Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  He never got it.

  When Watly Caiper was twenty his mother died. The medicion said it looked like a ruptured appendix, but there was no way to be sure. They couldn’t afford a real doctor. They could hardly afford the medicion.

  And by the time the medicion came, P-pajer was dead two hours—Watly’s tears were dried up on his cheeks and his fingers were cramped from holding a dead woman’s cool hands.

  The day after it happened, Watly wanted to hit, to hurt. It was a day Watly hungered for violence as never before. Bloody violence. He wanted to lash out and attack the world. Where was a nose to bust? A throat to strangle? Who could he kick? He wanted to kill someone—to kill someone hard—and avenge P-pajer Caiper’s death. There was no one to kill. There was no one to hurt. There was no one to kick or strangle. There was only the emptiness—an emptiness that eventually faded. Even his anger passed with time.

  But something had changed in him. He didn’t want to care anymore. He didn’t want to feel for the world as his mother had. Where had it gotten her? What had it done for her? She died in agony, clutching her belly and crying. She died poor. She died with no money for a doctor to heal her. She died with nothing. Crying. “Watly,” she’d said between sobs of pain. “You do good, Watly. Do good.” And then the hurt got so bad she couldn’t talk. She died with nothing. Just a son named Watly. The pass-along.

  He rented out half the apartment and got some odd factory jobs. He, too, cleaned the cleaning machines. Just like Mom. Time passed slowly. He fell in love and he fell out of love. And again. He worked and he didn’t work. And again. He dreamed and planned. Babies filled his thoughts. And his ambitions. He got in a few fights. He lost a little hair. He fought less. Then not at all. There was, he discovered, no one to hit. No one to hurt. Mom was right. But Watly revised her. Rewrote her. He decided there was no reason to fight anything—whether anyone got hurt or not. The only thing to do was follow your dream. To hell with everything else. To hell with caring. Only care for the self. Selfish/bad, maybe.

  Watly focused on his goal. Watly saturated himself with the idea of mothering. He researched it. He read up on it. He tried to find a way around the laws, around the prophies. And finally, on a whim, he wrote to an uncle. He had an uncle who actually lived on that almost mythical island. The island that had always dazzled him from afar, the one he always watched on CV, the one where the money was... the one where his goals could be realized. A long while later a response came back—return address: Narcolo Caiper, First Level, Manhattan.

  And so the process began. Watly Caiper was destined to leave behind the golden-sunset land—the place of his youth, the melting place of his mother’s body, and the only place he’d ever known. After applications, forms in duplicate and triplicate, inoculations, interviews and formal requests, visas and travel papers... his move was finally granted. He donated the apartment to his local community housing center. This was the same apartment he’d grown up in, the same apartment that smelled like home, that smelled like a meal had just been cooked, that smelled of old scented soaps, and that—yes—still smelled of P-pajer Caiper’s sweet sweat. He packed one small backpack with spare clothing, looked around a last time, and set off down the road on foot.

  It was a two-day walk. The weather was good and Watly’s spirits were high. He found it a pleasant journey. As he grew nearer he could make out more and more up ahead. Manhattan looming larger. At one point he even saw the tops of a few trees between buildings. Of course, he knew it was Second Level he was seeing and admiring but First Level he would be going to. It didn’t matter. He was still excited.

  At the water, Watly was quickly cleared to pass through the gate. To the guard it was nothing—another poor beanhead with dumb dreams and another stamped visa. To Watly it was everything. He stood at the mouth of the tunnel a long while before entering. His mother would be proud, Watly believed. In spite of everything, she would be proud. I’m in the big time now, Mom. Look at me. I’m finally in the big time. I’m doing good, Mom. Doing good, like you wanted.

