Levels: The Host (4 page)

Second Avenue was more crowded than First had been. Lots of police cruisers passed by loudly, and even a few unmanned coppers. Bicycles clogged the sidewalks. There were many tenters here, and the street was full of workers heading home for the day, as well as bums hitting them all up for money. Watly ignored the beggars this time.
I gave at the office
. The thought made
him smile.

At Second and Fourteenth was one of the seven existing tubes to the Second Level. A few lucky workers came out of it. They were getting off for the day, returning down here to the real world. (Or perhaps what they
left
was the real world. Or maybe neither.) Passersby stopped to gawk at them. They were extremely well dressed by First Level standards. The men had crisp, clean-looking black jumpsuits with yellow workervests and the women wore the same with buzbelts and higher boots. Everyone looked on enviously. The Firsters with their tattered, dirty clothing, unkempt hair, gaunt faces, and generally slumped shoulders stared at the special ones but kept a polite distance. These descending ones were the chosen few. Next best thing to Level Lottery winners, they lived below, yes, but they worked above. Every terradamn day they were up in the sun. Watly smiled to himself. He’d be perfectly happy staying on First Level all his life as long as he could get his dream. Make that his “calling.” Watly’s smile broadened. That was all he wanted. A baby. A little life to help along. This was the only important thing, the only thing worth caring about. Mothering.

He was a few blocks from Uncle Narcolo’s place. He wondered if he should use his advance money to pick up some expensive tidbit for dinner. A surprise. Bird meat, even. No, Narcolo Caiper would already have a complete meal waiting. The man loved to cook. He could do culinary wonders on minimal retirement pay, plus whatever he had socked away
in savers.

Instead, Watly settled on picking up a good bottle of booze for forty bucks. As an afterthought, he returned to the store and bought another one. This was a night
to celebrate.

He tucked one bottle under each arm and strolled on, thinking of children. A police cruiser zipped by, cutting close to him, and Watly had to jump back to avoid its fender. He lost his grip on one of the bottles and it fell. Some passing woman dove and grabbed it just before it hit the street. Great reflexes. She handed it back to him smiling, her eyes dark and shiny beneath the hood of her threadbare cloak. Watly smiled back. “Thanks,” he said. She raised a fist in the air at him, as if in a secret signal
or salute.

“California,” she whispered, and
walked off.

CHAPTER 3

L
ittle Uncle Narcolo was bustling about in the kitchen, chopping things into pieces and tossing them in pots on the stove. His wrinkled features were tight
with concentration.

“Oh, good, Watly. Oh, good. Perfect timing. Just perfect. Couldn’t’ve asked for better. Things’ll be ready in just—almost perfect timing, Watly. A few more minutes and we’ll sit down to a—be ready in a few minutes, Watly. You have a seat and put your
feet up.”

Watly smiled. Uncle Narcolo had tidied the one-room apartment since Watly had left early that morning. The six worn cushions were neatly lined up on the couch with careful symmetry. All the leafs and books were back on the shelves or stacked carefully in the coffee table. The music tubes were in their holders. All the clothes had been picked up and put away someplace—probably folded. The old cable-vidsatt and the keyboard looked freshly dusted. Narcolo Caiper was always keeping himself busy. Even when he didn’t have something to do, he’d find something to do. There was a certain charm to the old guy’s frenetic, obsessive cleanliness. The only place in the apartment that didn’t look freshly swabbed was the kitchen area—and that was currently in use. It too would be spotless eventually. In the living area, the faded chromells depicting glamorous Second Level Life were bright with polish. Even the windows looked like they’d been wiped down—which was silly because they were sealed up from the outside. Narcolo had a front apartment near street level (down four short steps), and so it was safer to seal the windows with placene sheeting than leave them exposed. Watly had commented on it when first arriving and Narcolo had snapped at him for
being naive.

“Besides,” the old man had said, “you tell me what I’ve got to look at out there. Someday, when I win the Level Lottery and I’m living in luxury on Second Level,
then
I’ll have windows. Windows are for
nothing
here, kiddo.” That was the end of
that conversation.

Watly set the two bottles on the coffee table and sank comfortably into the couch. He watched Uncle Narcolo dance around the kitchen, adding dashes of this and touches of that. He really liked the old man. The guy was a fuck. If it weren’t for him, Watly never would have made it into Manhattan. Nowadays you not only needed a clean identicard, travel pass, and visa to get into Manhattan, you also needed a recommendation from a current resident and proof of some kind of legitimate housing waiting. Narcolo had vouched for Watly and promised to supply lodging for him. Watly still couldn’t thank him enough. It was amazing how the old man had helped out to such an extreme. Watly barely remembered meeting him more than a few times as
a kid.

“Say hello to your Uncle Narcolo, Watly,” and, “Say goodbye to your Uncle Narcolo, Watly.” They hadn’t been in contact since. Yet here this old guy takes in a nephew he hardly knows, feeds him, shelters him, and gives up his solitude. Of course, Watly suspected the guy had been more than a little lonely all by himself. It was pretty obvious Uncle Narcolo enjoyed the company. On Watly’s arrival, the old man had hugged him tightly and his eyes had watered some. “Ain’t hardly such thing as family anymore, Watly Caiper,” he’d
said quietly.

But, whatever the reason, Watly still felt he owed Uncle Narcolo Caiper a lot for his help. As soon as the money started coming in, some of it was going to the
old man.

“It’s a stew I’m making, Watly.” Narcolo carefully stirred as he spoke. “And we’ve got a hardloaf and some sunbeans and stuff. Be ready in just a—be done soon here. What’ya got on the coffee table, Watly? Bottles?” The old man strained to see. Narcolo had neither the money nor the patience to keep his eye care up to date. His sight was probably a good deal worse than he let on, and he tended to squint at anything more than a few
yards away.

