Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  Alysess Tollnismer walked along with great dignity, her head held high. To Watly, it was like walking alongside royalty. How she could remain so poised and proud under the circumstances was a mystery to him. Watly felt like shriveling up into a corner. He felt like stopping and kneeling before her to beg forgiveness. He didn’t. He continued onward with his hand on the grip of the chip pistol and his eyes on the doctor. Her birdhat was splendid. Its back had gotten slightly crushed against the beam, but otherwise it was perfect. The opalescent sudofeathers reflected each daylite they traveled beneath. Its wingspan was broad enough to protect her white outfit from drips. She wore it well. Watly wanted to compliment it.

  “Nice hat,” he said.

  They kept walking. Watly felt like an idiot.

  After a while they reached Alysess’s apartment building. She lived on West Eighty-fourth Street in a decently kept brownstone. There was no guard or other apparent security system. Dr. Tollnismer calmly led the way.

  Her apartment was very nice. It was larger than Narcolo’s and better furnished. The window looked out on the street below and daylite streamed in brightly. There were many well-worn books and leafs lying about and a relatively new CV in one corner. The window was open a few inches and, since the building was close to the Eighty-Second Street exhaust, there was a slight breeze. It was a pleasant sensation to feel air circulating freely. Alysess walked straight to the one armchair and sat down. Watly saw anger in her eyes.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” Watly said weakly.

  She glared at him. “Am I next?” she asked. She was barely containing her fury. “Am I your next victim?”

  Watly collapsed into the love seat opposite her. He had to make her understand. He had to make her believe. “I didn’t do anything. I swear to you.”

  Alysess took her hat off and carefully placed it on the table beside her. “You’re lying,” she said.

  “I’m not lying. I’m not. Somebody did this to me. Somebody set me up. How can I prove it to you? How can I make you believe?”

  “You can’t,” she said flatly. There was an extra redness to her dark skin. Her jaw was set. Her eyes were full of hatred.

  Watly Caiper started to cry.

  At first his eyes just watered and then it was like a dam had burst. Soon he could hardly catch his breath between sobs. The tears poured down. His nose began to run. He’d been framed, shot at, chased, traumatized, abused, witness to a horrible murder done with his own hands, deprived of sleep for hours, forced to watch a bum die in his place, lied about on the CV, and now... now he was not being believed. He wanted it all to stop. All of it. He wanted a bath and a shave and a warm bed. He wanted a time out. And he wanted—maybe most of all—to take off those damn ear cups!

  He unsnapped them and felt the blood rush back to his ears as he threw the hat off.

  “Watly—” Alysess started speaking.

  Watly pulled the gun out of his jacket and pointed it straight at the doctor’s pretty face. His vision was blurry from the tears. “What? What?” he yelled. “You want something?”

  “Watly, listen to me....” she said as she leaned toward him.

  “No, you listen to me!” Watly screamed. He almost choked on all the wetness. His face felt liquid—part of the river of tears. He was melting. “You listen to me! I’m going to tell you what happened! I’m going to tell you from the beginning, dammit! And you’re going to believe me! Because... because you’ve got to. Because it’s gotta be that way.”

  “Watly—”

  “Shut up! You hear me?” He waved the pistol at her. “I’ve got a gun! You have to listen! Now shut up and listen!”

  Alysess shut up. And Watly talked. The whole while the tears kept coming. Watly could feel the collar of his jersey jacket getting damp as the tears fell. And still he continued. He told his tale. He told her about the blond doctor and the evil donor. He told her about the removal of the cuff. He told her about the trip up to Second Level. He told her about the strange tryst with the drugged woman, Sentiva Alvedine. He told her of the murder, and of his horror. He told her of his escape and of the poor old bum who had died. He told her of the riot. He told her how the news report said it was a man who was killed, and how they’d said the man was Corber Alvedine. He told her everything. And still the tears came. And the jacket grew wetter. And Alysess’s face came closer. And the gun pointed lower.

  “Say that you believe me now, Alysess,” Watly said finally. “Say that you do.” He dropped the gun to the floor. The doctor looked at it a moment before speaking.

  “It’s a crazy story, Watly.”

  Watly looked at her. “I know,” he said. “I know. But I’m not stupid enough to make it up.”

  Alysess took a deep breath. Her bright eyes looked uncertain, confused. “I realize that, Watly.” She picked up the gun, held it a moment, and then gingerly handed it back to him. “I believe you, Watly Caiper. I do.” She smiled just a little. Again the pistol fell to the floor.

  Watly kissed her. The kiss was not a kiss of love or a kiss of passion. It was a kiss of thanks. It was a kiss of supreme gratitude. She responded slowly, but soon their tongues met and continued the conversation—understanding, thanking, listening, relating. Watly was still crying and then it seemed as if they both were and neither could tell whose tears were whose. They rolled to the floor together. Maybe she liked him after all.

