Levels: The Host (5 page)

Watly tried to make his voice calm and soothing like he remembered his mother’s voice. “I’m only going to host long enough to buy antiprophies and pay a female to carry the baby and all. That’s it, Uncle. Then
I quit.”

“That’s all it takes, Watly. It only takes one bad donor. Just one.” Narcolo poured himself another glass and left Watly’
s dry.

His hand trembled slightly. He now looked small and weak—a little old man on the verge of death. This was not the real Narcolo. Not the energetic boy of a man Watly was used to seeing. Watly
turned away.

“Have you thought about why there’s a call for hosting, Watly Caiper?” Uncle Narcolo’s voice sounded as weak and feeble as his body now looked. Watly wished he could cover his ears to shut that off too. “Have you ever considered it? I’ll tell you why. It’s because all those fat, rich Second Level donors want some excitement. They want a thrill. They want the sense of danger and adventure without any risk. If you’re really lucky, Watly.
..
” Narcolo gulped down some more booze and put his hand on Watly’s shoulder. The old voice was weaker still. Watly pictured flimsy vocal cords shredding and ripping under the wrinkled neck skin. He cringed. “
...
If you’re really lucky, all your donors will find the mere idea of being on First Level with us scum for a few hours excitement enough. Or maybe screwing a few lowlifes and walking around Sexsentral. That’s if you’
re lucky.”

Uncle Narcolo tried to turn Watly to face him but Watly wouldn’t move. The old hands were easily resisted now. “If you’re unlucky they’ll want to see what it’s like to do something else. Something dangerous. Why do you think fade-out hosts are so popular, kiddo? Why do you think? The crazies up there want to experience death without dying. They say it’s the ultimate high. Best vacation you can have. Well, regular hosts die too, Watly. They do. They also get hurt
bad sometimes.”

Watly turned to face Narcolo. The weathered old features looked more frightened than ever. The eyes were sad and liquid. Watly tried again to calm him. “Uncle, they have laws
and rules—”

“Oh, sure, they’ve got rules out the bolehole,” Narcolo interrupted, “and they’ll slap a fine or penalty on the donor who breaks one. They even imprison some, in theory at least. But none of this means the rules aren’t broken. And it doesn’t mean you won’t get hurt. It ain’t hard to make accidents happen. Not on First Level. Not hard at all.” He reached over and took a swig directly from the bottle. “Not at all.” The old guy’s voice trailed off some. “It’s easy to find hurt out there nowadays. There’s a lot of hurt about
....
” The words faded to nothing, lips still
moving slightly.

Watly didn’t feel much like celebrating anymore, but damned if he wasn’t having another drink. He slowly and deliberately poured himself a short one. Narcolo kept his peace now. His eyes looked glazed over and seemed fixed on some middle distance between the colorful Second Level chromells and the coffee table. Watly wished to the subs that he had an apartment all to himself. A tent, even. A pothole. This wasn’t exactly how he’d planned it. Why had the evening gone so sour? Where was the party? The congratulations? He took a small sip and felt the renewed burn.
Two drinks does not a hangover make,
Watly thought. It tasted good and the slight beginning of a buzz was more than welcome. Narcolo continued staring into space. He seemed convinced of Watly’s doom, convinced he would be alone again soon.
Why is everyone so sure I’ll mess this up?
Watly took another tiny sip and tried to think of something comforting to say as the booze slithered
warmly downward.

“I’ve heard,” Watly started quietly, “that it’s usually just sexual stuff. Experiments the donor wouldn’t have the guts to do himself. Things that would ruin a reputation up on Second. Fantasies lived out, and all. You know how they are on Second
about appearances—”

Narcolo blew out air between his lips and made a dismissive
peh
sound. “Fantasies, all right,” he mumbled. The old man’s nose twitched and he started sniffing in short breaths like an asthmatic cat. “You smell something? Something burning?” He leaned forward and his eyes widened. “Oh, no! Damn damn
damn
! Dinner! I’ve ruined the terradamn dinner!” He rushed to the kitchen area and peered into the pots on the stove. “Oh, damn. I can’t believe it. I ruined it. It’s all
raped now.”