  CHAPTER 15

  The smell of Mom’s kitchen was there again. Watly was sure of it. The sweet smell of hardloaf baking. The spicy aroma of crisp weeders and vegetable scraps. Or maybe it wasn’t Mom’s kitchen. Maybe it was Narcolo’s. Good old Narcolo Caiper. The strong scent of Uncle Narcolo’s sunbeans. Something heavy and filling. Or perhaps a mouth-watering dessert. But then, maybe it wasn’t the smell of Mom’s kitchen or Narcolo’s kitchen. Maybe it was the smell of Watly’s own kitchen. Maybe it was a kitchen yet to be. Watly Caiper’s future kitchen. The aromas were not as practiced—not as sure. There was a primitive quality to them. But it might not be the smell of food at all. It was not really a pleasant smell. It was an overripe smell. If it was food it was bad food. Spoiled, rancid food. There was something decaying or rotten. It was a bad smell, after all. What could he have been thinking? It was a terrible smell. It was a horrible stench with an overtone of sticky sweetness. The stench was like feces or urine or vomit... or all of them combined. It was the smell of anything bad that could come from a human body. And the sweetness—the sticky sweetness—that was the scent of something worse. That was the scent of fresh blood. It was the smell of death. It was the smell of human death. The nauseating stench of slaughter.

  “Mea culpa, Watly Caiper. Mea culpa. I hope I haven’t lost you to the jaws of insanity. I suppose that’s a very real possibility. But then, you might be better off if it were the case.”

  Watly saw his own hands slimy with blood. The cutting knife was smoking slightly and had charged down considerably. It too was coated with gore. The donor wiped it on the leatherlike chair. The mangled corpse was just a few feet away.

  “You’ve committed an awful crime, Watly. Just terrible.” The bloody hands were raised in a gesture to the lenses. “And the visuals have all been recorded, I’m afraid. Someone should be fast-reviewing the recorders any time now. You’re in big trouble, Watly Caiper. I think it’s time I gave you a choice. Your first choice of the evening.” The donor sat in the armchair and twirled the scalpel playfully on the heavy wooden desk. “We can either opt for suicide—the blade’s still got some charge to it so it should be a clean kill—or we could go for the more traditional approach and turn ourselves in for the state to execute. Frankly, the suicide’s cleaner and it tidies up all the loose ends. But either way’s okay with me. We could go down to the copper and confess. That way you’d get to live at least an extra few days until you were sentenced. You’d get the amusing opportunity to tell your unbelievable side of it to unhearing ears. Perhaps you’d prefer that? I’m open to your suggestions, Watly.”

  The donor paused as if waiting for a reply.

  “But I’m being silly, Watly Caiper. You can’t communicate with me. You’re stuck. For all I know, you’ve become a blathering idiot. Let’s see... I know—we’ll spin for it.” The donor flicked the edge of the scalpel again and watched it twirl. “I’ll spin this little blade just like that, and if it stops facing away from us, we’ll go down and confess to the copper. Unless someone beats us to it and reviews the recording lenses first. In that event the copper would probably just blow our head off as we stepped outside. In any case, if this little sweetheart lands facing us, I’ll just use the last of its charge and slice our carotid artery. Or maybe you’d prefer it straight in the gut. A deep L-shaped incision. It’s more noble, if more painful. Hara-kiri and all. Something from the ancient Outerworld. Yes, that’ll do nicely.”

  Watly watched helplessly as the donor lifted the blade and carefully positioned it in the center of the desk.

  “Well, whatever happens, I’ve had a time, Watly. You’ve got a fine body and I was proud to use it. I promise to be quick with the suicide if that’s what it’s going to be. Let’s give the old scalpel a twirl and see what’s in store for us.”

  Watly saw that the blood was already drying on his fingers as he watched his right hand reac
h forward and spin the blade with a firm twist. It spun wildly but remained on the desk. The donor’s eyes stayed glued to it as it slowed. It seemed to be moving agonizingly slow—as if intentionally prolonging the torture. First away from Watly, then facing him. Away and facing. Watly thought if he wasn’t insane already this would surely push him over the edge. The surgeon’s scalpel finally stopped.

  “Oh, bad luck, Watly! Mea maxima culpa. I hope you’re not too disappointed. Looks like we’ll have to let the state kill Watly Caiper. No suicide for Watly. My apologies.” The donor rose and straightened the laces on the stained workervest. “Well, shall we go? It’s time we bared our soul and confessed to our faithful metal watchdog.”

