much was mere bullshit and how much was truth; but even if you discounted 75 percent of it, the rest was scary enough. “If you get hit by one,” the old hands advised us, “kill yourself fast, while you have the chance.” Roving synsym vectors cruised the perimeter of every Ovoid camp, sniffing for humans. They were not parasites but synthetic symbionts: When they got into you, they stayed there, sharing your body with you indefinitely.

  In school they teach you that symbiosis is a mutually beneficial state. Maybe so. But the word that passed through the ranks in the war zone was that it definitely did not improve the quality of your life to take a synsym into your body. And although the Service medics would spare no effort to see that you survived a synsym attack—they aren’t allowed to perform mercy killings, and wouldn’t anyway—everything we heard indicated that you didn’t really want to survive one.

  The day Fazio and I entered the jungle was like all the others on Weinstein: dank, humid, rainy. We strapped on our spore tanks and started out, using hand-held heat piles to burn our way through the curtains of tangled vines. The wet, spongy soil had a purplish tinge, and the lakes were iridescent green from lightning algae.

  “Here’s where we’ll put the hotel landing strip,” Fazio said lightly. “Over here, the pool and cabanas. The gravity-tennis courts here, and on the far side of that—”

  “Watch it,” I said and skewered a low-flying wingfinger with a beam of hot purple light. It fell in ashes at our feet. Another one came by, the mate, traveling at eye level, with its razor-sharp beak aimed at my throat, but Fazio took it out just as neatly. We thanked each other. Wingfingers are elegant things, all trajectory and hardly any body mass, with scaly, silvery skins that shine like the finest grade of moonlight, and it is their habit to go straight for the jugular in the most literal sense. We killed 12 that day, and I hope it is my quota for this lifetime. As we advanced into the heart of the jungle, we dealt just as efficiently with assorted hostile coilworms, eyeflies, dingleberries, leper bats and other disagreeable local specialties. We were a great team: quick, smart, good at protecting each other.

  We were admiring a giant carnivorous fungus a klick and a half deep in the woods when we came upon our first Ovoid. The fungus was a fleshy, phallic red tower three meters high with orange gills, equipped with a dozen dangling whiplike arms that had green adhesive knobs at the tips. At the ends of most of the arms hung small forest creatures in various stages of digestion. As we watched, an unoccupied arm rose and shot forth, extended itself to three times its resting length and by some neat homing tropism slapped its adhesive knob against a passing many-legger about the size of a cat. The beast had no chance to struggle; a network of wiry structures sprouted at once from the killer arm and slipped into the victim’s flesh, and that was that. We almost applauded.

  “Let’s plant three of them in the hotel garden,” I said, “and post a schedule of feeding times. It’ll be a great show for the guests.”

  “Shh,” Fazio said. He pointed.

  Maybe 50 meters away, a solitary Ovoid was gliding serenely along a forest path, obviously unaware of us. I caught my breath. Everyone knows what Ovoids look like, but this was the first time I had seen a live one. I was surprised at how beautiful it was, a tapering cone of firm jelly, pale blue streaked with red and gold. Triple rows of short-stalked eyes along its sides like brass buttons. Clusters of delicate tendrils sprouting like epaulets around the eating orifice at the top of its head. Turquoise ribbons of neural conduit winding round and round its equator, surrounding the dark, heart-shaped brain faintly visible within the cloudy depths. The enemy. I was conditioned to hate it, and I did; yet I couldn’t deny its strange beauty.

  Fazio smiled and took aim and put a numb-needle through the Ovoid’s middle. It froze instantly in mid-glide; its color deepened to a dusky flush; the tiny mouth tendrils fluttered wildly, but there was no other motion. We jogged up to it and I slipped the tip of my spore distributor about five centimeters into its meaty middle. “Let him have it!” Fazio yelled. I pumped a couple of c.c.s of latchenango spores into the paralyzed alien. Its soft, quivering flesh turned blue black with fear and rage and God knows what other emotions that were strictly Ovoid. We nodded to each other and moved along. Already the latchenangos were spawning within their host; in half an hour the Ovoid, able once more to move, would limp off toward its camp to start infecting its comrades. It is a funny way to wage war.

  The second Ovoid, an hour later, was trickier. It knew we had spotted it and took evasive action, zigzagging through a zone of streams and slender trees in a weird, dignified way, like someone trying to move very fast without having his hat blow off. Ovoids are not designed for quick movements, but this one was agile and determined, ducking behind this rock and that. More than once, we lost sight of it altogether and were afraid it might double back and come down on us while we stood gaping and blinking.