Watly stood and walked forward to look at the charred mess in the pots. “It’s no problem, Uncle. We’ll just have something else,”
he said.

Narcolo’s eyes blazed insanely. He hurled one of the pots across the room and it clattered loudly against the wall before dropping. Watly stepped back. Shit, his uncle was
really overreacting.

“I ruined it! I ruined it!” Narcolo yelled. The tendons of his neck stood out tautly. “I ruined the damn dinner!” Suddenly the old man was crying, weeping like a baby. He covered his face and his shoulders shook. Each sob was as piercing as a shout. They came out fast and powerful:
“Igh! Igh! Igh!”

Watly put his arm around his uncle and gently led him back to the couch. Narcolo Caiper turned his body toward the back of the couch and buried his face in one of the tattered pillows. He was curling into an almost fetal position, still crying loudly.
The booze and the excitement are all too much for him,
Watly thought.
And he’s worried sick
about me.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Watly.” The old man choked the words out between sobs. Watly got a blanket and covered Narcolo carefully, tucking it around his thin shoulders and spreading it down over his shoes—scuffed-up old office shoes with holes in the toes. The fetus was rocking slightly now. Rocking himself. Watly loved this old man. He loved him a lot. He loved him even though he’d ruined the celebration. He loved him
because
he’d ruined
the celebration.

The sobbing continued awhile before it changed to snoring. The transition was hardly discernible. Noisy sadness into noisy sleep. Watly watched the old guy awhile and then raised his still half
full glass.

“Cheers,” he said softly
to himself.

CHAPTER 4

P
eople disappeared. Out on the Manhattan streets, it became almost common. Like
the Skyfinders.

A small group of friends—seven or eight folks, ten at the most—would gather every Tuesday night. (This started just before Watly Caiper moved to Manhattan.) They’d gather and they’d talk. They called themselves the Skyfinders. Just for the sub of it. It sounded good. Couple of roofers, a few tenters and some apartment people, meeting on a Tuesday for a chat. No big deal. Their talk wasn’t all that special. Nothing serious, nothing earth-shaking. They exchanged gossip, recipes, even a few ideas. Silly stuff, mostly. “Wouldn’t it be nice.
..
” kind of stuff. “In a perfect world.
..
” sort of talk. “If I had my way.
..
” prattle. Fantasies and silliness. And California conversation. There was a lot of that: California conversation. The usual stuff. Speculation, wild guesses. This, that, and the other thing about that far-off land. The Republic
of California.

And then one day—the very same day Watly Caiper was busy interviewing for the job of host—the Skyfinders disappeared. Nobody knew what happened. One day they were there, the next day they weren’t. All gone. One woman left for her job at a sunbean deli and never arrived. One man went to the store for a bottle of cheap booze and never came back. One just never showed up for a regular breakfast date at a café. They
all vanished.

Friends and relatives had no clues to go on. None. Except maybe the most obvious clue of all: what these missing ones had done. They had called themselves the Skyfinders and had met every Tuesday night. That was the clue: They
had organized.

If you could have asked them—these friends and relatives of the Skyfinders—If you could have asked them one by one, late at night in their small apartments with the shades drawn, leaning close over one floating pinlight and sipping low-grade booze, they might have told you what they thought. They might have confided their
true
guesses: that the Skyfinders were eliminated. Killed and quietly melted down while no one saw. They had
organized
. That was a threat to those in power. That
was dangerous.

People had been disappearing all over, all around, for years. It was usually the vocal ones, the ones who dared to raise their voices above a whisper. Recently, it was the ones who wondered a bit louder than the rest
about California.

Watly knew little of this. The disappearances weren’t publicized and he had no personal contact with those types. He’d heard a few rumors, but he’d ignored them. If he’d heard more, it wouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t his problem. He had his own concerns. Send them all to the Subkeeper. This political stuff was of no interest to him. Leave that for people more like his mother had been. He was too busy. He had his
hands full.

