Levels: The Host (10 page)

“No, Watly.” The old man sounded sad now. He looked like he’d lost all hope for Watly. “No, the worst thing that could happen is you die. Or worse
than die.”

Watly didn’t have a reply for that. He gazed up at the CV and wished to the subs he’d turned it on long ago. It glistened dully under the single light. Narcolo was staring at him. He looked like he was trying to see clear through Watly’s skin to
his insides.

“You’re going to do it again, aren’t you Watly?” Uncle Narcolo said with resignation. “And there’s nothing I can say to stop you. Isn’t that right?” Narcolo coughed and waited for an answer that didn’t come. “Well, you can’t blame me. Can’t say I didn’t try to stop you,”
he mumbled.

Watly pretended not to hear him. He said nothing. The old man crossed to the armrest and leaned against it. “When’s the next hosting, Watly?”
he asked.

“Tomorrow night,” Watly said curtly, feely edgy and cranky and too tired for all
this catshit.

“Night?”

“Seven
p.m
.
Tomorrow night.”

There was again a flash of that fear and worry on Narcolo’s face that was quickly becoming a major annoyance. The old guy seemed about to say something, but he stopped himself. After a pause, he spoke. “They do it at
night
now, Watly?”

“Apparently.”
Go away, old man. I’m too tired to talk anymore,
Watly thought
to himself.

“They didn’t do that when I worked there. I never heard of it. I don’t like the sound of it, Watly—”

“I don’t care
what
you like, Narcolo!”

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. The only sound was a slight clicking as the stove expanded from its own heat. Watly wanted to apologize for snapping but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He glanced at Narcolo.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry,
he thought. Uncle was just being uncle. Just being family. Caring,
and all.

The old guy was dry-eyed now. He was staring blankly in the direction of the kitchen area. Finally, Narcolo wet his lips and spoke. “I’ve burned the dinner once again,” he
said quietly.

Watly didn’t move. “Uh-huh,”
he said.

Both of them stayed where they were. “Ah, well,” said Narcolo. “Probably would’ve been a
bust anyhow.”

Watly gave his uncle a thin smile. He wasn’t hungry anyway. All he wanted was sleep. All he wanted was to relax. It had been one mighty long day. And tomorrow probably would be, too.
Ah, well,
he thought,
another day—another ten
thousand dollars.

To himself, he secretly hoped this hosting business got easier as it went along. To himself, he was not looking forward to doing it again. To himself, he was scared. Nighttime hosting did not sound all that pleasant. He was nervous about it. Real hinky. It didn’t feel right—though he wasn’t sure why. Night was, of course, a dangerous time to be out—but that wasn’t all.
He’d
never heard of it either. Watly was worried. Real worried. Perhaps it was just fatigue. Perhaps it was just nerves again. Perhaps it was the fact that his first hosting hadn’t exactly been the most comfortable experience. Or, perhaps it was the feeling deep in Watly’s abdomen. Perhaps, it was that silly, stupid, ticklish tingle in his gut that seemed to say tomorrow night might be the last time Watly Caiper would
ever host.

Watly lifted his bruised body and went into the kitchen. Once again he would try to help Narcolo Caiper
salvage dinner.

CHAPTER 10

W
atly slept very late. There were nightmares, but he couldn’t remember them. Something to do with flying. When he finally got up it was more like lunchtime than breakfast and, true to form, Uncle Narcolo was fixing up a meal for them both. It smelled fabulous, spicy and rich. Perhaps this food would make it to the
table unburned.

Watly went to the bathroom and washed up in the basin. He was still tired and stiff. The water felt good. He moved slowly, luxuriating in the soaking sensation. He splashed the water liberally over his face and let it run down until it dribbled off his elbows. When he was done, he left the tiny bathroom and flicked on the CV. He was not an avid watcher of the cable-vidsatt, but on a day like today it was a good way to kill time. It also helped avoid conversation—and avoid thinking about how he’d be hosting again in a mere six or
seven hours.

Narcolo’s ancient CV system was in real bad shape. It hummed loudly for a full minute as the receiving mist filled the room, and when the image finally appeared it was blurry and lopsided, hovering somewhere near the couch’s left armrest. Watly tried another format. Now the image was cleaner but more tilted and closer to the windows. It was livable. He cleared the board and started on the first pleat. Pure static. He went on. The next three pleats were all the same: a special all-day pornathon. Watly went swiftly past pleat five out of embarrassment—it was interactive and he wasn’t dressed yet. The next few were comedy and music hall. Then more static. Then old movies in pre-dee format. Then serious sex. Finally he hit on an all-news pleat. He dropped the arm in place to lock it in and
sat down.

...
early today, which our handsome Chancellor called “heinous.” It’s the third “heinous” this week. The Chancellor likes the word and will probably use it again. It is suspected he may use it while negotiating new trade agreements with the neighboring countries of Jersey, Longeye, Pennyork, and the Noreast Commonwealth.

