Levels: The Host (28 page)

“But sir, it’
s obviously—”

“Quiet, Akral. Suppose you’re right. Suppose below us right now—trapped like wounded animals in a cave—are Watly Caiper and his escape mate, Narcolo Caiper. I’m sure I recognized the old man as our eggy bus driver. So there they are, hypothetically. Cornered and helpless down a little hole. Any hunter will tell you the most dangerous animal is one that is cornered and wounded. You back off a little when that happens. Just a little, but you
do
back off.

“If they are down there, Akral, they have a weapon. Deduction. Narcolo didn’t get hold of that bus just by asking nice. They may be
well
armed, for all we know. Trapped, wounded animals with long teeth. Nothing worse than that. They can’t win, but they can bite you damn hard before you pull them out of their cave. I send anyone down there now and we’re going to suffer some losses. I don’t want any more losses. The people don’
t either.

“Who knows what kind of weapons the hypothetical Watly Caiper and the hypothetical Narcolo Caiper might have if they’re hypothetically
down there.”

Ogiv Fenlocki paused briefly and then spoke again. Watly pictured him smiling conspiratorially. “ ‘Course, they might not have much at all—a club or a knife, maybe. We might just be able to go down there and excise them quite cleanly. Boom, boom. But there’s no sport in that, Akral. Time and again Caiper has proved to be.
..
inventive
. I’d hate to saunter casually down those little stairs and plug them both after all that. Boom, boom. Two dead things. No, the chase is too important. He’s done incredibly well till now. If they were down there,
if
they were, I’d clear the street for, say, half an hour—a running start—and
then
come after them. That way they’ll die like they ought: like people. Not like some trapped beasts. There is more honor in that death, Akral.
..
and more honor to
the executioner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But, of course, they’re not down there at all, are they, Akral? No, of
course not.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Then let’s take the rest of the officers and look elsewhere.” His voice grew soft. “For a while, at least. For a while. Perhaps we’ll try back here after a moment or two..
..
” The voices faded to nothing as they walked away. At least it
sounded
like they were
walking away.

In the darkness, Watly listened to the sound of his uncle’s breathing. He could hear the fear in each of the old man’s breaths. Apparently, Narcolo had his doubts about the catshit performance they’d just heard and its implied promise. Watly hadn’t bought it at all. If he’d ever thought he’d known what it felt like to be trapped before, he’d been wrong.
This
was trapped. Fenlocki was trying to lure
them out.

They were raped.

CHAPTER 32

T
ears would
be good.

Tears would be nice right now. A long, childlike crying jag—full of sobs and shudders and chokes and wails and trembling shoulders—that would be welcome. There would be a release in that. The tears would bring freedom from the knot of steel cables tightening Watly’s chest. Tears might relieve that throbbing ache that began behind his eyeballs and spread throughout his head. Tears just might allow him to feel like a human
being again.

But Watly Caiper had no tears now. He had anger—a narrow constrained rage in his belly. Anger at life itself. And he had emptiness, helplessness. A sense of abandonment, of loss. A sense of being all alone in the world. Of unfairness. A sense that he had lost his net below and his security
blanket above.

He wanted to feel betrayed, but he couldn’t. He wanted to hate Narcolo, but he still loved the old man. It would be easier if he could despise his uncle. It would be easier if he thought Narcolo Caiper was a bad, evil man with no morals. He didn’t. He understood. And that just made
it worse.

“Ain’t hardly such thing as family anymore, kiddo,” Narcolo had said once. And he’d
been right.

In spite of his wounds Watly squatted lower behind the dead floater. The floater was one of the explicit ones that had lost its lift entirely and was resting on the sidewalk next to an overturned lowtruck. From his hiding place behind it, Watly could see across the crowded street to the front of the Vagina Oblongata Bar. If Alysess hadn’t been caught yet, Watly might get to her before the police did. Maybe, just maybe, he could prevent Alysess Tollnismer from suffering the same fate Uncle Narcolo had. Unless she was already captured.
Or dead.

Watly and Narcolo had waited silently in the darkness under the steps for a good five minutes. They stared at the dim shaft of light coming down the steps. They inhaled the stench of garbage, of dirty rags, of the nearby smoldering bus, of Watly’s own blood. They breathed. Gradually Watly’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He could now see Narcolo’s haggard features and the shine of his moist eyes. He could see the dirty white of the two mismatched pieces of cheap placene sheeting that sealed off the basement door near his feet. He could see a small pile of what looked like catshit in the far corner near the sealed door, and another lump of rags and garbage. Catshit. Or maybe it was people shit, unless it was the biggest raping
cat ever.

Watly listened. No sounds came from the street above except for what seemed like normal First Level noises: footsteps, a bicycle, the rumble of a lowtruck being pulled along, snatches of passing conversation, some arguments and
small tussles.