He was hosting for
the motherhood.

CHAPTER 5

T
he room was white and sterile-looking. One corner was full of equipment. A large hanging metal bundle that looked like a prehistoric monster or some medieval dragon was the most prominent piece. Cables dangled from it in a tangle of poisoned tendrils. Everything was brightly lit and very
well polished.

Watly Caiper felt out of place. He felt his own pitifully human body was grotesquely organic compared to his surroundings. He was.
..
too
living
. He was lumpy and soft and unevenly colored and hairy and lined. He was porous and weak and dirty and constantly changing. He was not pure—not solid
and shiny.

If I were made of steel or plasticore or even placene, if I were hard and full of angles,
he thought to himself,
I’d feel much more comfortable here.
This is not a place for people. Not a place
for imperfection.

Watly sat in the center of the room in an adjustable reclining chair with cushioned head and neck brace. It was a relaxing position, but he was anything but relaxed. He was in a small room on the fifth floor of the Alvedine building. It was a hosting room. Just a few minutes before, he’d been unconscious. Since it was his first day as host, they’d had to do the initial implants. Watly arrived early but the doctors whisked him along and put him under anesthesia to perform the simple operation. Afterward, he was reassured that all had gone smoothly. The two creosan implants had been inserted behind each ear and the area resealed without
a hitch.

Watly felt no pain or tenderness. The only physical hint that anything had been done at all was a slight tingling at the corners of his jaws. After the implantation, they’d sat him in this hosting room and told him he’d have a half hour of recovery time alone. Then the hosting
would begin.

To Watly this “recovery time” did nothing but give him a chance to reintroduce the butterflies into his belly. It was not a comfortable sensation. Every so often his stomach would get so bad he thought he might throw up. Fortunately he didn’t, especially because he saw no receptacle to aim his
breakfast toward.

The queasiness and fluttering had been going on since early morning. He woke at five
a.m., feeling really hinky, and was unable to go back to sleep. Skimming through the Alvedine Hosting Brochure didn’t exactly help relax him. Uncle Narcolo was dead to the world. Small favors. Watly snuck out of the apartment silently and wandered around the Village until the daylites came on full. His mother had once told him the best thing for nerves was a long walk and a hearty meal. It might have been good advice once, but this time it didn’t work. After a terrible sunbean breakfast on Houston, he headed uptown, feeling sicker and more nervous
than ever.

Now, as he sat waiting in the firm recliner, his mind kept fixing on those two small implants. They did not affect him in any physical way, but the thought of them was still unsettling. The creosan wafers would only act as a receiver when activated—otherwise, the two were inert and undetectable. But Watly knew they were there. It bothered him. They were in his head and that wasn’t a pleasant idea.
In his head. Inside.

Maybe this whole thing wasn’t a good idea. Uncle Narcolo had soured Watly’s optimism some. The old guy had been so damn downbeat. He’d looked at nothing but the dark side.
If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be so damn queasy,
Watly thought.
Stage fright. Full-fledged
stage fright.

If he leaned forward and turned to the right, Watly could see a complete reverse-corrected mirror. It took up most of the side wall. There was Watly Caiper looking back. “Hello, Watly. Nervous?
Damn right
. Scared even?
No kidding
!” Watly was wearing his usual outfit. He had on his brown veneer pants (carefully folded by Narcolo the day before) and a clean pocket-jacket with no shirt underneath. He was a study in chic casualness—poverty style. Watly stuck out his tongue at
the reflection.

You’ re a fine-looking fellow, Watly. Tall, dark, and near to handsome. A close second. If it wasn’t for a slight crookedness to the nose and that damn high forehead, you’d be just about perfect. Well, a crooked nose showed character and a high forehead showed brains. You’re a prince, Watly. A prince among paupers—or something like that. Anyone would be dumb to hurt a body like that (and so damn well dressed!). It would be an act of stupid vandalism. Irresponsible destruction of private property. Now, come over here to the mirror, Watly Caiper, and kiss your sweet gorgeous face goodbye—this may be the last time you get
a chance.