Watly raised the two bottles and held them out over his head in a rough imitation of a police
victory salute.

“Booze, Uncle Narcolo. I
bear booze.”

The old man’s stirring hand faltered. “Booze?”

“Not just any booze.
..
expensive
booze. Forty New York dollars
a bottle!”

“Where’d you get— How did you get that kinda.
..
” Narcolo stared at Watly. His right hand continued stirring as if it had a mind of its own. To Watly’s surprise, the old guy looked suddenly sad. Maybe even disappointed. The strong creases in Narcolo’s wrinkled face all sagged downward, pointing toward the placene floor tiles. “You went to Alvedine today?”
he asked.

Watly let his mouth spread into the smile he’d felt coming a long while—the smile he’d held inside ever since he got the job. He’d spent all day smiling, but not like this. This was not a polite, subservient grimace of a smile. This was a
real
smile. It stretched out his lips and pushed his cheeks up into his eyes. It was a smile that came
from inside.

Narcolo stopped stirring altogether. “You mean.
..
you mean you’re
in
, kiddo? You’re a
host now?”

“Damn right,” Watly said, still grinning, waiting for his uncle to jump up and down, to race around the counter, to grab Watly and spin him in a dramatic circle punctuated by bear hugs. He waited for the love, the admiration, the pride, maybe even a touch of good-natured jealousy. He waited for that friendly old face with the wide mouth and the broad nose to break into a glorious smile that folded all those character lines around the thin edges and gathered them into deep folds of amazement on the sloping forehead. He got none of this. The old guy just stood there, frowning.

“Yes,” Narcolo said quietly. “Yes,
I see.”

“I
did
it, Uncle,” Watly said, jumping up. “I terradamn
did
it. You know the odds? You know the raping odds? I’m a host! I’m on
my way!”

Narcolo turned down to look into the stew. “No surprise to me, kiddo.
No surprise.”

“No surprise?
Nobody
gets to be a host. I don’t even know how
I
did it.” Watly ripped off one of the bottle caps and grinned widely again, hoping this excitement would be contagious. “One minute it looks like it’s all over and the next thing I know, I’m
in
. I did a song and dance and thought I could weasel my way in, but it turns out that had nothing to do
with it.”

Narcolo finally put the spoon down on the counter next to the stove. He looked up, made a little questioning expression with his eyebrows, then exhaled slowly and went back to his somber frowning. “I always knew you’d get in, kiddo. No question. You’re
host material.”

“Maybe they just liked my style,” Watly continued. “But it almost seemed, looking back, like they wanted me all along. Wanted me specifically. I got a funny feeling they just wanted it to
seem
like they were giving me a hard time. Nothing I could put my
finger on.”

Narcolo walked slowly around the counter toward the living area. Under the worn checkered shirt, his bony shoulders were slumped and defeated-looking. It was more than your standard First Level slump. “Of course they liked your style, Watly. You’ve got something special, kiddo. They must’ve seen it in you.” He stepped up near Watly and looked at the expensive bottles. “What’re.
..
what’re they paying
these days?”

“Ten thousand New York dollars a hosting,” Watly said, passing by his uncle to the kitchen. This was not what he wanted. Not what he
needed
from his uncle. Right now, he needed that charming boyish giddiness he’d seen so often the past month. He needed his uncle to express the excitement and joy that Watly himself so often had trouble expressing. Maybe a drink
would help.

Narcolo whistled breathily. “Those are big bucks. Big
bucks indeed.”

Watly rummaged in the pristine kitchen cabinets until he came up with two cloudy glasses. He crossed back to the coffee table with them and splashed a healthy dollop of booze into
each one.

“What’s the deal, huh, Uncle?” Watly asked, passing one full glass to a withered right hand. “This is what I came here for. This is good news. I’m on the way to getting my dream now. I’m doing the impossible. Hey”—Watly touched Narcolo’s shoulder—”what the sub’s the deal here? You look like
somebody died.”

Narcolo tossed some of the liquid to the back of his throat and swallowed hard. He sat down—almost fell down—on the worn pillows of the couch. “I just thought we might have more time
like this.”

Watly took a sip of the strong booze himself. It burned roughly on its way down the pipes. “
More time?”

“I didn’t think it would happen so fast—the hosting.” Narcolo gulped down the rest of the glass and coughed away a booze bubble. “You’ve only been here a month, kiddo.”

Watly smiled. “I’m not going anywhere, Uncle.” He saw fear in Narcolo’s eyes. Fear for Watly’s safety, or maybe just fear of being alone again. Or maybe a little
of both.

“We’ve been having an okay time, haven’t we, kiddo?” Narcolo asked, reaching forward and pouring himself another brimful glass of booze. “Downright fuckable time, huh? You and me? Roommates. Send me to the Subkeeper if I’m lying.” He leaned back limply into the cushions and took a sip from the glass. Some of it missed and ran down the side of his chin. A smooth, pink tongue peeked out and lapped up the dribble. “We shop, we walk, watch CV, eat good food.” The gray-blue eyes focused directly on Watly now. “Just didn’t think everything would move so fast, kiddo. So
damn fast.”

“This doesn’t change anything, Uncle,” Watly said. “I’ll still be staying here. I’ll just be working as a host now—finally earning my keep. This is still my home here, Narcolo. I’ll stay as long as you can
stand me.”

Narcolo looked around the room angrily. “Some home this is. Some
raping home.”

Watly thought for a second and then spoke again, softly. “I won’t leave you, Narcolo.”

Narcolo gulped down still more booze. He seemed to be drifting away someplace. “Family used to mean something once,” he said. “Long 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
.”