Levels: The Host (12 page)

CHAPTER 12

J
erked and yanked and pulled along. Wrenched along. Torn
violently downward.

Where was he? What was happening? His mind
was ripping.

This time the hosting was not gentle. This time it was not smooth. Maybe it was the lack of euphoric, maybe it was the stressful circumstances, maybe it was the speed with which the hosting had started, or maybe it was everything put together. In any case, this time it
was different.

The pale-skinned blond man held Watly firmly, pressing him into the plates. There was no feeling in those cold eyes. No empathy, no remorse, no sorrow. Not even hate. Nothing.
I may have made a small error in judgment here,
Watly thought.

Watly felt himself being jerked violently inward. He was being pulled into himself with tremendous force. He was mentally scrambling for balance, for a foothold. Watly was sliding down that same interior hallway as before, only this time it was much steeper and more slippery. He was being dragged, yanked down, kicking and screaming.
I’ve change my mind,
he thought.
Whoa, hold
on here—

And suddenly the
other appeared.

Another “I.” This other being was in there with him and approaching rapidly from behind, having no trouble with the slippery steepness. It was scampering toward him like a huge insect, feelers clicking on the invisible interior surface of
his mind.

Watly felt much more from this consciousness than he had from the other. Much more. As it neared, there was an impression of power, of size and strength. There was this enormous self- confidence and, at the same time, a tangible sense of winter. Icy cold winter. A blizzard within. The incredible coldness was not just surface. It was solid. Watly felt all this clearly. It was as if the intruder’s personality was so strong, so full of winter, that even the mental walls could not contain
it all.

Watly experienced a childlike fear enveloping him as this powerful thing neared and passed.
This is a bad. A real bad. A bad thing. There is evil here,
Watly thought.
Cold, wintry evil. A monster. Is this even a human being at all that is climbing into my skull?
He wanted to hide under a blanket and call for Mommy. He wanted to close his eyes and bury his face in his hands. They weren’t his eyes anymore, nor his hands. His control was totally gone. That fast. He was a passenger now. It
was over.

Watly felt his back arch and his body stretch languorously. The movement felt somehow feline. Graceful but dangerous. Then he felt his mouth move. His tongue explored the upper teeth and gum and then settled back as his lips curled slightly at the edges. Watly felt his lungs expand in preparation
for speech.

“Mea culpa, Watly Caiper. Mea culpa. Mea
maxima culpa.”

Watly felt his fear tighten. It wasn’t just that this person knew his name. Somehow that was no surprise. It seemed almost natural. What scared him most was the voice. It was his own voice talking but it was very different. Aside from the expected Second Level accent, there was an oiliness to its tone. There was a sliminess. The voice was dripping with something wet and foul. There was more of that wintry cold quality that had passed him in the dark. An inhumanity.
..
a badness.

“That you?” It was the blond doctor talking. He had removed the cables and was shunting the
machine back.

“It’s me now, yes,” Watly’s
body said.

“I’ve got your things here.” The man was kicking forward a large silver box that had been in the shadows behind the white table. Watly saw it peripherally. His donor did not even glance
at it.

“You can leave now, Mitterly. Leave me with Watly. Watly and I would like to be alone. Isn’t that correct, Watly?”

The absurdity of the question coming from his own lips just increased its impact. Watly was scared. He didn’t ever remember being as scared. He realized with hindsight that his other donor had never addressed him at all. The host had never been acknowledged by that first donor. It had been much more comfortable that way. This directness was powerful in shock
value alone.

The tall doctor—Mitterly—set the controls and backed out of the room, almost bowing as he left. He folded the door tightly
behind him.

Watly was alone with
the donor.

After another slow stretch, the donor guided Watly’s body gracefully to its feet. There was none of the tentative awkwardness Watly remembered from his first hosting. This donor was poised and balanced. Confident.

“Well, here we are, Watly Caiper. Just the two of us. We’re headed on an adventure, you and me. No time to waste. Let’s see what we
have here.”

The donor knelt next to the silver box and flipped its lid back. Inside was what looked like a pile of clothes and a few small red plastic cases. The donor glanced quickly at each and removed the largest of the cases. It was about the length of Watly’s hand and twice as wide. The donor opened it with a deft flip of the wrist. Under the top padding were two small brown wafers and a black metal wand that forked into dual points at one end. The donor removed the wafers and balanced them close together on the hosting-cuff.

“This will just take a brief moment, Watly. Be patient and we’ll be done in no time. No time
at all.”

The donor activated the wand and touched its two points to the wafers—one on each. They glowed slightly at the contact areas. After trying it at various different points Watly saw contact made as the wafers lit up completely. The hosting-cuff clicked and fell off his wrist. It bounced once before rocking to a full stop at Watly’
s feet.

“There we are, Watly. We don’t need that,
do we?”

Watly felt as though he was reeling from some invisible blow. He watched helplessly as his donor hung the cuff back on the wall and put away the tools. He was stunned. He had just witnessed the impossible. The hosting-cuff system was foolproof, or so he’d been led to believe. This was incredible. Impossible. Now, to all the world, he was just Watly. Another severe panic attack, probably the worst ever, started to bubble to the surface.
Control your mind, Caiper. Keep your wits. Think narrowly. Pay attention to what’s happening. Come on, Caiper.

The donor got undressed. This was no surprise to Watly. He was expecting a period of physical inspection like the one he had experienced before. However, this donor didn’t seem interested in Watly’s body. Not at all. As soon as the clothes came off, new clothes went on—clean black jumpsuit, yellow workervest, and low boots. Watly’s few belongings were transferred from the pocket-jacket into the workervest. The old outfit was then stuffed into a corner of the
silver box.