Watly pinched up his face into a tight little grimace to shake off the notion. This was not the time to be a pessimist. Narcolo be damned. This was his chance to make something of himself.
Be brave, Caiper. Be a person. Have some eggs, already.

The door folded open and an extremely dark-skinned woman wearing all white walked briskly in. The contrast was incredible. The all-white jumpsuit in an all-white room under the intense lights canceled each other out. All that stood out was a deep brown face and two deep brown hands floating in the bright void. She smiled and Watly was newly blinded by a set of perfect teeth. He felt love. Lust.

She held up the monitor she was carrying and clicked past several of
its screens.

“I see here you are Watly Caiper, first-timer. I’m Dr. Tollnismer, and I’m going to read you the List of Hosting Rights and Regulations.” Her voice was light and wispy. There was a singsong lilt to it that reminded Watly of a child reading nursery rhymes. She continued without checking to see if Watly was listening. “‘Number One,’” she read. “‘You are a Host now. You are a highly paid professional who has taken on a heavy responsibility. We welcome you to the Alvedine Hosting Family. Without you and others like you, there could be no hosting. We thank you for your commitment and loyalty to our fine company. We are confident you will live up to
our reputation.’”

She glanced up blankly for a moment and then went on. “‘Number Two. For each hosting you will be issued a coded wrist hosting cuff. This will identify your donor. It will also inform any general population member you contact that you are in the process of hosting. It can be removed by neither you (the host) nor the donor. If any crimes or infractions are committed during the wearing of this cuff, you (the host) will not be held accountable. If any serious injury or damage to your person occurs during the wearing of this cuff, there will be a formal inquiry and the then identified donor will be duly fined or punished if found negligent. It is the donor’s sole responsibility while the hosting cuff is in place to use good judgment and common sense regarding the protection of the host’s (your) body. Of course, true accidents and natural disasters are
the exception.’”

Dr. Tollnismer paused to wet her lips carefully. Watly felt another surge of love for her. Or maybe just lust. Or maybe just fear’s
flip side.

“‘Number Three. Hosting is a limited process. The average length runs five to seven hours. When your creosan wafers lose the donor signal, the transmitter in the creosan will electronically release the wrist cuff. You will not be able to relock it. Naturally, at that point the host becomes responsible for his own actions, both literally and legally. You must carry the wrist cuff and return to your original point of departure (the Alvedine Hosting Building). Failure to do so will result in withholding of payment and expulsion from the hosting program. You will be awarded full pay only upon completion of the successful hosting and return of the assigned
hosting cuff.’”

The doctor paused once more and Watly waited eagerly for a repeat performance of the lip-wetting. He was
left disappointed.

“‘Number Four. We at Alvedine Industries put every effort into making the hosting process comfortable and interesting to both donor and host. It is, however, the nature of the activity that we can offer no guarantees. All donors are carefully screened prior to our acceptance of them, but we promise nothing. You are hosting at your own risk. In accepting a job as host, you are also agreeing to take no action at any time, legal or otherwise, against Alvedine Industries or any of its subsidiaries. This includes any action regarding the host’s (your) demise.

“‘If by some fluke of nature the
donor
should pass away during the hosting procedure, Alvedine Industries shall use its best efforts to track you down and remove the creosan implants. Until that time the deceased donor’s projection would be unfortunately trapped in the wafers. This is however, an
unlikely occurrence.’”

Watly cringed. He’d never heard of it happening, and it was probably just a formality that they mentioned it at all, but it still wasn’t a pleasant thought. Too weird to even consider. A nightmare scenario: Donor gets overexcited during the hosting process and drops dead of a heart attack or something. Host is stuck with a dead guy’s personality in his head until somebody can track him down, identify the cuff, and remove the wafers surgically. A corpse’s personality projection embedded indefinitely in Watly’s brain. Yuck. Damn good thing the odds were against it. A pretty beanheaded thing to get hinky about, statistically speaking. In fact, odds were, if anyone was going to die during this catshit.
..
Ah, rape.

