Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  The doctor glared at him and waited for a few seconds without moving. “Calm enough for you?” he said finally, his voice sarcastic.

  “Thanks loads,” Watly said.

  Now the man crossed over and pushed Watly firmly into the chair so that his skin made contact with the two plates. “Here we go. Very calm, very calm, now.” With the other hand the tall man released the final ringlets. “Calm, calm, calm,” the bolehole muttered.

  “Thanks for the reassurance. You’ve got some bedside manner,” Watly said. As his jaws began to tingle, Watly wondered if he might have just made the biggest mistake of his life.

  CHAPTER 11

  When Watly Caper remembered his youth, he remembered it orange. Every memory of his early days in Brooklyn seemed to take place at sunset. To Watly, those days were always a golden hue.

  Sitting on the front steps of his apartment building, playing batball with the neighborhood kids, shin-scrimming off a bus—no matter what—it was always just before dusk. Days began and ended there. In memory, Brooklyn was a perpetual warm sunset. The shadows were long and made you feel tall and grown-up. One could catch a glimpse of the sun between the buildings while walking. Off to the north was Manhattan. Manhattan: the promised land.

  Watly remembered standing on the roof of some tall Brooklyn apartment house and gazing at the Manhattan skyline. The two Empire State Buildings, the Chrysler Building, Citicorp, Alvedine, the Man-With-Hat-On, the Gavy Tower—all shone brightly and a million windows glittered like jewels as the dying light caught them. It was an incredible vision. As he stood there, Watly wondered if it could possibly be as beautiful close up as it was from a distance.

  And there were the smells—the smells of Watly’s youth. That dirty, gritty, musty smell of the neighborhood. The apartment’s spicy, homey, kitcheny smell—as if, no matter what time, a meal had just been prepared moments before. And the smell of Mom. The smell of warmth. The oily, sweaty smell as Watly’s mother returned from work. The biting smell of the detergent she used in her job as cleaner of the cleaning machines at the factory.

  And then the sponge bath with its scented soaps. The soaps smelled less like Mom than the grease and sweat and industrial detergent. The soaps gave off a soft, wispy, flowery aroma that was nowhere near as tough as the true P-pajer Caiper. She was a strong woman. It was she who had demonstrated against the prophies. It was she who had fought tooth and nail to protect the small local park and its five trees. It was she who had battled to improve keyboard school for the kids, to get more cleaning machines for the filthy streets, to find homes for the Brooklyn homeless, to get nutritious foods—sunbeans and weeders—imported to the stores.

  If there had been talk of California back then, she would have been involved. She would have been excited by it all: tracking down every lead she could find, following up on each rumor, investigating, probing. She would have gone out there. She would have found a way and gone out to California. She wanted to be a part of things. She wanted to change things. Her eyes were never as fiery and full of hope as when a new cause arose. She lived for it. All this California stuff would have been fuel for her soul. And it would have rubbed off on Watly. There was no way to avoid it. There was power to the woman. Strength. Wisdom.

  P-pajer Caiper. Watly’s mother.

  P-pajer Caiper had cared. It was what she did best. If mothering was Watly’s passion in life, then caring was his mother’s. As a boy, Watly often wondered what it would be like to live a life without a passion. Without a dream, a driving force. It seemed there were lots out there who had none. No driving force. No bliss. No obsession. It looked like most people had none, in fact. How did that feel? How did it feel not to have one thing—maybe a secret thing, maybe not—that made your life worth living? How did it feel to wake up in the morning, eat, do your job if you have one, have sex if it’s available, eat some more, drink, watch CV, play some, sleep... and eventually die? And that’s it. That’s all. Did it feel empty? Was there a void there? Or was it okay just to live. Was it okay for some not to be “saddled” with an all-encompassing, intoxicating, pain-in-the-ass passionate passion all the time. Maybe drinking or drugs or religion were enough for some. Maybe that filled the void. All that stuff had certainly been popular at different times. Or maybe everyone had a passion. Maybe most people just didn’t see it. They were blind to it. And only a lucky few could see.