  Back outside, they found that the night had grown cooler. Watly was again overwhelmed with the sensation of space above them. The unmanned copper was right where they’d left it, gleaming in the glow of a nearby streetlight. Watly’s donor trotted them quickly down the front steps to meet it.

  “Do you have vocal?” asked the donor.

  The same pleasant unfeeling female voice they’d heard in the tube issued forth from the copper’s speaker plate.

  “Vocal, yes.”

  “Oh, good; oh, good.” The donor was smiling and Watly could feel his jaws aching from the broadness of the grin. “I guess you haven’t yet gotten any special reports regarding this particular building, then.”

  “Special reports?” the voice said.

  “Guess not. Should be any minute now if the surveillance people are at least halfway decent. In any case, I have a confession.”

  The turrets swiveled to face Watly directly. “You wish to confess a crime?”

  “Oh, it’s more than just a crime... it’s...” the grin was so broad and strained now that Watly’s jaw was tingling, “it’s an absolute abomination!”

  “What is this crime?” the female voice asked.

  And then Watly realized the tingling wasn’t from the smile at all. The tingling was from the wafers. The signal was fading. Watly was coming back!

  “What is the crime?” the copper repeated.

  The donor was not going to give up easily. “The crime is...” It was as if Watly and the donor were grappling, struggling for control. They were fighting for the body, wrestling for power. But the cold stranger’s grip was weakening.

  “What is the crime?” the copper’s speaker asked again.

  “The crime is...”

  Watly could feel control coming back to him. He was winning. He was moving forward down the corridor and the donor was sliding back—fighting tooth and nail, but sliding back nonetheless. Watly could move his own eyes. It was over. The donor was receding. As the foreign consciousness passed in the darkness, Watly got the impression that his donor punched a hole through the mental wall that separated them. It seemed a strange act of desperation. Then Watly realized it was not. It was a last attempt at communication—direct communication. Supposedly impossible, but that wasn’t going to stop the donor from trying. Mind-to-mind communication. The mental blow was sharp and accurate and left what felt like a small clean hole. A message slipped through just before the hole closed in on itself like a constricting orifice.

  Watly Caiper, running will just make it worse. You think you are lucky to have the body back. Well, I gladly abdicate the body to you. This gives you no advantage. You will try to flee. You will try to make others understand. You will try to escape punishment. This will just make your death all the more assured and violent. Take my advice, Watly Caiper. You’ve killed a very important person. Confess. You have no hope otherwise. If you confess, at least your death will be painless. I have already won, Watly Caiper. I won long ago.

  And then the donor was gone. Completely gone. It was almost as if there was a vacuum in Watly’s mind. He felt hollow and empty.

  “What is the crime you confess?” The copper had neared and its lower bumper was now touching Watly’s knee.

  “Crime?” Watly said. He felt tongue-tied. His own body was a strange thing. “Not crime.... No no no. Did I say crime?” Watly felt lost and trapped, yet he knew he had to keep talking. Come on, Caiper—think! “Not a crime at all. Not a real one. No no. It’s just that I’ve raped up the job so badly. Look at me.” Watly lifted the edge of the workervest. “First time on the job and I blow it. The whole toilet’s a mess. Terradamn thing practically exploded. It was horrible. Whole bathroom’s a total wreck. They kicked me out and told me never to come back. Send me to the Subkeeper—I mean it. Look at this—a brand-new vest. Now it’s covered with that brownish-red loo cleaner they use. I’ll never get it out. Boy, I really blew that one.” Watly started walking, uncomfortably aware that the turrets were trained on his back. He heard the copper’s engine start as it followed behind.

  “There was no crime?” the copper asked.

  Watly kept walking. He spoke over his shoulder. “There sure was a crime. It’s a crime that I’ve been trying for years to work up here and then the whole thing goes... down the toilet, so to speak. It’s a damn crime. I’m a sofdick subspawn.”

  “You said there would be special reports from the surveillance people. What does that mean?”