  Things happened slowly. It wasn’t clear how. It was blurry and teary and cloudlike. After a time they were both naked somehow, though their lips never parted. Their sexes met briefly—touching tentatively—and then intimately. It was impossible to tell if Watly entered her or if Alysess enveloped him. Either way it was fluid and graceful. They joined together. Merged. Neither moved. There was a great wonderful wetness there. A meeting of slipperiness. Strong smells. They just held each other—he inside her and she around him. They were pressed as tightly as two people could be—arms hugging strongly around backs, breasts to breasts, tongue to tongue, thigh to thigh. They were frozen that way. No rocking, no thrusting, no grinding. Just being. Existing in almost the same space. Connected. They exchanged subtle signals by clenching secret muscles. It was a coded conversation. And still neither moved. This is my harbor, Watly thought. This is my home. I have found my protection. I have found a warm, empty cave and crawled inside. I am finally safe in this stranger. Their signals continued and their tongues still danced.

  And that was all the motion.

  Eventually, after a great passage of time, a very gentle rocking began. It started with their chests and worked downward. The movement was perfectly in sync, and still so subtle it was almost nonexistent. An end arrived for Alysess and her tongue searched for more as her secret clenching increased. It was a fiery, colorful end. Watly helped her. The movement quickened. Another end came and Watly helped her again. Then his own appeared and she, in turn, helped him, kissing and clasping him through it. It was smooth and beautiful, full of secrets and full of hope. Watly stayed in her and she around him. This was where he wanted to be. Home.

  Before long he was in a warm bed with clean sheets. Someone dark and soft and beautiful was there beside him. She was a part of him. He searched and found smooth pink among all the brown, and she found hard among his soft....

  And again there was no motion for a while.

  When sleep finally came to Watly, it came fast. It came with visions of a perfect set of brilliant alabaster teeth smiling from a mahogany face.

  CHAPTER 19

  You can tell a lot about a person by the apartment she keeps. Nice neighborhood, nice height (third floor), and pretty well kept building. Street view, too. Watly wandered around Alysess’s place, snooping unashamedly. Now that he was alone he could investigate openly. It was his way of getting to know her better. Getting to know this stranger. Getting to know these strong feelings he had about her. To Watly, each drawer he opene
d and every cabinet he rummaged through brought him closer to the woman.

  The doctor’s large placene wardrobe held little clothing: a dress suit, a few pairs of shoes, some sweaters, another white uniform, a jacket or two, a few buzbelts, a couple pairs of anklepants, an overcoat, and not much else. On the leafcase she had an extensive erotica collection. Watly flipped through it casually. She collected all types, some quite obscure and high-brow. Watly was impressed with her taste in porn. Near the CV were her music tubes and the player. She had a diverse range of these as well. From contemporary (Engin and Croadly, the Keze) to classical (Beatles, Mozart, Manilow...). Next to the player was a bowl with a few uncashed work tokens and some extra keys. In the kitchen area, Watly could gather that Alysess was a loner. It was a barren kitchen, not one for hearty meals. It seemed hardly used. Obviously the good doctor threw her food together carelessly and without much regard to taste. Watly made a mental note to remember he must cook her a decent meal one day. It was the least he could do. Right now she was most probably risking her life for him. She was certainly risking her career.

  She had woken him, after a few short hours of sleep, with a kiss to his forehead.

  “Wake up, little Watly.”

  Watly didn’t want to.

  “Wake up, now—sleepyhead. I’ve gotta go.”

  Watly opened one tired eye and saw Alysess in the process of dressing again in her white uniform.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, feeling disoriented.

  “I’ve got to get back to Alvedine—for both our sakes.” She was pulling on her white boots now. She was wearing only her pants and a belt. Her bare breasts swung pleasingly as she secured the bootclamps.

  “You’re going back?” Watly opened the other eye as well. He felt groggy. Emotionally hungover.

  “I’ve already missed half the day. If I don’t show up at all it will raise suspicion. Someone might come looking. I’d better go in. I’ll make up some excuse why I’m late.” She lifted her head and gazed at Watly with those clear brown eyes. She smiled. “Watly, didn’t anybody ever teach you it’s not polite to stare at someone’s tits while they’re talking to you?”

  Watly grinned sleepily. “But they’re such nice tits. They’re extraordinary tits, actually. Best tits I ever saw. World class.”

  Alysess leaned over and kissed Watly’s forehead again. “They like you too, Mr. Caiper. But right now...” She pulled on her top, “right now they’re going undercover.”

  The bed felt warm and comfortable. Watly pulled the covers up to his neck and lifted his knees. He wanted to stay in it forever.

  “Do you have to leave?” he asked.

  Alysess let her face go serious. Very serious. “If you want to stay alive, I have to leave,” she said. “Besides, maybe I can find out something for you. I’ll see what I can learn. I’ve got to be cautious, but maybe I can get some new pieces to this puzzle.”

