Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  Watly looked up as his uncle worked over him. The wrinkled face was expressive, the eyes alive. There was nothing but concern and love showing on the old features. Watly felt a wave of warmth and gratefulness wash over him. A giggle erupted from Narcolo’s throat.

  “Your knees and shins aren’t in great shape either, kiddo. Gettin’ a little on in years for shin-scrimming, huh? These pants of yours’ve been ventilated from the thigh down.”

  “It was sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Watly said with a weak smile.

  “That it was. That it was.”

  Narcolo tied up Watly’s arm with a piece of his shirt and used the rest of the fabric to throw together a pressure bandage for the injured side. Watly felt really awful. The pain from both his arm and side was intense now—a continuous burn that gained a little kick with each heartbeat. Worse than that, though, worse than all the slug holes in the world, were his knees. His calves. Everything down there. The skin had been scraped off real bad. It wasn’t serious—not at all like the other wounds—but it hurt even more. Too much skin surface scraped—scraped like when you were a kid and kept falling down on a rough sidewalk. Times ten. Times a hundred.

  “You’re gonna be fine, kiddo.” Narcolo winced in sympathy as he applied the makeshift dressings. “Just fine.”

  “How’d you get the bus? Where’d you get the bus?” Watly asked, trying not to look at all the blood he’d just noticed—his blood. It had spread in a dark stain over almost all his clothes.

  “The bus? The bus? I commandeered the sucker. Took it over. It had no passengers on it anyway. I flagged it down and threatened the driver. Yes I did.”

  “Threatened? Threatened with what?”

  Narcolo grinned mischievously. “Ho, ho—threatened with... this.” The old man reached into his wrinkled jacket and pulled out the scalpel—Watly’s scalpel. The donor’s scalpel. The scalpel. It was still coated with dried blood from the Alvedine murder. “Found this little gem on my apartment floor after you left me. Right before the cops came looking and put that damn surveyor’s lens in, or whatever you call it. Guess somebody must’ve dropped this little knife while changing.” He laughed quietly and passed it on to Watly as he spoke. “It came in handy, though. You’d be surprised how quickly people leave you alone if you wave a bloody scalpel at them. Bus driver only needed one wave.”

  “You’re crazy,” Watly said weakly, turning the blade in his hand. “Why? Why’d you do it?”

  Narcolo turned toward the light from the street above. “Heard on the CV. They said they’d got you. Captured you. Bringing you down for execution. I couldn’t have that. No, I couldn’t let that be. Not at all.”

  “How could you take a chance like that with your own life? Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve pulled yourself into it. You’ve—”

  “Shhh! Traffic coming.”

  There was a whish sound from the street above. Coppers and cruisers. Lots of them. Then footsteps and loud voices. The police had finally caught up. Watly and his uncle held perfectly still. After a moment Narcolo whispered very quietly, “Don’t worry, kiddo. We’re too near the bus. They’ll never expect that. They’ll think we ran away. No one’ll bother looking right next door. We’re safe here.”

  “They couldn’t have gotten very far.” Sergeant Fenlocki’s voice carried well above the others. “You and the unmanneds go west. Melltez and her group are going north and east. You go south with the others. And you, trace me all the routes to Sexsentral—it’s the easiest place to hide. Akral, stay here with me.”

  There was the sound of more footsteps, cruisers moving, and then the sergeant’s voice again, loud. Almost too loud.

  “Akral, let me give you a little lesson in police work....”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Some things are very easy, Akral,” Ogiv continued, his voice echoing. “Like this stuff on the sidewalk. What’s that look like to you? Quickly now!”

  Watly gripped the scalpel tightly.

  “It looks like blood, sir.”

  Their voices seemed to be getting much closer. Watly felt himself go cold. He couldn’t tell whether it was fear or the loss of blood or both, but he was suddenly freezing. He held the scalpel as if it would magically protect him from everything.

  “Excellent, Akral. Excellent. That’s exactly what it is. Exactly. A trail of blood. Looks brown to the untrained eye, but actually it’s red. Excellent. A perfect trail of blood. Where does it go?”

  “It goes...” Akral’s simple voice was much softer than the sergeant’s, “it goes from the bus all the way—”

  “All the way down those steps there, right, Akral?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now Watly could see the sergeant’s boots and the bottoms of his pants. Behind him, Akral’s thick legs were also visible.

  “Good work, my friend. Good, simple police work. Let’s have a seat on these steps, shall we?” The feet disappeared to the right. “There we are. Quite comfy, actually.”

  The sergeant’s voice was coming from directly above Watly and Narcolo now. He was right on top of them. Watly could even hear the slow breaths Fenlocki took between sentences.

  “Rape!” Watly whispered to himself.

  “Sergeant, a question....” Akral sounded bewildered.

  “Not just yet, Akral. Not just yet. Another quick lesson for you. Things are not always what they appear to be. The drops... they could be some kind of sauce—or soup, even. Yes, soup. Perhaps someone went down below us for dinner but spilled on the way.”

  The daylites abruptly cycled down to night setting. It’s that late? Watly could no longer see Narcolo’s features clearly there in the shadows. All was dark. Only a faint shaft of light made its way down to their cavelike hiding place.

  “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’l
l 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

  Tears 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 go
t 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?