  Eventually, we bottled it up between two swift little streams and closed in on it from both sides. I raised my needler and Fazio got ready with his spore distributor, and just then something gray and slipper-shaped and about 15 centimeters long came leaping up out of the left-hand
stream and plastered itself over Fazio’s mouth and throat.

  Down he went, snuffling and gurgling, trying desperately to peel it away. I thought it was some kind of killer fish. Pausing only long enough to shoot a needle through the Ovoid, I dropped my gear and jumped down beside him.

  Fazio was rolling around, eyes wild, kicking at the ground in terror and agony. I put my elbow on his chest to hold him still and pried with both hands at the thing on his face. Getting it loose was like pulling a second skin off him, but somehow I managed to lift it away from his lips far enough for him to gasp, “Synsym—I think it’s synsym—”

  “No, man, it’s just some nasty fish,” I told him. “Hang in there and I’ll rip the rest of it loose in half a minute—”

  Fazio shook his head in anguish.

  Then I saw the two thin strands of transparent stuff snaking up out of it and disappearing into his nostrils and I knew he was right.

  I didn’t hear anything from him or about him after the end of the war, and didn’t want to, but I assumed all along that Fazio was still alive. I don’t know why: my faith in the general perversity of the universe, I guess.

  The last I had seen of him was our final day on Weinstein. We both were being invalided out. They were shipping me to the big hospital on Daemmerung for routine desporification treatment, but he was going to the quarantine station on Quixote; and as we lay side by side in the depot, me on an ordinary stretcher and Fazio inside an isolation bubble, he raised his head with what must have been a terrible effort and glared at me out of eyes that already were ringed with the red concentric synsym circles, and he whispered something to me. I wasn’t able to understand the words through the wall of his bubble, but I could feel them, the way you feel the light of a blue-white sun from half a parsec out. His skin was glowing. The dreadful vitality of the symbiont within him was already apparent. I had a good notion of what he was trying to tell me. “You bastard,” he was most likely trying to say. “Now I’m stuck with this thing for a thousand years. And I’m going to hate you every minute of the time, Chollie.”

  Then they took him away. They sent him floating up the ramp into that Quixote-bound ship. When he was out of view, I felt released, as though I was coming out from under a pull of six or seven gravs. It occurred to me that I wasn’t ever going to have to see Fazio again. I wouldn’t have to face those reddened eyes, that taut, shining skin, that glare of infinite reproach. Or so I believed for the next ten years, until he turned up on Betelgeuse Station.

  A bolt out of the blue: There he was, suddenly, standing next to me in the recreation room on North Spoke. It was just after my shift, and I was balancing on the rim of the swimmer web, getting ready to dive. “Chollie?” he said calmly. The voice was Fazio’s voice: That was clear, when I stopped to think about it a little later. But I never for a moment considered that this weird, gnomish man might be Fazio. I stared at him and didn’t even come close to recognizing him. He seemed about 7,000,000 years old, shrunken, fleshless, weightless, with thick, coarse hair like white straw and strange, soft, gleaming translucent skin that looked like parchment worn thin by time. In the bright light of the rec room, he kept his eyes hooded nearly shut; but then he turned away from the glow-globes and opened them wide enough to show me the fine red rings around his pupils. The hair began to rise along the back of my neck.

  “Come on,” he said. “You know me. Yeah. Yeah.”

  The voice, the cheekbones, the lips, the eyes—the eyes, the eyes, the eyes. Yes, I knew him. But it wasn’t possible. Fazio? Here? How? So long a time, so many light-years away! And yet—yet—

  He nodded. “You got it, Chollie. Come on. Who am I?”

  My first attempt at saying something was a sputtering failure. But I managed to get his name out on the second try.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Fazio. What a surprise.”

  He didn’t look even slightly surprised. I think he must have been watching me for a few days before he approached me—casing me, checking me out, making certain it was really me, getting used to the idea that he had actually found me. Otherwise, the amazement would surely have been showing on him now. Finding me—finding anybody along the starways—wasn’t remotely probable. This was a coincidence almost too big to swallow. I knew he couldn’t have deliberately come after me, because the galaxy is so damned big a place that the idea of setting out to search for someone in it is too silly even to think about. But somehow he had caught up with me anyway. If the universe is truly infinite, I suppose, then even the most wildly improbable things must occur in it a billion times a day.

  I said shakily, “I can’t believe—”

  “You can’t? Hey, you better! What a surprise, kid, hey? Hey?” He clapped his hand against my arm. “And you’re looking good, kid. Nice and healthy. You keep in shape, huh? How old are you now, thirty-two?”

  “Thirty.” I was numb with shock and fear.

  “Thirty. Mmm. So am I. Nice age, ain’t it? Prime of life.”

