Levels: The Host (38 page)

The pain was worse than anything. The pain was worse than he’d ever imagined. Agony. Complete agony. Worse than death. Torture. Worse
than life.

His fingernails were lit up
from inside.

“I’m sorry, Watly,” Fenlocki
said again.

Watly stared at his hand. Tears were streaming down his face as the glow climbed up past his wrist. All he could think was,
I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m
raping dying!

“Thank you,” Fenlocki said, his eyes warm. “Thank you for my life. I don’t know your story, Caiper, or the story of why you did the murder, but you are not a bad man. I
see that.”

The bolts were nearing Watly’s elbow. Watly cried out continually in pain. An achy, throbby, fiery pain. Echoing like a funny bone or a kick in the balls but a hundred
times worse.

“You were a
person
, Watly Caiper. You had eggs.” The sergeant held Watly’s shoulders. “I will
remember you.”

Watly felt himself drifting some. A chill ran through him. The pain lessened as shock set in. He was removed from it—removed from his
own screaming.

“I will remember you,” Fenlocki said again. And Watly felt love for
the man.

The pain was up to his shoulder now, growing stronger. But Watly felt it less. He was removed, distanced.
I’m dying now,
he thought.
And it’s not
so bad.

Watly saw tears in Fenlocki’s eyes.
Why are you crying?
he thought.
Why
so sad?

The pain moved in toward Watly’s neck, enveloping him.
Pain can only go so far,
Watly thought, listening to his own screams.
And then you feel it less. This is good. This is how it
should be.

Watly’s body was spasming. Shaking uncontrollably. The sergeant tried to steady him—helping him through it, holding him, guiding. Mothering.

Thump thump.
Thump thump.

The sound of a
human heart.

Watly saw death coming. Coming up fast. And he saw what it was. All that it was. It was no great mystery. It was nothing to fear. It was nothing to look forward to. It was nothing. Death is just the end of life. It is not something you experience. It is simply the end of all experience. A wall you do not
pass beyond.

And that’s
all right.

Watly saw that it was
all right.

Thump thump.
Thump thump.

He felt more and more hollow. More distanced. Sleepy. His screams echoed far away. He felt his body fall back on the bed as if in slow motion. There was a new pain—far away—as the back of his head hit something hard, deep among the pillows. Two
metal plates.

“You
will
be remembered,” the sergeant said, still mothering through the death. And Watly thought,
That’s nice. I
hope so.

The pain was far away now. In a neck and head he used to be closer to. In a body that was more immediate once. A wave of warmth washed over him. Dark warmth. Numbing warmth. Pleasant, comforting, sweet warmth. The end
of pain.

One last thought that flickered through his head before his brain turned off—click, like a light switch—was:
I have not gotten my dream, but I have tried to get my dream. And that is enough. It is not the destination that matters, nor the journey. It is the road itself that matters. The road was
my life.

Thump thump. Thump.
..

And then.
..

Watly
Caiper died.

His dreams, his memories, his hopes, his goals, his humor, his sadness, his lust, his joy.
..
were all no more. There
was nothing.

Watly Caiper was gone.

CHAPTER 46

S
omething
was somewhere.

Something with thoughts and feelings existed, floated. Something with a sense of self flew, traveled.

It wasn’t Watly. Watly
was dead.

But something was somewhere. Flying, drifting. Something soared. Something glided high above everything, feeling the wind. Something banked and turned, reveling in the orange glow of sun. It felt feelings. It thought thoughts.
It existed.

Something
was
somewhere.

An eyelid fluttered. Then nothing. Then
fluttered again.

Two eyes opened slowly, groggily. They saw whiteness. The consciousness within was disoriented. There was a sense of confusion. Where? Who?

And there, nearby, a beautiful dark-skinned woman—clothes torn and face braised and bloody as if she’d been through a battle—
looked on.

“Watly?” she asked the
unfocused eyes.

“Watly is dead,” a soft female
voice responded.

The dark-skinned woman looked shocked, bewildered. Her lips tightened in disbelief. She straightened and inhaled deeply, moving closer. She smelled of powder and sweat. It was a nice smell. “Then who
are you?”

“I am.” The voice faltered, thinking. “I am
Watly Caiper.”

And so
she was.

