And yes, he did indeed look like shit.
Tavis had resealed the door behind them all and was now, with the help of two of the others, pushing a large one-wheeled vehicle from the side of the platform over to the nearest rail. With a few hearty shoves the vehicle merged with the track and snapped into position. The one large yellow wheel was locked onto the rail with its flexible teeth and now the whole thing rolled easily back and forth. Tavis motioned for Watly and Alysess to climb up into the raised cab.
“All aboard this here unicarriage now. Don’t you worry, the cab is self-balancing. Go on—step up.”
They climbed up into the padded seats as the cab swayed and dipped slightly, adjusting for their weight. Tavis and the silent others followed. And then—with the touch of a cable and the release of one ringlet—they were off.
The unicarriage zipped along quietly through the gleaming tunnels. Alysess held Watly’s hand. Her fingers were warm and strong. Watly faced straight forward on the cushion, wondering what might come next. Every few minutes they passed another broad platform where more one-wheeled vehicles sat in neat rows off to the side. On some of the platforms Watly caught glimpses of shiny doorways, one after the other along the outer edges. A few were open and he could see red hallways stretching into the distance beyond.
On the rail beside them, another unicarriage neared and passed, the painted figure in its cab nodding. Watly saw Tavis nod back. They passed more platforms, more doorways. Fleeting images of people could be seen down the long hallways. After a while they came up to the largest platform yet and Tavis slowed the unicarriage to a full stop. The ceiling seemed higher above this platform. Pinlights filled the air above their heads.
“Here we are, boys and girls. Out we go.”
They all stepped down, one at a time, with Tavis leading the way. Alysess and Watly walked side by side across the pure white platform.
“Through here, Friends-you-say-of-Ragman,” Tavis said. One of the side doors stood invitingly open. They all walked through it and down a tiled corridor. There seemed to be an endless maze of hallways turning this way and that, but Tavis and the others knew just where to go and they walked swiftly, sometimes pushing Watly and Alysess when they had trouble keeping to the rapid pace. The group began to pass people as they walked on—some with painted faces like the others, some looking more normal, like people out for an evening constitutional. Some in jumpsuits, some in workervests, some in rags, some in stylish pocket-jackets. Just when Watly thought his legs would give out for real, they all stopped before a large, blood-red doorway and Tavis knocked on it once. There was a pause.
“Come,” a voice said softly from the other side.
Tavis, Watly, Alysess, and two others walked through the door, leaving the rest of the alley creatures behind. They entered a small dining chamber. Like the hallways and tunnels, the walls were tiled in red and the floor was white. A CV set low on the news pleat was playing its crisp images near one corner. In the center of the room was a brown placene table full of various dishes, each brimming with food. A small bearded man sat hunched over the table, concentrating on eating some kind of greasy bird meat. Real bird meat. He was chewing loudly and smacking his lips after each swallow. Watly recognized the man’s clothing: Though raglike, it sparkled richly at the creases. And the eyes too were familiar. Wise eyes. It was the Ragman.
“Ragman,” Tavis said as the bearded one chewed. “Ragman, sorry for the interruption—”
“Ragman is the Subkeeper,” Watly said quietly to no one in particular. He turned to Alysess as if to ask her, Could this thing I’ve just said be? Could I be right? She looked confused and her gaze moved from Watly to the seated man before them.
The Ragman stopped eating. He looked first at Watly and then to Tavis. Tavis looked stunned. I didn’t tell them, the painted face seemed to plead.
The Ragman pushed his bird meat away. “You children,” he said, his composure regained, “have come very close to giving me indigestion.”
Watly smiled.
The Ragman rose and rounded the table, looking even shorter than Watly remembered him. “This is the Caiper fellow?”
“He says he’s a friend of Ragman.” Tavis laughed nervously and began to tell the story of their capture. Watly wasn’t listening. He was looking at the food. There were some spiced weeders. There was a healthy mound of sunbeans. There was... who knows what, but it looked tasty. And the bird meat. A whole wing, it looked like....
He felt himself salivating. Food! To break the trance he tore his gaze from the table and looked at the CV image. They were reporting about his most recent escape—from a dead-end alley. Apparently, the police were baffled. A few Sexsentral denizens were being questioned but there were still no clues as to how “Caiper and his cohort” had disappeared.
And then Watly realized something bad was happening. Again. The Ragman had listened quietly to Tavis’s story and had even nodded a few times. Then he had leaned back and mentioned remembering Watly’s face from the earlier hosting, and also from the recent CV reports. And now... now he was giving Tavis permission to kill them. Quickly.
“Kill them both, my children,” the Ragman said, “and collect the reward on the male. The money will be a help. It is our right.”
Tavis drew the familiar blade once again. This time he/she was smiling proudly. This time he/she had permission from the boss. The Ragman stepped back and averted his eyes. “Let blood flow, my children. With regret, but for the good of the cause, let blood flow.”
Tavis drew close with the blade as the other painted ones came up behind Watly and Alysess.
Well, this is swell, thought Watly.
The Ragman stared off at the CV image.
And death comes again. I am killed again. And Alysess.
“We can help the cause,” Watly said. He was surprised how desperate his voice sounded.