  Watly was one of the lucky. He knew his passion from way back. And his mother was, too. P-pajer cared. She wanted to make a difference. She wanted the world to be right, to be fair. She wanted things to be good and beautiful. She wanted her kid to grow up in a place that was kind and careful and wise. And other people’s kids. And the people themselves. She fought hard for her causes—one after another. And one of her causes was Watly.

  She had always been supportive of him. From the first days—from the very beginning—she’d been right behind her son. When Watly had told her of his dream, she’d stayed with him on it—never discouraging, never cajoling him into a different direction, and never warning him not to get his hopes up.

  “If you want something, Little-Watt, you will achieve it,” she had said once. “But if, in the end, you don’t achieve it, then the wanting will have been enough. For the wanting is really all there is anyway.” She paused, and then spoke the familiar sentence young Watly always found cryptic and confusing: “It is not the place you’re headed that’s important, nor even the journey there; it is the road you tread on itself.”

  Then she ran her fingers through her short black hair, shook her head vigorously in a characteristic gesture that seemed to signify the clearing of mental cobwebs, and guided young Watly toward the kitchen where they prepared dinner together.

  As they rolled small balls of dough on the low plasticore counter, P-pajer spoke again.

  “There is one thing, Little-Watt, you must beware of,” she said. “You seek a noble thing, particularly in this day and age. Your purpose is pure and your ambition relatively harmless to others. This is good. However...” she paused and faced her son dead-on, “there is a vanity in you. You know it. There is a belief that you are right to the point of violence. No one...” Her thin muscular hands rose before Watly and the long fingers spread. Her eyes were serious. “No one is right to the point of violence. No one. I see it in you. You feel justified in force. You feel it is available to you as a last resort. You feel it is a viable if unpleasant alternative. I’ve watched you with your friends. I’ve seen you strike a playmate. I’ve seen you threaten when your pride is hurt. You have this in you.” Her graceful hands danced for a moment. “But this is not good. This will be your downfall if you can’t control it. Remember that, Little-Watt.”

  Little Watly thought for a moment before speaking. “Isn’t anything worth fighting for?”

  His mother smiled the smile that always made things all right. A warm smile Watly wished he had seen more of. “There’s fighting and then there’s fighting. Wait till you have a child, my son,” she said. “Wait till you have your child and then answer that yourself. And I will teach you, when you’re older. I will teach you the secrets. How to fight without fighting.”

  Watly didn’t understand. Was that a yes or a no? He wasn’t sure what her point was. He still felt right. He still felt it was okay to hit back if someone hit him. Watly appreciated the little he understood of his mother’s philosophy, and in some ways he wished it could be his. But, even back then, he knew it could never truly be his. There was a thin, permanent streak down his core that would always be ready to fight back. Physically. It was part of his nature. He suspected it came not from his mother, not from his genes, and not from some early trauma. He suspected it came from his life. His short life. It came from his experiences. It came from his neighborhood. It came from his friends and acquaintances. From his days at home on the school interactive keyboard. From his one day a week at social class. From Brooklyn itself. From the gang
s. From the toughness of all those golden-orange days.

  He fought his way up to adolescence. It was how he had survived. There was no way else to. Violence was the way of the streets. He hated it, but it was part of life. You had to be tough. Or at least seem tough. Bluff tough. You had to prove yourself. You had to strut and pose and—occasionally, only occasionally if you bluffed well enough—you had to punch. And be punched. Watly tried to avoid it whenever possible, but violence did not seem always avoidable. There was a lot of it. But there was a lot of guilt, too. Guilt about his mother. There was fighting and there was fighting. Watly did the wrong kind of fighting. P-pajer could fight with no hurt coming to either side. This was the right way. This was the best way. And Watly knew it. But he had never been the most obedient son. Devoted, yes. Obedient, no.

  “One thing, Watly,” his mother said later. “This is all I ask—all I’ll ever insist on. Promise me you’ll stop shin-scrimming. You’ll get yourself killed, and for no good reason.” Now she sounded like a typical adult. Scolding. Making rules.

