Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  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.”

  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

  People 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 tha
t 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.