As usual, the apartment was spotless. Narcolo Caiper had kept up his well-earned reputation for cleanliness. At the moment he was racing around the kitchen as usual, doing his cooking ballet. Watly smiled, enjoying the sensation of controlling his own muscles, and crossed over to the couch, limping slightly. He sat down heavily and put his feet on the table. Rape, he was tired. Everything ached. And that damn leg.... But it was nice to be home. It felt safe. Comfortable.
“Could you turn on the cable-vidsatt for me, Uncle?” Watly said without energy.
Narcolo looked up. “Oh, no. Oh, no, Watly, not the CV tonight. Not now. First off, the damn thing’s half broke. Never been fixed. Everything comes on cockeyed and fuzzy. The mist goes crazy. No, no. No CV. Secondly...” The old man paused and his features went soft. “Secondly, I gotta ask you how you are. You’ve had a big day, kiddo. You’ve had a big one. I was worried. I was a little worried, you know? I want to know—I want to know if you’re okay. Are you okay, kiddo?” Narcolo’s face looked pained. He seemed to be bracing himself for the bad news.
“I’m okay,” Watly said with some effort. “I’m fine. Tired but fine.”
Narcolo’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s good. That’s good to hear. I was worried sick about you, Watly. Worried sick. I feel—I feel bad about the other night and all. I feel real bad. I was a sofdick bolehole. I was a beanhead.” He turned the stove down and rounded the counter to Watly’s left. “The thing is—it’s just that... point being... “ Watly saw a tiny splash of wetness under each of Narcolo’s eyes. His uncle’s throat seemed to catch before he could continue. “It’s just that I feel responsible.”
Watly tried to lift his head but he felt too weak. Emotionally drained. Physically drained. “You’re not responsible, Uncle—”
The old man jumped in. “Oh, but I am! I am. Weren’t for me you wouldn’t be here—it’s true! In fact it was my idea in the first place—this hosting thing. My idea. You wrote me—remember? Asking your big-time uncle if he had any ideas how you could be on the road to motherhood. And like an idiot I wrote back. ‘Watly,’ I said. ‘Watly, you come here to Manhattan. You stay with me. I’ll vouch for you. Come to the big time. Manhattan’s where the money is,’ I said. ‘Maybe we could get you a job hosting,’ I said. I remember saying it—like I was some big shot with connections. Well, I didn’t have no connections, kiddo. I was never a host or anything. Sure, I worked for Alvedine. Sure. I was a terradamn clerk, I was in records, for subsake. I was a nobody. So I really didn’t know nothing.” Narcolo’s hand worked the front of his shirt into a tight ball. “I thought you’d come here and... and keep me company and after a few tries at Alvedine admissions you’d give up. I thought you’d settle in and get steady work—construction, maybe. We’d have a ball, you and I, kiddo. Maybe if... maybe if, you know, I won the Level Lottery— silly, I know—but maybe we’d move up together. You know?”
Watly leaned forward. “I appreciate that, Uncle. I do. And, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I ever thought I’d make it myself. It was a surprise to me.”
Narcolo Caiper began to pace back and forth in front of Watly. “I know you think I’m a crazy old man, Watly, and I’m sorry. It’s just I don’t want to be responsible. I don’t want to be responsible if you get hurt.”
“I haven’t gotten hurt yet,” Watly said. “Not really.”
“You did one hosting. And I’m proud of you. You did good. You look okay. Tired but healthy.” He stopped walking and turned to face Watly directly. Watly noticed the old guy had missed a few spots shaving. There were little tufts of gray hair on his chin and neck. “But that was just one. Just one hosting. You never know what happens next, kiddo. You were lucky so far. I don’t want to be responsible. I couldn’t live with that.”
“Uncle—”
Narcolo cut him off, his eyes clear and honest-looking. “I couldn’t live with it, Watly.”
“You are not responsible!” Watly was getting angry and he felt renewed strength in that. Narcolo was pissing him off with all this fear. He didn’t want to get angry at this old, lonely guy, at this “family,” but there it was. It was nice that his uncle cared. It was nice that his uncle worried. But this was too much. This was getting silly. “Who made you responsible?” Watly said, his voice coming out louder and more forceful than he’d intended. “I came to Manhattan on my own power, Uncle. I signed the waiting list at Alvedine and waited the month—me. I stood in line all day. I got the job. I accepted the job, Narcolo, me. Just me. You helped me out—that’s all.” Watly slowed and took a breath, trying to regain his composure. Sometimes talking to his uncle felt like talking to a child. Maybe that was part of the appeal. Maybe that was one of the reasons he felt so close to Narcolo. He was a shriveled old child. Sometimes giddy and out of control, sometimes whiny and tantrum-prone. A surrogate infant. Watly’s baby substitute.
“I’m grateful, Uncle,” Watly said soothingly. “I thank you. I love you. I appreciate your concern and all that, Uncle. But it’s not your fault or your responsibility!”
Narcolo Caiper seemed to weaken and his shoulders slumped. He looked deflated. A major pout seemed imminent. His small frame sagged inward. “How much did you make today, Watly?” he asked.
Watly pulled the cash and credit pieces out of his pocket and scattered them over the table. His arms felt tired, almost numb. “Just what they said I’d make. Ten thousand minus the advance.”
Narcolo looked at all the money for a moment. “That’s a lot of money, kiddo. A lot.” The pout disappeared. There was some of that giddy, childlike excitement washing over the old guy that Watly liked to see. But this time it wasn’t particularly welcome. Watly was tired. Watly had been through a lot. He had no baby-sitting energy.