The Ragman did not turn. “You don’t even know what the cause is, my child.”
“I know the cause, Subkeeper.” Watly’s mind was racing. “I know what all this—” he gestured around him, “is for.”
“Yes?” The Ragman did not turn.
“You’re... you’re preparing. Getting ready.”
“For what?” The bearded face was expressionless. Tavis touched the tip of the knife to Watly’s throat. Someone held his arms from behind, squeezing his wound roughly.
“For the revolution,” Alysess’s voice jumped in.
The Ragman squinted. She had spoken of Revy aloud.
“Yes,” Watly said quickly. “The revolution. You want to take back Second Level. The subs are your base, your headquarters. You’ve been making ready. We know this. We can help.” The words that came out—came from nowhere—sounded right. “And we know about California,” Watly added.
The Ragman’s smile was condescending. “Just what do you know about California?” he asked.
Watly swallowed what felt like an eyeball-sized lump of air. It rolled right past the tarnished blade as Alysess spoke. “We know... we know... the truth,” she said.
“And what,” the Ragman asked, “is the truth about California?”
Watly searched the bearded man’s knowing face for an answer. The guy was smug. Cocky. There’s no way you could know or even guess what happened in California, his expression said. No way. The Ragman raised his eyebrows. Care to hazard a pathetic one before you die? Watly scanned the room—the red walls, the food, the CV, Tavis’s cold eyes, the Subkeeper/Ragman—and tried to let his mind empty. The point of the knife was turned inward to his neck.
What is the answer? What is something I would never guess, would never suspect? What makes this man so confident I know nothing? Nothing... nothing...
“Nothing,” Watly finally said.
The Ragman visibly stiffened.
“Nothing at all happened in California.” Watly smiled. “No
t anything. Nothing.”
The Ragman’s face grew pinkish as Watly continued. “It was all rumors. All designed to get the people going here—create hope; set the stage. You all made it up. Sent some people out to the western countries to start the stories. It’s all catshit. Planted seeds.”
“How do you know this?” The Ragman seemed honestly disturbed.
Watly smiled even broader. He was right. Rape on a crosstown copper, he was right. No California. Just rumors. It was all just the idea of revolution. The idea of success.
Watly felt the beginnings of a sting from the blade’s point. “We can help,” he said loudly, the smile gone now.
“They lie, Ragman,” said Tavis. “All lies. And guesses.”
“How can you help?” the Ragman asked. Watly could see his guess had struck home deeply. The Ragman’s hands trembled slightly. Amazing. Simply amazing.
“I’m a doctor.” Alysess’s voice sounded strained. “I can help you.”
From the corner of his eyes, Watly could see her trying to pull away from the hands that held her. She was not successful.
The Ragman smiled slightly. He was composed again. “A doctor. We can always use another doctor.” He paused for a moment and Watly felt Tavis gently trace across the skin of his throat with the blade—just on the surface. “Kill only Caiper. Spare the doctor,” the Ragman said, and with that he sat back down to noisily continue his meal, looking satisfied with himself. His hands were steady now.
“I can help too!” Watly said as the blade broke skin. He squirmed but the hands that held him were too strong.
“What can you do, my child, that we can’t do better with your reward money?” The Ragman took a large mouthful of weeders.
“He... he...” Alysess seemed at a loss.
Watly scrambled for an idea—a lie—anything. A reason to be kept alive. “I know secrets, Subkeeper,” he said.
The Ragman laughed, almost choking on his food.
Tavis joined in with the laughter and used its rhythm to prod gently at Watly’s neck. “He knows no secrets, Ragman.”
“I can make your revolution have no death,” Watly said.
“No death?” the Ragman asked, still laughing, as he poked at his sunbeans with a bird bone.
“No violence—no hurt—no blood. I know the way.”
“Who taught you this ‘way’?” the Ragman asked, chewing on a sunbean he had speared.
Watly squirmed again uselessly. His wounds throbbed. “My mother. My mother taught me—P-pajer Caiper.”
Ragman swallowed the sunbean. “P-pajer? A good woman, she. Much potential. We were just in the process of recruiting her when they poisoned her. A sad case.”
Watly felt his legs go weak. Poisoned? His eyes blurred. Poisoned? His legs gave out entirely. The person restraining him was now supporting him. Rape. Could this be true? Poisoned? No. “Yes,” Watly said. His voice caught. “Yes. But before she died... before they... killed her, poisoned her... she taught me things.” Watly felt drunk suddenly. His mother had been murdered. It made sense. It made a perverse kind of sense. Not the appendix, after all. Poison. She was a troublemaker.
“What things?” Ragman asked. “Taught you what things?”
“Gentle things.” Watly answered, his mother’s face vividly floating before him. “Selfish things. Secrets. Tricks. Ways to revolt without killing.”
The Ragman wiped his beard on a sparkling sleeve and held up his right hand. Tavis froze at this signal. The knife was withdrawn. “You have killed,” the Ragman said solemnly.
Watly went totally limp. “Yes,” he said quietly. “And I was wrong to.”
The Ragman tilted his head and gazed at Watly sideways, his eyes narrow. “Tell me these secrets.”