The fire had probably gone out by now, though Watly could still smell the acrid smoke. No doubt people were gathering around the wrecked bus and coppers, taking whatever parts they could for black market salvage. Hands would be grabbing for any piece of burned metal or charred wiring that would come loose. Fights and pulling matches were probably breaking out every
few seconds.

It seemed the police had actually left. It appeared Fenlocki really was giving them a head start—counting to ten, as it were. The man did have a liking for the chase. Maybe he enjoyed playing awhile with his prey before going in for the kill. Just like
a cat.

“You think it’s safe?” Narcolo’s voice filled the small dark space, cracking like an adolescent on the last word. “You think they really left?” This was the same man who stole a bus? This timid
eggless creature?

Watly thought for a second before speaking. “No,” he said simply. “No, I don’t. We’re dead, Uncle. They just want to lure us back out so they can kill us safely. Fenlocki’s no fool.” He tried to move. He tried to sit up. Not for any particular reason. He just wanted to sit up. Maybe it’s better to die sitting up. Everything throbbed. His body was one enormous heartbeat, pounding viciously into his wounds. “Oh, rape.
...
”

“Easy, Watly. Move slowly, now, kiddo. Let me help you. We’ll take some of these old clothes here, dude ourselves up like bums. That’ll help cover the blood and stuff.” Narcolo draped the smelly rags over Watly’s shoulders and around
his waist.

Neither of them could stand in the cramped quarters. Watly stayed on his butt, knees up, and halfheartedly resisted his uncle’s attempts to dress him. “What’s the point, Uncle? We’
re dead.”

Narcolo continued to wrap Watly’s stained police uniform in
dirty cloth.

“Don’t you get it, Narcolo?” Watly said intensely. “We’re raping
dead!
There’s no
way out!”

Narcolo was still squatting over Watly, messing with the rags, his hands fumbling in the dim light. “There has to be, kiddo. There has to be. This can’t be. You can’
t die.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Uncle. You’re gonna die too.” The pain was bad. Right now the idea of it ending permanently didn’t seem all that horrible. No more pain. No more running. “If we don’t go out soon and let them mow us down,” Watly said, “Fenlocki’ll finally get impatient and send down someone to kill us right here in our ‘cave’.
..
in
spite
of our ‘long teeth.’” Watly held up the small scalpel. It was probably almost out of charge by now. “Some teeth,”
he mumbled.

Narcolo was breathing really heavy, trying to drape some rags over himself. Watly could see the tears flowing down the old man’s cheeks. “You can’t die from all this, Watly Caiper. I can’t let that happen. It’s okay if I die. I deserve it. I deserve it. All
my fault.”

Watly saw the beginnings of panic in his uncle’s shadowy face, desperation. “Okay, Narcolo. It’s okay. We’ll.
..
uh.
..
find a way. Just let me think here.” There was no way. Watly knew it. What way could there be? Die here or die out there—that was the choice. But Watly couldn’t stand seeing his uncle like this. His
surrogate child.

“I did it, Watly,” Narcolo sobbed out. “It’s all my
raping fault.”

“Shhhh. Shhhh. Nobody’s fault. We’ll
be okay.”

“No, no,” Narcolo gasped, his words slurred by the tears. “They asked me—’cause I used to work there—asked me if I knew someone. This was right after you wrote
to me.”

“Uncle—”

“They wanted someone specific. A person with a temper. A person who wanted to be
a mother
....
”

Watly stared at his uncle’s pale face. The eyes seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper. “Who wanted this? What are
you saying?”

“The doctor—Aug Mitterly. But he’s just an underling.” Narcolo coughed and a stream of spit dribbled from the side of his mouth. “They promised you wouldn’t be hurt, Watly. They said they needed a host for a special assignment—secret, and all. Something criminal—but they promised not to
hurt you.”

Watly could hardly believe what Narcolo was saying. The old man—his beloved uncle—had helped to set him up? Watly could see the guilt, torturous guilt, etched in his uncle’s features. The guy was falling apart with it, almost hysterical
with it.

“They promised me things. If I waited. I had to be silent. They promised me things. Promised. I couldn’
t resist.”

Promised him things, yes.
Watly smiled sadly to himself and spoke very quietly, pulling his uncle’s face close to him with his one good arm. “They said they’d get you to Second Level if you’d help them, didn’t they? That’s what they
promised you?”

Narcolo gasped again and sobbed loudly, nodding his head. “And that you wouldn’t be hurt,” he said. “They told me that. And then things just got worse and worse. And I couldn’t tell you. It was all my fault. I just couldn’t. I wish I’d never—” Narcolo choked and coughed into
his shirtsleeve.