  “Fazio—”

  His control was terrifying. “Come on, Chollie. You look like you’re about to crap in your pants. Aren’t you glad to see your old buddy? We had some good times together, didn’t we? Didn’t we? What was the name of that fuckin’ planet? Weinberg? Weinfeld? Hey, don’t stare at me like that!”

  I had to work hard to make any sound at all. Finally, I said, “What the hell do you want me to do, Fazio? I feel like I’m looking at a ghost.”

  He leaned close and his eyes opened wider. I could practically count the concentric red rings, ten or 15 of them, very fine lines. “I wish to Christ you were,” he said quietly. Such unfathomable depths of pain, such searing intensity of hatred. I wanted to squirm away from him. But there was no way. He gave me a long, slow, crucifying inspection. Then he eased back, and some of the menacing intensity seemed to go out of him. Almost jauntily, he said, “We got a lot to talk about, Chollie. You know some quiet place around here we can go?”

  “There’s the gravity lounge—”

  “Sure. The gravity lounge.”

  We floated face to face, at half pull. “You promised you’d kill me if I got nailed,” Fazio murmured. “That was our deal. Why didn’t you do it, Chollie? Why the fuck didn’t you do it?”

  I could hardly bear to look into his red-ringed eyes.

  “Things happened too fast, man. How was I to know paramedics would be on the scene in five minutes?”

  “Five minutes is plenty of time to put a heat bolt through a guy’s chest.”

  “Less than five minutes. Three. Two. The paramedic floater was right overhead, man! It was covering us the whole while. They came down on us like a bunch of fucking angels, Fazio!”

  “You had time.”

  “I thought they were going to be able to save you,” I said lamely. “They got there so quickly.”

  Fazio laughed harshly. “They did try to save me,” he said. “I’ll give them credit for trying. Five minutes and I was on that floater and they were sending tracers all over me to clean the synsym goop out of my lungs and my heart and my liver.”

  “Sure. That was just what I figured they’d do.”

  “You promised to finish me off, Chollie, if I got nailed.”

  “But the paramedics were right there!”

  “They worked on me like sonsabitches,” he said. “They did everything. They can clean up the vital tissues; they can yank out your organs, synsym and all, and stick in transplants. But they can’t get the stuff out of your brain; did you know that? The synsym goes straight up your nose into your brain and it slips its tendrils into your meninges and your neuroglia and right into your fucking corpus callosum. And from there it goes everywhere. The cerebellum, the medulla; you name it. They can’t send tracers into the brain that will clean out synsym and not damage brain tissue. And they can’t pull out your brain and give you a new one, either. Thirty seconds after the synsym gets into your nose, it reaches your brain and it’s all over for you, no matter what kind of treatment you get. Didn?
??t you hear them tell you that when we first got to the war zone? Didn’t you hear all the horror stories?”

  “I thought they were just horror stories,” I said faintly.

  He rocked back and forth gently in his gravity cradle. He didn’t say anything.

  “Do you want to tell me what it’s like?” I asked after a while.

  Fazio shrugged. As though from a great distance, he said, “What it’s like? Ah, it’s not all that goddamned bad, Chollie. It’s like having a roommate. Living with you in your head, forever, and you can’t break the lease. That’s all. Or like having an itch you can’t scratch. Having it there is like finding yourself trapped in a space that’s exactly one centimeter bigger than you are all around and knowing that you’re going to stay walled up in it for a million years.” He looked off toward the great clear wall of the lounge, toward giant red Betelgeuse blazing outside far away. “Your synsym talks to you, sometimes. So you’re never lonely, you know? Doesn’t speak any language you understand, just sits there and spouts gibberish. But at least it’s company. Sometimes it makes you spout gibberish, especially when you badly need to make sense. It grabs control of the upper brain centers now and then, you know. And as for the autonomic centers, it does any damned thing it likes with them. Keys into the pain zones and runs little simulations for you—an amputation without anesthetic, say. Just for fun. Its fun. Or you’re in bed with a woman and it disconnects your erection mechanism. Or it gives you an erection that won’t go down for six weeks. For fun. It can get playful with your toilet training, too. I wear a diaper, Chollie; isn’t that sweet? I have to. I get drunk sometimes without drinking. Or I drink myself sick without feeling a thing. And all the time, I feel it there, tickling me. Like an ant crawling around within my skull. Like a worm up my nose. It’s just like the other guys told us when we went out to the war zone. Remember? ‘Kill yourself fast, while you have the chance.’ I never had the chance. I had you, Chollie, and we had a deal, but you didn’t take our deal seriously. Why not, Chollie?”