Watly could see himself as the donor glanced into the reverse-corrected mirror. He looked good. He looked like one of the lucky few who worked Second and
lived below.

“We look wonderful, huh, Watly? What a team, you
and me!”

The donor turned back to the box and pulled out the other small red cases. Two of them were placed in the workervest pockets. The third was opened and a long, silver
object removed.

“You know what this is, Watly Caiper?” The donor swiveled it in front of Watly’s eyes. “This is a fully charged surgical cutting blade with the skin-sealer turned off. In fact, you’ll note, the sealer has been removed entirely. It’s as sharp as they come, Watly, and it’ll go through flesh or bone like they were
boiled sunbean.”

The donor waved it in front of Watly’s nose a few times, then held it away and made Watly’s eyes slowly scan the length of it. It was an impressive scalpel. Had Watly not been so terrified of it he might have admired its sleekness and the simplicity of its design. But it scared him badly. He didn’t want to think what it might be for. The oily
speech continued.

“Just thought I’d introduce you two. I think you’ll know each other better later.” There was a pause and the donor pocketed the scalpel in its case. “Let’s see what else—oh, yes.”

That case also went into the workervest. The donor removed the final red case from the box and opened it. It contained a tiny flask with yellow liquid sloshing about inside. The donor handled
it delicately.

“We mustn’t forget this, Watly. Oh, no, not this. A little.
..
” Watly watched his own fingers pop the cap off the flask, “a little slow-acting poison.” The flask was raised to his lips.
Oh rape don’t do that please don’t do that let me out of here, please I’ve got to
get out.
..

“Yes, poison. No known antidote. None at all.” They swallowed. There was a bitter burning sensation in Watly’s throat as the liquid went down. “It shouldn’t take full effect until after I’ve left you, Watly, but when the time comes, it’ll come fast.” The body gave a shudder as the liquid hit Watly’s stomach. There was a brief sense of nausea. “It’s a shame you’ll not get fade-out pay, Watly. You’ll have
earned it.”

Watly would surely have fainted had it been possible. He was dead.
I’m a raping dead man,
he thought.
It’s all over but
the dying
.

His donor began to laugh. The laughter started small but increased rapidly. Soon the whole body was shaking with it. Wracked with it. Doubled over. It was a strange sensation. Here was Watly, absolutely terrified, while his body acted overcome with humor. The laughter wound down and broke after a few moments, and the donor—wiping tears—
spoke again.

“I got you there, didn’t I, Watly Caiper? I had you going for a moment. We had quite a scare, you and I. In truth it’s just a harmless liquid, Watly; no effect at all. Not poison. No, no. A small practical joke. Mea culpa, Watly. Mea maxima culpa. Just showing you who’s boss. Just getting your attention.
Getting acquainted.”

The donor threw the empty flask and its case in with the first one containing the wafers. Those two cases and Watly’s old clothing were all that was now left in the large silver box. The donor closed the lid and shoved the box down the garbage chute. It would no doubt slide to the building’s melting vat.
No evidence,
Watly thought.
No evidence of the cuff-removing equipment—nor of my old clothing. No assignment slip. No evidence of anything. All gone.
Watly found himself strangely mourning the stupid pocket-jacket. It was a trivial thing—but he loved that jacket. It was the nicest damn article of clothing he owned. Now it was gone. He felt he’d lost
a friend.

“Well, I hope I haven’t traumatized you too much, Watly. It was all in fun. Time for us to hit the road, I think. Time to push off.” The donor straightened and smoothed the workervest and brushed Watly’s hair downward. In the hosting room there was no evidence anyone had been there. The donor glanced around. All was in order. Tidy. White.

As they exited the building through the cuff-return door, the donor continued a soft running commentary. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it, Watly? A magical night. A night when any number of things might happen. Even down here on the sewer level you can tell it. Even here among the vermin there
is magic.”

There was a pause as they continued walking. The donor was favoring the left leg slightly. “Ah, Watly, I see we have a soreness here. We have a bit of a bruise on the leg, do we?” The donor stopped walking and slammed a fist directly into the sore area of Watly’s thigh. Hard. Watly’s peripheral vision blurred for a moment. The pain
was incredible.

“Hurts there, doesn’t it? I guarantee you, Watly Caiper, that bothered you more than it bothered me. You’re not dealing with a baby here.” Again the donor punched full force into the center of
the bruise.

Rape, that hurts! What are you? How can you do that? How can you stand that?
Watly’s body trembled and his eyes watered. This person was insane. Watly was being controlled by an insane person. For a moment he thought he was losing grip himself. For a moment Watly thought he was drifting away from reality. His mind wanted solace. His mind wanted to think broadly—not narrowly. His mind wanted to float off somewhere. Somewhere safe and warm. Thinking widely.
At least.
..
Watly thought,
at least let me close my eyes—please just for
a while
....

The me is not the body.

The me is not the body.

The me is neither hand nor face nor sex.

The me is Watly Caiper, I.

(A sense of self.)

The body is an it.

The body is a that.

It could belong to another.

For the me is a movable thing.

The me is a movable thing.

“Mea culpa, Watly Caiper. You’re being a good sport about all this. It was just another demonstration, Watly. To show which of us is the stronger. By now I think it should
be obvious.”

The donor had started walking again and was heading up Lexington Avenue, ignoring the bums who approached. The walk was smooth and self-assured.
This person,
Watly thought,
is more comfortable in my body than I am.
Most of the tenters were inside with the lights on by now. Watly could see all these warm glows through the tent fabric on the left and right as they passed. He felt envy. These people didn’t have much, but they were sheltered, relatively warm, probably decently fed and decently clothed, and—most important of all—they were
themselves
. They were who they were. They had no parasitic beasts jumping about in their brains. Watly would have given everything he had to trade places with any one
of them.