The World Soul

When you kiss a brain slug host, you are performing an intimate act with an entity that spans hundreds of bodies and whose memories may go back thousands of years. If that doesn't turn you on, stop reading now.
—Slug Sutra, Chapter 1

"Detective Yvraine MacElroy, Seacouver Police Department," she said, as she settled her bulk into a chair on the table opposite Mel. Blair and Tomie had swiftly fled, and he couldn't blame them. It wasn't that MacElroy was particularly tall or fat, but she was broad-shouldered, with thick fingers and the impression of sheer mass beneath her suit. Maybe not pure muscle, but built like a linebacker, only more compressed.

"Shouldn't I have a lawyer or something?" Mel asked.

It felt like a stupid question. The kind of question you ideally ask yourself before a cop shows up and asks you questions.

"This isn't that kind of conversation," MacElroy said. Her grey eyes fixed on Mel's. So did the black eyes of the brain bat. "You know what I am?"

"Brain Bat," Mel said. He nodded at Blair and Tomie. "They're Great Horned Brain Slugs, Jordan and Soong are North American Brain Slugs. I read about it in the National Geographic Field Guide to Extraterrestrial Species of North America."

"Good," MacElroy said, and then she smiled, a completely human gesture that made Mel very ill at ease. He wasn't used to seeing hosts smile. "That saves some time. Do you know what happened to Mr. Massimi once he left the apartment?"

Mel blinked. "No? I mean, I stayed around for the cops and the medic, then my boss said I had to come in to cover Jordan's shift. I walked straight here, haven't left."

"Good," MacElroy repeated. "Your clock-in and surveillance footage will confirm you were here. That means you have a strong alibi."

"For what?" Mel asked.

The detective placed her hands on the table, all the tips pointed towards Mel. The brain bat undulated slowly, its boneless body rising and falling as though breathing, a silent movement that Mel found more distracting than the four goat-pupiled eyes that focused on him.

"Mr. Massimi," MacElroy said. "Was in an accident. Traffic cameras caught it very clearly. Attempted to cross a street against the traffic light; hit by a truck in the intersection. An ambulance picked him up. By the time it reached the hospital—well, I'll spare you the details. Officially speaking, Antonio Massimi is deceased."

"Oh," Mel said. He didn't feel glee or excitement or a thrill of pleasure, no schadenfreude at the downfall of an enemy. Sure, Antonio had turned out to be an asshole, and he didn't feel bad to hear about his ****, but neither did he find any joy in it. The news left him numb.

"I am letting you know," MacElroy said, "so that you have some idea of what you're dealing with."

Mel blinked again. He wasn't adding much to this conversation, and he knew it.

"What?"

"Massimi's accident was not an accident," MacElroy said. "Though I cannot prove it to the satisfaction of any Earth police **** or agency, nor do I have any desire to do so. But what happened to him was orchestrated by the Seacouver Hive. They perceived a threat to one of their members. Someone who hurt one of them. They acted to protect themselves by proactively dealing with the situation."

"Oh," Mel said. His eyes glanced at Tomie and Blair. "Did they tell you that?"

"No," the brain bat's eyes moved to lock on his coworkers, while the grey eyes of the host remained fixed on Mel. "We are part of the same World Soul, but not the same mind."

"World Soul?" Mel's brow creased.

"On our original homeworld, where our species evolved, there were numerous parasitoid species. You've met the brain slugs; various subspecies of hive mind organisms who adopt different modes. Some are ambush predators that drop on the unsuspecting hosts; others have a more symbiotic relationship, enticing hosts to join with them willingly; there are also scavengers who inhabit corpses—rare on this world. We brain bats share an evolutionary niche, but we evolved as higher-order hunters; we don't need to join a host to achieve sentience. It gives us a level of independence and individuality. Every brain slug host you meet is part of a larger hive mind, but each brain bat you meet is a unique individual," she explained.

"But you touched their palms," Mel remembered. "You can talk to them?"

Small glowing patches appeared in patterns rippling across the brain bat's ruddy skin. They were pale violet, and Mel saw they were actually beneath the skin, several sections of which were apparently transparent. Like if the inner layers of an onion suddenly turned neon.

"Good! Yes. We share the same communication protocol. Bioelectricity, subsonics and ultrasonics, chemical biomarkers—on our original home world, the interconnected network of brain slugs, brain bats, and similar life forms gave rise to the World Soul. A kind of gestalt awareness. A pool of information and impressions, communicated constantly. Not aware in the same sense of a hive mind, but a connective link. Here, on Earth, the World Soul is nascent; there isn't a sufficient density of our kind to bring it forth yet. But I pick up on things; information is communicated. That is how I know what happened to Massimi was planned. That is how I know that something else is planned for you."

Mel blinked. "Am I in danger?"

"No," MacElroy said. "You have—helped the hive. You are not a member, but you have been kind. Stood in defense of its individuals. Shared resources and space. Tried to communicate and socialize. This is the kind of behavior that the hive recognizes and desires."

"So . . . it likes me," Mel said. The idea would have sounded ludicrous a couple weeks ago. Yet now, Mel felt himself warming to the idea.

"It is still wary, but yes, I believe it does," MacElroy said, and the pattern of lights shifted and dimmed. "Which can carry both opportunity and difficulty. When a brain slug hive finds an individual that is amenable to its hosts, it seeks to increase social bonds. Sometimes this is the first step into recruiting a new host, but sometimes what it desires is . . . there isn't a word for it, exactly. Something more than an ally or protector. An individual who is not of the hive, but is treated as a part of it, who is bonded mentally and emotionally to the hive and contributes to its well-being out of conscious desire, rather than being an extension of the hive itself. It wants to get to know you, spend time with you, interact with you more frequently and in greater depth."

Mel parsed this as best he could.

"It sounds like the hive wants to date me?" he said.

The lights rippled again. MacElroy's smile suddenly looked predatory.

"Yes," she said. "Something like that. And if you fuck it up, you might end up like Massimi."