There is word of continued fighting in the Outerworld. A number of people killed, a number of people not, and a number wounded.

In the local front: Corber Alvedine, president and founder of the world famous Alvedine Industries—the company that brings joy on so many levels—announced today his plans to run for office. “I plan to run for office,” he said.

And now, the News Song-Singing Segment:

News, news, news, news.

We’re newspeople.

We’re newspeople.

Paving a shining way.

We’re newspeople.

We’re newspeople.

Greeting a brand-new day.

Sing a song of information.

Sing it loud and clear.

Bursting with communication.

Every day this year.

News, news, news, news.
..

And now the local sex news:

The new ratings are in, and experts say low-tech sex is on the upswing. In the forefront.
..

Watly turned and saw that Narcolo had silently laid out brunch for him on the coffee table. The old man was eating alone in the kitchen area, facing the wall and humming to himself as he chewed. There was some adorable sulking going on there. Watly smiled inwardly. He wanted to break the tension between them—to say something—but thought better of it.
Let things cool down a bit more, Caiper. You need
a rest.

The food smelled and looked delicious. It wasn’t burned this time. Somewhere in the aroma Watly smelled sunbean, but it was heavily disguised. Narcolo had coated the dish with a high-gloss gel for looks and garnished it with tiny sprigs of some green vegetable. It tasted wonderful from the first bite. Best meal in days. It felt good to fuel the system. Watly could sense his strength coming back with every swallow. His body had been through an ordeal and the long sleep, cool water, and good food helped ease aches and pains. Of course, his mind too had been through an ordeal. But aside from feeling slightly fuzzy around the edges, he was calm and alert. The body was the
important thing.

Watly took inventory. He was definitely up for tonight’s hosting. Aside from a few cuts and scrapes—and the big, painful bruise on his leg where he’d been kicked—he was in decent shape. Probably the most discomfort came from the sore muscles. That first donor had held Watly’s body so very differently that every joint now ached slightly. But it wasn’t bad. He’d made it through his initiation hosting in one piece. One bruised, traumatized piece, maybe, but a
piece nonetheless.

He watched more CV, jumping the pleats whenever he got bored. The hours passed quickly. Watly said nothing to Narcolo and Narcolo said nothing to Watly—at least nothing directly. There was a lot of mumbling coming from the old guy as he cleaned up the apartment all around Watly. An occasional “Well, don’t blame me” could be
heard clearly.

Watly finally got ready a short while before his hosting time. The pocket-jacket was still slightly damp, but the veneer pants were completely dry. He’d come to think of them as his hosting clothes. Narcolo had washed the oil and dirt out of both the night before. Scrub, scrub. They were hung on a makeshift wire clothesline in the bathroom. Watly took them down and put them on, butterflies filling his stomach rapidly again. A generalized feeling of hinkiness that he’d been able to control all day suddenly wasn’t as easy to repress. The CV probably hadn’t helped. He’d had too much of it for one day. Too much news songs, music hall, and porn. And the whole apartment was cloudy with stale CV mist. His mother, of course, would have disapproved. He’d watched for way too long by her standards. “Cable-vidsatts are chains,” P-pajer Caiper would say. “They control the people. They poison their dreams.” She had not been a fan. But Watly had wanted some mindless entertainment today. He’d thought he’d needed it. But maybe he’d
overdone it.

Watly found his shoes near the bathroom door. Narcolo had apparently cleaned them as well. He must have quietly taken a brush to them in the early morning before starting to make Watly’s brunch. Scrub, scrub.
Good old Uncle. Why did I have to snap at him
so much?

Narcolo Caiper was sitting reading a leaf in the corner chair. Watly walked over to him and gripped
his shoulder.

“I’m going now, Uncle,” he said. Narcolo glanced up. He looked pained and nodded solemnly. Watly smiled. “Help yourself to the money, okay, fella? Most of it should be
yours anyway.”

Narcolo made a sour face. “Peh!” he said. Watly turned to the door but the old man’s voice stopped him. “You be damn careful, Watly Caiper.
Damn
careful. Hear me, kiddo?”

“I will, my friend. And.
..
I’m sorry
about the—”

“Just be
raping careful!”

Watly closed the door quietly behind him, smiling.

It was a little early to be leaving, but Watly felt like walking. He was also eager to see Dr. Tollnismer again. When he’d returned last evening from his first hosting, she had still been there, looking as radiant as before. Watly himself had been a bit worse for the wear after his Sexsentral experience. They’d
spoken briefly.

“Here’s your cuff back,” Watly had said as he dropped the heavy thing on one of the
white counters.

She looked at him with surprise and then honest concern. “You look a bit of a mess, Watly Caiper. Are
you okay?”

“I’
m dandy.”

“You’re tired, huh?”

“I’m more
than tired.”

“But you’re not hurt?” She
looked worried.

“No, not really. I’m a little sore here and there, but nothing too much. I’m still in good shape.” He winked broadly. “And I’m still
devilishly handsome.”