Watly felt tired all over. All he wanted was to rest. Rest and turn his brain off. His mother had been murdered. Poisoned. Incredible. “Help us and we’ll help you,” he said softly. “That’s the deal.”
The Ragman picked what meat was left on the bird bones and nibbled on them loudly. Some crumbs lodged in his beard. He spoke slowly, still looking for more meat. “Tavis, my sincerest apologies. No evening for you tonight, my child. Perhaps I’ll find you a fade-out tomorrow. Meantime, show these two to a room and get them some food and a bedroll.” He looked up, first to Alysess and then to Watly. “Two bedrolls, my children?”
Watly smiled weakly. “One.”
CHAPTER 36
The room was all red. Red-tiled floor, red-tiled walls, and red-tiled ceiling. A few pinlights hung from one corner and they reflected over and over on the shiny surfaces. Watly almost slipped on the tiles but caught himself and leaned into the wall, wishing his battered cop boots had more traction. Alysess turned at the doorway to face Tavis, who had just led them through the maze of hallways to leave them off at the room.
“Do you have medipaks here?’’ she asked.
“Medipaks, you want.” Tavis glowered. “If it’s not one thing it’s another—food, a room, medipaks, life...”
“I’ll need a medipak equipped for slug wound in the left arm and right side—”
“Left side,” Watly said, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.
“Left side,” she continued, “bad scrapes and lacerations to the knees and shins, shallow knife cuts across the throat... oh...” She thought a moment. “And a bruise to the left side of the jaw. Got that?”
Tavis stuck a swollen-looking tongue out and walked off. “Got-it-got-it-got-it.”
Alysess folded the tiled door shut and squatted down next to Watly. “How do you feel?”
“I’ve been better but I’m okay,” Watly answered. He shook his head groggily. “What was that about a bruise on my jaw? I don’t have a bruise on my jaw.”
That’s when she did it. That’s when Alysess hauled off and socked Watly solidly in the mouth, sending him sliding clear to the other side of the room.
“You do now,” she said, massaging her knuckles.
Watly let himself stay there in the corner without righting himself. Not moving at all. His shoulder was touching one wall and the top of his head another, his face pressed firmly into the cold floor. Aside from the shock of the blow, the pain itself wasn’t too bad, and his position was pretty comfortable. Violence, violence, violence. Well, it could have been worse. Compared to his other wounds, the jaw was nothing. “What the rape was that for?” he asked into the tile.
“That’s for the fact that you ruined my life, is what that’s for!” Watly heard the squeak of her shoes as Alysess stood and began to pace back and forth across the small chamber. “I don’t give a damn if you’ve saved my life X amount of times and I’ve saved yours X amount of times and we’ve been through this and we’ve been through that and survived all sorts of stuff and smiled and nodded and touched hands—the fact is—” The squeaking stopped and Watly turned his head slightly to see her standing directly over him, looking for all the world like she was about to sock him once more. “The fact is that now I’m in this catshit up to my ears. My career is out the window because of this thing of yours, and now they want to kill me as well—all because I tried to help you out of this insane stupid situation you’re in. You’ve buried me right along with you!”
Watly started to speak but realized he had no response.
“Don’t you understand? I have no life left. I can’t go back. I have nothing. And here we are in this underground city—hanging out with the legendary Subkeeper himself—now involved, on top of everything else, with some crazy revolutionary eggless crap that hinges on your ‘magical’ ability to overthrow an enemy without violence. How the rape do you overthrow an enemy without violence?”
“I don’t know,” Watly said weakly.
“You what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, great! That’s even better! Now we’re really home fre
e!”
The door folded open suddenly and Tavis appeared with the bedroll, a medipak, and a tray of food.
“Can I watch?” the painted creature asked sweetly. “Can I watch you having sets?”
Alysess grabbed the tray. “No, you can’t watch and no, we’re not having sex—or ‘sets’ either. Now leave the stuff and get the hell out of here!” she yelled, dropping the tray before Watly. “And bring us another bedroll!”
As she threw the door closed Tavis’s voice came through with: “A servant I’m not!”
Watly sat up, ignoring the food. “I never had any intention—”
“I don’t give a damn what your intentions were—or are. The fact is, unless some kind of miracle happens and you convince the whole damn island that you’re innocent—and me along with you—I’m stuck here.” She turned and began pacing again. It struck Watly that there were no windows or openings at all in the pure red room. Just a door and, in the far corner, a small toilet/sink combination. Alysess walked from one wall to another—four long strides in each direction. “Even if you do prove your side of it—prove it to everyone—I might still be stuck here. Probably would. I helped a priority-one criminal and they know it. Whether you’re innocent or not I’m still through. Over. If I don’t get killed for helping you I can always get killed while being ‘doctor to a revolution.’ What fun.”
“I—” Watly coughed. “There must be a way to—”
“There is no damn way to anything. I never should have gotten involved. I never should have helped. First this person wants to kill me, then that person, then another—and when I finally can stop to catch my breath—think for a minute—I realize my life is over. It’s over.” She leaned forward, picked up a piece of food, and popped it into her mouth.
Levels: The Host Page 29