Trapped in the two creosan wafers was the projection of everything that had been Watly. His dreams, his memories, his hopes, his goals, his humor, his sadness, his lust, his joy.
..
it was
all there.

Watly’s personality locked in Sentiva Alvedine’
s head.

Alysess’s eyes were wet. “Watly is dead?” she asked, still not believing. Tears mixed with blood from the cuts on her cheeks. She must have had quite a fight keeping Sentiva still, keeping her pressed into the
hosting plates.

“Yes,” Watly said. “But it’s okay. It’s okay that way. Dying is not so bad.
Really
.”

Alysess covered her face. Her
shoulders shook.

Watly looked slowly down at her own womanly body. She too—Watly—was bruised and cut, perhaps even worse. But she was strong. She would heal. They would
both heal.

Watly turned slowly to look at herself in the reverse-correcting mirror. She was, in spite of her injuries, beautiful.

I am beautiful,
Watly thought.

It
was interesting.

Alysess was truly crying now, sobbing freely, her head bowed. She was mourning the loss of her lover—of her poovus, perhaps.

Watly reached up to her with thin feminine fingers. They were strong, wiry fingers. Different fingers. “We’d better go, Alysess. We’d better go. Back to the subs. We’ve got a revolution to
attend to.”

Alysess looked up. “Are you
really Watly?”

“I’m.
..
I’m all the Watly there
is now.”

That answer didn’t seem to satisfy Alysess. She squinted. “But.
..
are you
Watly
?” Her eyes were plaintive,
almost begging.

“I guess I am. I’
m Watly.”

Alysess smiled slightly through
the tears.

Watly smiled back—a real Watly Caiper smile. A Brooklyn Little-Watt smile. “Remind me,” she said, holding Alysess’s hands tightly, “to ask you later about your views
on lesbianism.”

Alysess laughed, sweetly, musically.

And so
did Watly.

They rose to leave—slowly and very, very carefully. Watly looked down at her own breasts as she walked—her hips, her waist, her legs. She was shaky, unused to the body. Alysess supported her. They left the building cautiously and headed for the nearest sub entrance. They had to get back. It was time to keep their part of the bargain. Time to help in
the revolution.

And somehow, Watly felt ready now. Ready to lead. Ready to care. Ready to be selfish/good. There were answers forming now, or at least the germs of them: how to fight without fighting, how to revolution without death. They’d been there all along, these answers. It had taken this long to
realize that.

P-pajer would be proud. It wasn’t really a secret. It wasn’t really some special hidden truth. It was easy. You did it by thinking. By feeling. You did it.
..
by
doing
it. That was
the answer.

And maybe there would be more answers in the subs. Answers about Watly’s mother. Answers about Watly herself. Answers from a tall man with a high forehead and a crooked nose and kind eyes. After all.
..
there was hardly such a thing as
family anymore.

Watly had to move gingerly as she and Alysess walked. She was unfamiliar with the body and how it worked. It would take time. But she would be okay, this new Watly Caiper. A part of her—a big part of her—was happy. In spite of the horrors that had just occurred—the trauma and death—and in spite of really being technically more a trapped
projection
than a real person, Watly found something to celebrate. So she was a deceased donor’s projection. So whatever personality she now had came from two flimsy creosan wafers behind her ears. So she was, in fact, an artificial recreation of a dead man’s mind.
So what?

She was with Alysess again. She was ready to work for the revolution now. She was not a fugitive. She was alive. She
was healthy
....

And, perhaps most important of all, Watly Caiper was pregnant.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

P
eter R. Emshwiller (aka “Stoney”) was born of science fiction pedigree. His dad, Ed “EMSH” began his career as an sf illustrator (snagging five Hugo awards), and his mom, Carol, is an acclaimed Nebula-award-winning sf writer with oodles of books to her name. Peter himself worked for a while as a Managing Editor in the field (for
Twilight Zone
and
Night Cry
magazines) but now spends his days writing and performing. Much of his acting work is as a voiceover artist for cartoons, ads, and video games. He’s been told he has a good face for voiceover.

A new edition of the sequel to this book, entitled
Levels: Short Blade
, will be
available soon.

Find Stoney in various interwebby
spots here:

Stoney’s Blog

@StonyEmshwiller

facebook.com/StoneyEmshwiller

linkedin.com/pub/peter-”stoney”-emshwiller/4/785/240