  Watly smiled. “I promise,” he lied.

  Never obedient, was Watly. The very next Sunday, after the promise—after countless promises—he was back on the orange streets with his friends: Tobb Indrel, Herrana (The Flash) Enstich, Basop Pinnegipher, and Chetty Fot. Not fighting this time. Not bluffing. Just playing. Watly was back with them—against his mother’s wishes—feeling the rhythm, basking in the danger and excitement. Shin-scrimming. Waiting for the bus. Waiting for the loop to take him. Waiting to be jerked and yanked along, bouncing down the road—maybe skinning a knee or two if the cylinders rode low. Pulled along.

  Yes, jerked and yanked and pulled along—laughing and screaming all the way.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jerked and yanked and pulled along. Wrenched along. Torn violently downward.

  Where was he? What was happening? His mind was ripping.

  This time the hosting was not gentle. This time it was not smooth. Maybe it was the lack of euphoric, maybe it was the stressful circumstances, maybe it was the speed with which the hosting had started, or maybe it was everything put together. In any case, this time it was different.

  The pale-skinned blond man held Watly firmly, pressing him into the plates. There was no feeling in those cold eyes. No empathy, no remorse, no sorrow. Not even hate. Nothing. I may have made a small error in judgment here, Watly thought.

  Watly felt himself being jerked violently inward. He was being pulled into himself with tremendous force. He was mentally scrambling for balance, for a foothold. Watly was sliding down that same interior hallway as before, only this time it was much steeper and more slippery. He was being dragged, yanked down, kicking and screaming. I’ve change my mind, he thought. Whoa, hold on here—

  And suddenly the other appeared.

  Another “I.” This other being was in there with him and approaching rapidly from behind, having no trouble with the slippery steepness. It was scampering toward him like a huge insect, feelers clicking on the invisible interior surface of his mind.

  Watly felt much more from this consciousness than he had from the other. Much more. As it neared, there was an impression of power, of size and strength. There was this enormous self- confidence and, at the same time, a tangible sense of winter. Icy cold winter. A blizzard within. The incredible coldness was not just surface. It was solid. Watly felt all this clearly. It was as if the intruder’s personality was so strong, so full of winter, that even the mental walls could not contain it all.

  Watly experienced a childlike fear enveloping him as this powerful thing neared and passed. This is a bad. A real bad. A bad thing. There is evil here, Watly thought. Cold, wintry evil. A monster. Is this even a human being at all that is climbing into my skull? He wanted to hide under a blanket and call for Mommy. He wanted to close his eyes and bury his face in his hands. They weren’t his eyes anymore, nor his hands. His control was totally gone. That fast. He was a passenger now. It was over.

  Watly felt his back arch and his body stretch languorously. The movement felt somehow feline. Graceful but dangerous. Then he felt his mouth move. His tongue explored the upper teeth and gum and then settled back as his lips curled slightly at the edges. Watly felt his lungs expand in preparation for speech.

  “Mea culpa, Watly Caiper. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.”

  Watly felt his fear tighten. It wasn’t just that this person knew his name. Somehow that was no surprise. It seemed almost natural. What scared him most was the voice. It was his own voice talking but it was very different. Aside from the expected Second Level accent, there was an oiliness to its tone. There was a sliminess. The voice was dripping with something wet and foul. There was more of that wintry cold quality that had passed him in the dark. An inhumanity... a badness.

  “That you?” It was the blond doctor talking. He had removed the cables and was shunting the machine back.

  “It’s me now, yes,” Watly’s body said.

  “I’ve got your things here.” The man was kicking forward a large silver box that had been in the shadows behind the white table. Watly saw it peripherally. His donor did not even glance at it.

  “You can leave now, Mitterly. Leave me with Watly. Watly and I would like to be alone. Isn’t that correct, Watly?”