“You’re also in the wrong room,” she said with a smile. Those incredible teeth again. Her eyes—sensitive and intelligent, shiny.

“
Wrong room?”

She nodded. “You’re supposed to return the cuff to the cashier downstairs and then pick up your new assignment at the
front desk.”

“
No kidding?”

“No kidding.” The doctor turned her head to one side and squinted. “But you knew that, didn’
t you?”

“Who,
me
?”

“You just brought your ‘devilishly handsome’ face up here to see me, didn’
t you?”

“Now that you
mention it.
..
”

“You go right back downstairs, Watly Caiper, before you get us both in trouble. And don’t forget the cuff.” She herded him toward
the doorway.

He walked backward reluctantly. “When will I see you again?”
he asked.

She picked up the cuff and plopped it into Watly’s outstretched hand. “You’ll see me again when you host again, Mr. Caiper.” There was a shy pause before she went on. “Soon—I hope.” She gave him her most brilliant
smile yet.

Watly stopped at the door. “I’m either suffering from total exhaustion.
..
or I’m
in love.”

“Get out of here, Caiper.” She gave him a playful shove. “Oh, and Caiper.
..
it’
s Alysess.”

“Huh?”

“Alysess Tollnismer, M.D.”

“Glad to know you.” Watly had tried to shake her hand but she’d already closed the door
on him.

And now, as he headed uptown toward Alvedine for his second hosting, he could hardly wait to see her again. Alysess. As each moment passed he seemed to feel stronger about the woman. He hardly knew her at all but she had somehow become important to him. Very important. Thump-thump heart important. Maybe it was just sex. Just lust. Just those hidden brown breasts he wondered about. Or maybe there was something else. Her vibrancy. Her life. Her.
..
name? Alysess. Pretty name for a pretty woman.
Poovus material.

There was barely any dripping at all so Watly kept his hat off. He felt good. Aside from an ache or two he was fine. This was going to work out. Things would go his way. The air around him seemed fresher and he was getting almost giddy over the idea of seeing Alysess. Perhaps they could talk awhile before the hosting started. The
night hosting.

It was the time of day when most people were going home from work rather than to it. The streets were bustling with activity. Half-filled lowtrucks were being pulled by swiftly, their pullers practically jogging. Bums were accosting all who looked like they had a buck. Watly had taken a little of his money with him and handed a few New York dollars out when the fancy
struck him.

The daylites went to half with an abrupt click. Everyone paused for a second to let their eyes adjust and then continued on. It was a pleasant evening. Some of the tenters were cooking meals on the sidewalk with heat-em-ups. Hardly anyone wore a hat. Bicyclists rolled by lazily. Watly allowed himself the luxury of wondering what the weather was like. What the weather was
really
like. He imagined it warm and with a gentle breeze. The sun would be just touching the horizon and everything would be golden. For a moment Watly wanted to run away. He wanted to forget his silly dreams. He wanted to sprint to the Hosting Building, grab Alysess by the wrist, and run off with her. They’d keep on running and running until they saw the sky. The real sky. Then they’d stop and make love under it. And when they were done they’d make love again. And on and on. And then they’d talk. They’d hold each other lazily and talk. Get to know each other. Each other’s dreams. As the wind blew and the night grew cool, they’d go to a place where no one had ever heard of Alvedine, or hosting, or money, or Second Level, or being a doctor, or being a mother
....
Being
a mother.

That was
the thing.

That was
the thing.

Ah, well, sometimes it was nice to dream a different dream, even for
a moment.

Watly picked up his pace and bounced along on the balls of his feet. Hosting wasn’t all
that bad.

It all depended on
the donor.

At Alvedine Industries Watly was surprised to find the front doors locked. For a second he thought maybe he’d made a mistake. He searched the pocket-jacket for his assignment slip. It had, unfortunately, gotten washed along with the jacket. Watly found it in a soggy ball in one of the bottom pockets. It was still legible and Watly spread it out against
his knee.

Assignment Slip

confidential to watly caiper

from Alvedine Industries

Next Hosting Assignment:

tomorrow, seven p.m.

(evening)

Report Alvedine Hosting Building

There it was. No mistake about it. Watly turned and tried the doors again. They were all locked. He peered through the glass. The reception area and cashier’s station were dark. So were the front hallways. Everything looked closed up for the night. Maybe his assignment had been a typo. Maybe it was supposed to be
a.m.
But then, it actually had the word
evening
written in. Funny.
Night hosting.

Watly walked back down the steps and looked at the building. Maybe for night hosting they had you enter through the cuff-return door. The cuff-return entrance was open twenty-
four hours.

Watly rounded the corner and saw the lighted floater indicating
cuff
return here
. What the rape—it was worth a shot. He pushed through
the door.

“
Watly Caiper?”

There was a tall blond-haired man standing just inside the entrance. He wore the standard all-white doctor’s uniform and held a monitor. He was very pale—almost sick-looking.