Read Levels: The Host for Free Online Page B

time ago, kiddo, family meant something. Before Cedetime. Loyalty and love and stuff like that. People stuck together. Family. Relatives. The country fell apart and the family fell apart. It’s the same thing. Nobody wants to be a part of anything—anything big, kiddo. Everyone’s out for themselves now. Everything’s all split off. Family don’t mean shit.”
    Watly sipped a little more and enjoyed the warm burn this time. “Does to me,” he said. “I’m staying. Uncle.”
    “Well, you’re full of catshit. It shouldn’t. Stick up for yourself, kiddo. Go ahead. You’re the only one that counts—in the end. You die alone.” There was raw, naked fear in the old guy’s eyes now.
    Watly smiled gently. “I’m not planning on dying for a while.”
    “What do you know about it?” Narcolo snapped. “You’re a raping host. A host .”
    “I know,” Watly said. “I’ll be careful.”
    “You’re gonna hafta be more than careful, Watly. This is dangerous work, kiddo. This is no game you’re into. You’ll need luck. A lot of luck.”
    Watly noticed how with each sip the booze tasted milder. “So far I haven’t done bad, old man,” he said with a wink.
    “I’m not kidding, Watly.” Narcolo’s expression was hard now. “People get hurt bad. I’ve seen it. I worked at Alvedine, remember? I was in records. I know what goes on. And the second you get hurt bad, Watly, you’re out. Out on your bolehole. Any real pain and you can’t host, you know that.” He poured himself more and stared at the bottle’s label. “Worst part of it is, it’s out of your hands. You’ve got no control. You’d damn well better hope you’re lucky. You’d better have nice donors, Watly. Perfect donors. One lousy donor and you’re dead, kiddo. It ain’t just fade-out hosts that die. It happens all the time. You’d better hope your donor ain’t no pain-freak.”
    Watly was silent a moment. He watched as Narcolo began to peel the bottle’s label. “I’ll be all right,” he said, not at all sure.
    “You know why they pay so much, Watly?” Narcolo’s voice was acid. Angry and bitter. There was something animal about it. Something cruel. “You know why they give out such a fortune? To subsidize Future Mothers of Manhattan? Not on your life. They pay so terradamn much for hosting because no one in their right mind would do it if they didn’t.” The old man released a loud belch and waved it off.
    “I’m not sure I want to hear all this now, Uncle. Tonight’s for celebration.” Watly reached for the bottle but Narcolo’s hand lashed out with surprising speed and grabbed Watly’s wrist. The old guy was still strong and his grip hurt.
    “You’re not listening to me, Watly Caiper. This is serious stuff here. Hear what I’m sayin’. You haven’t been listening.” Narcolo’s eyes were piercing and made Watly want to hide. There was amazing strength to his hold. “When do you start?” Narcolo asked coldly.
    “Tomorrow.”
    “Tomorrow when?” His nails were digging into Watly’ s wrist.
    “Morning. Tomorrow morning.”
    Narcolo threw Watly’s hand back at him like it had been a ball he was holding. “You drink more of that and you go in there with a hangover and you’re out . You understand? Out !”
    Watly looked down at the red marks around his wrist. They looked like four little new moons. “Okay, Uncle—take it easy,” he said.
    The frightened look came back to Narcolo’s eyes. His voice softened. “No donor wants to vacation in a painful body, Watly. You got to be careful. And you’d better hope your donors don’t mess you up so you can’t do it again. And that’s the other thing: Things are strange out on the streets lately. I feel it. Something’s up. It’s dangerous out there. Even if you’re not hosting. But that’s not even the point. Hosting’s the dangerous thing. Hosting itself .”
    Watly tried to make his voice calm and soothing like he remembered his mother’s voice.