  “Damn right there will be,” Watly said. He was picking up the pace, wending around the buttresses. The copper kept up easily. “I imagine it’ll take forever to clean all the goop off the lenses. They got all splattered as I left. I didn’t mean it. There’s that cleaner and then there’s the crap from the toilet. It’s a real nightmare. If I were them, I would file a report. They probably want me arrested or something and I don’t blame them. I really don’t. I’ve made such a fool of myself. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I mess it up. A job on Second—can you believe it?”

  Watly was navigating on some kind of instinct he didn’t quite understand himself. He recognized no landmarks or signs, but somehow managed to keep his sense of direction. Perhaps a subconscious memory of the trip there guided him. The copper had yet to criticize the route, so Watly assumed everything was okay so far. He turned down what seemed to be the original large avenue—this level’s version of Third Avenue—and kept up his brisk pace. He walked with his eyes lowered, imitating as best he could the behavior of his donor.

  “Must’ve been the damn Coldy Valve. I didn’t even check it. Like a firstfaced bean, I go to clean a toilet and I don’t even check the valve first. What a catbreath secondkissing bolehole! Spurted all over the terradamn place. Probably ruined those poor people’s rug. Fuckable rug, too. Expensive. I could just scream about the whole thing. We’ll just see if I ever get a job on Second again.”

  Watly glanced up and saw the tubestop ahead. He felt relief. It wasn’t far. He became aware for the first time that his heart was pounding wildly. It was out of control. It seemed to Watly his chest would burst at any moment. Calm down, Caiper. Calm down. You’ll make it. Just get to First—that’s your element. Get to First Level and you’ll be fine.

  “Yeah,” Watly said, “I’m lucky if I get a job working for somebody who works for somebody who works on Second. That’s the truth. This whole deal was a bust from start to finish.” Watly was closing in on the tube. It was only a dozen yards or so away. Watly could see the seal and the hatch handles clearly.

  “Just a moment,” said the copper. “Just a moment.”

  Watly kept walking.

  The copper slowed and its speaker crackled with static. “Just a moment. Receiving a special bulletin. Receiving a communication from surveillance team zero-five-zero.”

  Watly kept walking rapidly. The tubestop shone blackly in the streetlight like a huge metallic finger. Watly reached a hand out toward the seal.

  “Just a moment. Do not move, sir. Do not move at this time. There is information of a crime. A crime has been committed. There is... acknowledgment of your guilt. Identification: Watly Caiper.” Watly could hear the copper approaching slowly. “Cease movement or suffer op
en fire.”

  Watly threw his hands out and broke the seal with his left as he simultaneously opened the hatch with his right. He dove into the entrance of the tube and hit the inside floor just as the copper let loose a round. The copper had two standard chip guns and their slugs thudded into the metal of the tubestop. The minute Watly landed he twisted his body sideways so that his position would not be where the copper had estimated it to be. There was the sound of metal being punctured. In the shadows he could see the floor next to him being ripped up as the slugs tore in.

  There was a short pause between rounds as the cartridges changed and the copper recalibrated Watly’s position to adjust its aim. It would get him for sure this time. Watly lashed upward with his foot and connected with the hatch handle’s inner ring. He quickly flipped the hatch closed just as the copper began firing again. The slugs pounded into the outside of the tubestop. Watly jumped up and sealed the hatch. The seal set in fast with a rush of air. Watly stepped to the center of the tube. The blue-toned circular lights stuttered briefly and then went on.

  The sound of the copper firing at the tube was incredible. It was like having his head in a bucket while someone kicked it. Fortunately, the slugs were not penetrating to the inside. Not yet.

  “Face forward, please.”

  The voice startled Watly. He turned to the lens.

  “Place your identification in the proper slots before you, please,” the female voice continued. Watly knew all his cards—and the donor’s cards—would be invalid by now. All they’d do was finger him. There was the sound of something shattering and more thumps as the slugs tore deeper into the outside of the tube.

  “Is there a disturbance at the exterior of this structure?”

  “Listen to me.” Watly leaned close to the lens, hardly recognizing his own voice. “Listen very carefully. I have no identicard. I have no travelpass. I am a First Leveler. I don’t belong here. Return me to where I belong. It is your duty. I am a danger to this level. I do not belong here. Return me to First Level.”