Watly saw his uncle’s tears glide down deep wrinkles and join with the stuff running from his nose. There was love in those eyes. And such sadness. Such regret. Pain. “Not your fault, Uncle.” Watly said. “You didn’t know what it was going to be like. You were a pawn, just like me. We were both just
pawns here.”

The old man’s eyes glazed over as if a light were dimming inside him. “A
bad pawn.”

There was a sound at the top of the steps and Watly turned to look. Footsteps? A shadow of movement was coming down
toward them.

“Who was it, Uncle?” Watly whispered. “Who was the donor? Do you know? Who’s the
real
person behind
all this?”

It was a cat coming down the steps, sniffing out their hiding place. It stared at them with curiosity and then scampered right across their bodies, leaping into the shit corner
and disappearing.

Narcolo’s feeble voice echoed. “You’ve got to live, Watly. Run, kiddo. Run. And get away. Just get away. Try to get out of the country. Try to get to the Outerworld, even, if that’
s possible—”

“
Who was the donor. Uncle? Please. Who is Mitterly’
s boss
?”

“Bad.
Very bad.”

Now there
were
footsteps coming down. Footsteps for sure, this time. Human ones. A large shadow descended slowly
toward them.

“
Narcolo
—” Watly
whispered vehemently.

“Use me, Watly. Let me be your shield. Use me as a shield, kiddo. Let me do that
for you.”

“
No
, Narcolo!”

“You’ve got to let me do that for you!” the old man cried. “It’s my fault, don’t
you understand?”

The shadow came closer, tilting and weaving as if the person casting it was drunk. It loomed in the angled entrance to their hiding place, a dark cloud in the
night sky.

“I will not use you, Uncle!”

Watly looked behind him. Where had the cat gone? How had the cat disappeared?
Kitty
?

Now there were boots and the bottom of a cape visible. The approaching legs were unsure, wobbly.

“Who’s in there?” a slurred female voice
called out.

If the cat disappeared.
..
How can a
cat disappear?

“Who is it?” the person asked,
stepping closer.

She’s a cop,
Watly thought to himself, grasping the scalpel tightly with a sweaty left hand.
Got to be
. But the clothes were not cop clothes. The boots were beat up bad, left sole flopping down like a gaping mouth with each step nearer. The bottom of the cape was in shreds and filthy, and she smelled like rancid sweat and booze.
She’s dressed like a bum and acting drunk to throw us off. They’ve had time to fix her up like that. I should try to kill
her now.

“Go away! We’re busy!” Uncle Narcolo
croaked out.

Fenlocki’s a smart bean,
Watly thought.
I’d do the same thing. Force us into a judgment call. Make us take an extra second to figure out if she’s just an innocent bum. That way she has
time to—

“This is my raping
home
you’re in!” the cloaked figure blurted out loudly, leaning down to look at the crouching
creatures inside.

Makes sense, dammit
, Watly thought.
A bum’s home. Human shit in the corner, rags to sleep on
....
Makes too much raping sense. Damn you, Fenlocki!

“Leave us
alone
, okay?” Narcolo shouted, sounding seriously
hysterical now.

Rags
....
Where the rape did the cat go in
those rags?

The woman reached into her cloak and fumbled inside as she leaned closer. “You wanna drink? I got some sharing booze
here somewhere
....
”

Narcolo slid quickly sideways so that he was directly in front of Watly. Watly’s view of the woman was
blocked now.

“Narcolo!”
Watly shouted.

There was a loud boom and Narcolo’s whole body was thrown up against Watly’
s knees.

“Ow,” Narcolo said with
no emotion.

Watly looked over his uncle’s shoulder to see the woman’s chip pistol. She fired again. Narcolo’s body lurched back violently once more, the force knocking the wind out of Watly. The woman cop walked closer, squinting
to see.

“Oh, no. I’m dead, kiddo. She killed me,” Narcolo said, sounding quite calm now. His body went limp against Watly’s legs. The chip pistol went off again and Watly could hear the thud and feel the lurch as another slug pounded into his uncle’s body, shoving him
back again.

Watly screamed. He leaned over sideways and threw the scalpel—no,
shot
the scalpel—overhead—up and out.
Hard
. It flew the few feet invisibly—not even a blur in the dark. The female cop was probably dead even before she fell forward and hit the rags, never knowing that the blade had passed right through her left eye and was lodged in
her brain.

Watly leaned down over Narcolo’s shoulder and looked at the old man’s chest. There was a large stain all over his chest and stomach that looked black and oily in
the darkness.

“You’ll be okay, Uncle,” Watly whispered. “Slugs just kissed you and went away. Like with me.” It wasn’t true. There were things wrong under Narcolo’s bloody shirt Watly didn’t want to know about. Serious things. Everything was all messed up and wrong
down there.

“Officer?” It was Fenlocki calling out. “How’d we do, officer?”