  The absurdity of the question coming from his own lips just increased its impact. Watly was scared. He didn’t ever remember being as scared. He realized with hindsight that his other donor had never addressed him at all. The host had never been acknowledged by that first donor. It had been much more comfortable that way. This directness was powerful in shock value alone.

  The tall doctor—Mitterly—set the controls and backed out of the room, almost bowing as he left. He folded the door tightly behind him.

  Watly was alone with the donor.

  After another slow stretch, the donor guided Watly’s body gracefully to its feet. There was none of the tentative awkwardness Watly remembered from his first hosting. This donor was poised and balanced. Confident.

  “Well, here we are, Watly Caiper. Just the two of us. We’re headed on an adventure, you and me. No time to waste. Let’s see what we have here.”

  The donor knelt next to the silver box and flipped its lid back. Inside was what looked like a pile of clothes and a few small red plastic cases. The donor glanced quickly at each and removed the largest of the cases. It was about the length of Watly’s hand and twice as wide. The donor opened it with a deft flip of the wrist. Under the top padding were two small brown wafers and a black metal wand that forked into dual points at one end. The donor removed the wafers and balanced them close together on the hosting-cuff.

  “This will just take a brief moment, Watly. Be patient and we’ll be done in no time. No time at all.”

  The donor activated the wand and touched its two points to the wafers—one on each. They glowed slightly at the contact areas. After trying it at various different points Watly saw contact made as the wafers lit up completely. The hosting-cuff clicked and fell off his wrist. It bounced once before rocking to a full stop at Watly’s feet.

  “There we are, Watly. We don’t need that, do we?”

  Watly felt as though he was reeling from some invisible blow. He watched helplessly as his donor hung the cuff back on the wall and put away the tools. He was stunned. He had just witnessed the impossible. The hosting-cuff system was foolproof, or so he’d been led to believe. This was incredible. Impossible. Now, to all the world, he was just Watly. Another severe panic attack, probably the worst ever, started to bubble to the surface. Control your mind, Caiper. Keep your wits. Think narrowly. Pay attention to what’s happening. Come on, Caiper.

  The donor got undressed. This was no surprise to Watly. He was expecting a period of physical inspection like the one he had experienced before. However, this donor didn’t seem interested in Watly’s body. Not at all. As soon as the
clothes came off, new clothes went on—clean black jumpsuit, yellow workervest, and low boots. Watly’s few belongings were transferred from the pocket-jacket into the workervest. The old outfit was then stuffed into a corner of the silver box.

  Watly could see himself as the donor glanced into the reverse-corrected mirror. He looked good. He looked like one of the lucky few who worked Second and lived below.

  “We look wonderful, huh, Watly? What a team, you and me!”

  The donor turned back to the box and pulled out the other small red cases. Two of them were placed in the workervest pockets. The third was opened and a long, silver object removed.

  “You know what this is, Watly Caiper?” The donor swiveled it in front of Watly’s eyes. “This is a fully charged surgical cutting blade with the skin-sealer turned off. In fact, you’ll note, the sealer has been removed entirely. It’s as sharp as they come, Watly, and it’ll go through flesh or bone like they were boiled sunbean.”

  The donor waved it in front of Watly’s nose a few times, then held it away and made Watly’s eyes slowly scan the length of it. It was an impressive scalpel. Had Watly not been so terrified of it he might have admired its sleekness and the simplicity of its design. But it scared him badly. He didn’t want to think what it might be for. The oily speech continued.

  “Just thought I’d introduce you two. I think you’ll know each other better later.” There was a pause and the donor pocketed the scalpel in its case. “Let’s see what else—oh, yes.”

  That case also went into the workervest. The donor removed the final red case from the box and opened it. It contained a tiny flask with yellow liquid sloshing about inside. The donor handled it delicately.

  “We mustn’t forget this, Watly. Oh, no, not this. A little...” Watly watched his own fingers pop the cap off the flask, “a little slow-acting poison.” The flask was raised to his lips. Oh rape don’t do that please don’t do that let me out of here, please I’ve got to get out...