“Listen, Watly,” Narcolo said, almost giggling. “Listen. That’s it, okay? No more. Take your money. Go back to Brooklyn if you really want—and put it in a saver or a bank. Pack it in now, okay? Or stay right here—you’re welcome, you know. Live well for a while—you’ve earned it. You could spend quite a while living pretty high with that kind of money, Watly.”
In spite of the fact that his uncle looked so cute and vibrant again—full of hope—Watly felt himself getting really furious. He wasn’t even certain why. There was a sudden tightness across his chest. He tried to contain it. Why is the old man fighting against my dreams so? “That’s not the point, Uncle,” he said. “Not at all. I need a lot more than that to do what I want.”
“Why?” The old man’s expression was vulnerable and boyish. He seemed to be begging, pleading for the right answer. For the answer he wanted to hear. “Why do you want this?”
Watly sat up on the couch and looked directly into his uncle’s eyes. They were still moist, reflecting the dim light. “Didn’t you ever have a dream, Uncle? A passion? A... a reason?” Narcolo turned and avoided his gaze. “Didn’t you ever have something that you wanted so bad it became the focus of your life? Didn’t you ever have something that you wanted so bad that the wanting itself became the... the definition of who you are?” Watly pulled his feet off the table, knocking some of the credits off. “Well, if you didn’t then I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. If you didn’t, you won’t understand. But if you did—even for a moment—if you did, you might know what I mean. Maybe getting to Second Level someday is like that for you, I don’t know.” Watly stood up, ignoring the vicious protests of his leg muscles. “I want my own child, Uncle. I want to be a mother. To raise my own. That’s what I want. That’s all I want. You know better than I that it wasn’t too long ago, old friend, when that wouldn’t have been much to ask for. But now you have to fight for it. And I’m willing to do it. Call me an egoist if you want to—and maybe that’s part of it... maybe I want the glory, the little ‘me’ running around. Or maybe there is such a thing as a ‘calling.’ Maybe there are a chosen few. Either way, it’s my only goal, Uncle—and you’re not going to talk me out of it.” Watly trie
d to catch his uncle’s gaze. “It’s all there is.”
“How many mothers do you know, Watly?” Narcolo said softly, his eyes lowered. “How many children? Not counting the CV, when was the last time you saw a mother or a child?”
“It’s not an easy thing to be, Uncle—I know that. I know the odds.”
“What are the odds, kiddo? Do you know? There are kids on the CV. Watly, there are kids all over the CV. But those kids are on Second Level, Watly. They’re all on Second. That’s where the money is. The antiprophies alone must cost fifty thousand.”
Watly was getting even more frustrated with Narcolo. He was tired, terradammit! Real tired. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, old friend. Why do you think I’m hosting? For my health?”
“Fifty thousand, Watly. You’ll die before you reach half that amount. Things could happen.”
“And a bus or cruiser could run me down tomorrow,” Watly snapped.
“I’m not gonna tell you what to do, kiddo.” Narcolo sighed and then cleared his throat slowly. It sounded full of gravel. “All I’m saying is to use your head. Why does it cost so much to have a kid, Watly? Why all the expense? Figure it out. Think on it. Think. They don’t want you to have a kid, Watly. Send me to the Subkeeper if I lie. They don’t want us to procreate, to... to breed. They’re letting us die off. Second Level can have all the kids they want. The upperfolk. But we’re overpopulated, Watly. We’re dirty and smelly and we take up space. There are too many of us. And now—to top it off—we’re grumbling. We’re making them nervous.”
Narcolo let out a phlegmy cough. “Do you honestly believe, Watly, that if, by some fluke, some incredible luck, you got enough money for the antiprophies, and you got a willing female who could pass all the examinations, and you got enough money to pay her, and you got a chance at the licensing test, and you got enough money to take the test, and you got enough money for the mothering license—do you honestly think they’d let you pass it? Honestly? They’re trying to thin us out, man. It’s obvious. Someday... someday, when they need more lackeys or cops or servants or... paperweights—I don’t know—someday, they’ll let a few of us have kids. Or maybe they’ll just send down a few of their extra ones.”
Watly wasn’t accepting this conspiracy theory. This was modern talk. California gossip-type talk. He waved his uncle’s words away, but the old man continued.
“Let me finish, Watly Caiper. Most of the world is First Level. Most of the world. Literally or figuratively, it doesn’t matter. Take yourself. Take your hometown. Brooklyn was all First Level, right? You could see the sky above, but you were ‘First Levelers’—true? Of course it’s true—”
Watly broke in. “We were poor, yes. But there were those who were certainly—”
“You were First Level! All of you! They’re thinning us down, Watly. All of us. Too many of us is a threat. That was the whole idea behind prophies. I’m convinced of it. If prophies were just started because of too much of all populations, why charge so much for antiprophies? Poor people can’t afford them. Why not just have a test or something? Answer me that! I’ll tell you why. It’s because prophies are not for the rich and the powerful. They can buy antiprophies at the drop of a hat. They can. Second Level is full of babies!”
Watly sat back down, feeling more exhausted than ever. His leg throbbed. Next the old man would be talking Revy, at this rate. “I don’t buy this stuff, Uncle. It’s not my concern.”
Uncle Narcolo stepped in closer. His eyes glistened once again. “You have a nice little dream here, kiddo. It’s sweet and warm and cozy and I love you for it. I do. But it’s just a dream. It’s a fantasy. You want fantasies, move to Jesusland. Kiddo, maybe it’s time you grew up.”
Watly let his head drop backwards. Who’s telling who to grow up? “What is your problem, Uncle?” he asked wearily. “Even if I’m wrong about everything—even if I can’t do anything I plan on—the absolute worst thing that could happen is I make a pile of money hosting and have to figure out another way to spend it. Big raping deal.”
“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
Watly 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 splas
hed 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.
Levels: The Host Page 9