The doctor clicked to a second screen. She looked somewhat bored, but her voice remained bright and childlike. Watly noticed for the first time that the whites of her eyes were as dazzling as
her teeth.

“‘Number Five. At this time, as we begin final preparation for your hosting, we ask you to listen carefully. Take stock for a moment. Become conscious of all your physical sensations. You are now to relate to the doctor present any discomfort you might feel. If you feel any pain at all anywhere, or anything that could be
misinterpreted
as pain, let the doctor know. This is very important. You will not be disqualified for pain as long as the situation is treatable, but you must inform the doctor so that he may attend to the discomfort. The hosting process can be initially traumatic for the donor, and therefore your body must be as comfortable as possible when the donor enters it. Be thorough. After seeing to this matter the doctor will administer a mild euphoric. This will impart a gentle feeling of well-being. It is only temporary and intended to ease the transition. When the doctor is through, barring any difficulties, your hosting session will commence. We wish you the best of luck and thank you once again.
Happy travels.’”

The doctor lay the monitor down on a white table Watly hadn’t even noticed before. She faced Watly dead-on and crossed her arms. “Well?” she said, the childlike
voice gone.

“Well, what?”
Watly asked.

“Any aches? Pains? You heard
the deal.”

Watly smiled as ingratiatingly as he knew how. “Do you have a first name. Dr. Tollnismer?”
he asked.

The doctor took a step forward and kept her expression deadpan. “You’re changing
the subject.”

“I like the new subject,”
Watly said.

“Let’s stay on the old one,” she said with just the beginnings of another devastating
smile forming.

“I’ll answer your question if you
answer mine.”

The doctor’s teeth began to show. “I’m not here to
play games.”

“I thought
everyone
was here to play games,”
Watly countered.

Dr. Tollnismer took a deep breath and let it out in a wispy sigh. “Okay, Watly Caiper. I’ll answer yours if you
answer mine.”

Watly shifted in his seat to a more comfortable position. “Sounds good to me,”
he said.

“Promise?”
she asked.

“Promise.” Watly
replied firmly.

“All right,” the doctor said. “In answer to your question.
..
” She stopped and her smile broadened. “Yes. Yes, I
do
have a first name.” She paused and waited for Watly’s response. He was busy making a sour smile. “So if that’s
all
, Mr. Watly Caiper, I’d like you to answer
my
question.”

“You’re a pip, Doctor.”
Watly grinned.

She was back with her arms crossed and a look of satisfaction on her face. And what a face it was. It was almost as if it took this long for Watly’s eyes to grow accustomed to the lighting contrasts. Her features were exotic and strong. There was something regal about them, something elegant. The skin looked so smooth and velvety Watly wanted to reach over and touch her cheek to see if it was real. But she was all
business now.

“So. Any aches? Pains?
Sore spots?”

Watly tried to form a witty reply but the doctor gave him a look that said the party had ended.
Play time’
s over.

“Think seriously, Mr. Caiper. It’s important,”
she said.

Watly pondered it a moment.
No pain here, ma’am.
Dr. Tollnismer stared him down. He closed his eyes and tried to become acutely aware of all the sensations he felt. There was nothing he could call a pain, but now that he thought about it, there was a slight twinge at the back of his right ankle. Also he felt a very, very slight soreness where Narcolo had squeezed his wrist. And of course his stomach still didn’t feel great. And his neck felt just a touch stiff and maybe even his lower
back and.
..

Watly listed everything he could think of for the doctor. As the process continued, he was amazed how many tiny points of discomfort a person could have and never really notice. To be alive, he supposed, meant to hurt. He continued on as specifically as possible until he ran out of discomforts. She seemed pleased with his honesty and carefully tended each complaint— temporarily numbing the individual nerves with what looked like a sonic device of some kind. Watly wasn’t familiar with it. All this high-tech medicine was new to him. As a boy, the most common treatment had been a hug from Mom and some gentle rocking, with a song or two thrown in. As he grew older, expensive treatments were still out of the question. This was the closest Watly had ever come to a real hospital—not counting seeing them on the cable-vidsatt.