  Watly scooted forward on the bed and touched her arm. “You be very careful, Doctor. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You realize you could get death for helping me.”

  “Watly, as far as they’re concerned, the fact that you’re here in my apartment at all is helping you. When I let you in the door with me I became a harborer of a high-priority, death-imperative criminal. It can’t get worse than that”

  “Yes, it can,” Watly said softly. “You could get caught.”

  “I won’t get caught,” Alysess replied. She smiled once again. “I’ll go to work, I’ll apologize for my lateness. I’ll do my job. I’ll ask a few questions. I’ll voice my natural curiosity, glance at a few files, chat with a few peers, pick up my work tokens, and come quietly home. That’s it. That’s all. It won’t take long. You can go back to sleep while I’m gone. You look like you still need it.”

  Watly made his best cherub face. “I couldn’t sleep without you,” he said coyly.

  “You’ll do just fine.” Alysess seemed to be getting tense. She put her birdhat back on and went to the door. Her back looked tight and arched.

  “Alysess.” Watly rose from the covers. He felt suddenly frightened to be left alone. “Before you go—”

  “Don’t say it, Watly,” she interrupted.

  “Don’t say what?” he asked.

  She looked annoyed. “Don’t say ‘I love you, Alysess,’ or ‘Be mine, my dear,’ or ‘Let’s live together forever,’ or ‘Will you be my poovus,’ or whatever it was you were going to say. Just don’t say it. It doesn’t mean anything.” She looked really pissed now. Her hands were clenched. “You’re in a bad fix and I’m helping you. I believe you. I like you. You like me. We screwed a few times and that was real nice. Real nice. But Watly, you don’t really know me and I don’t really know you. We don’t love each other. You have no idea who I am. And vice-versa. We’re strangers. Let’s realize that. You’re a nice guy, Watly Caiper. A fuck. And I’m a nice woman. A fuck, too. And we make good sex together. It’s a nice collaboration. And I was there when you were afraid of hosting and now I’m here when you’re afraid of dying. You’ve got a lot of emotions wrapped up in me. But don’t project onto me something that isn’t there. I’ll help you because you’re in an unfair mess and I feel bad for you. I’ll help you because it’s the right thing to do. But I won’t have you thinking of us as mates. I won’t have it. I’m not your poovus.”

  Watly was stunned by the speech. It was totally unexpected. She must have been chewing on that one for a while. This woman’s been burned, Watly thought. Burned badly. “I wasn’t going to say that at all,” he said calmly. “I was just going to say how nice you looked.”

  Alysess had straightened the birdhat and smoothed her blouse. “Oh,” she had said, and looked off uncomfortably. “Well, thanks,”

  And then she was gone.

  And Watly was happy. He was happy because he was convinced that, in her own convoluted way, Dr. Alysess Tollnismer had just revealed something important. She’d revealed that she loved Watly Caiper. Just as he loved her. Or maybe not. Terradamn, he was confused.

  After snooping a second time around the whole apartment, Watly rolled up the bed and went into the bathroom. For a wanted man, he felt pretty good. He washed rigorously and shaved with a borrowed razor. He hoped Alysess wouldn’t mind. He left a burgeoning mustache alone on the hopes that its presence would change his appearance some. Actually, he kind of liked it. It gave him a rakish, devil-may-care look. After all this is over, he thought, I might just keep it.

  He dressed in the same old clothes Narcolo had supplied, and found some soljuice and a piece of hardloaf in the kitchen to nibble on. After flipping on Alysess’s CV he settled into the love seat to watch.

  ... because we love to learn, and love your viewership to earn. We’ll keep it up through thick or thin. No matter what, we’ll fill you in! News, news, news, news...

  “And now an update on the Corber Alvedine tragedy: The investigation continues and all available police have been mobilized on this case. The chief investigator on this massive personhunt is Sergeant Ogiv Fenlocki. Here is his report: “We’ve sealed off Manhattan. This Watly Caiper has no way to leave the island without being caught. Our people are moving in on him. Anyone he knew—any of his acquaintances, friends, or anyone he came in touch with—they’re all being systematically sought out, contacted, and watched carefully. When he turns up—and he will—we’ll get him. He can’t hide forever.”

  “Sergeant, do you have any theories about a motive?”

  “It seems pretty obvious to us. This Watly Caiper was a one-time host. Apparently he couldn’t hack it. It pushed him over the edge. His first and only donor went to Sexsentral and had a run-in with some lowlifes. This donor has already been tracked down, and he has confidentially testified to us. Watly was probably traumatized by the hosting experience. It happens. He wanted to lash out at the head of the whole hosting system. So he killed Corber. But don’t
underestimate this guy. This Caiper had the intelligence and wherewithal to forge a number of travel documents to get to Second and the cunning to escape the police a first time. This man’s shrewd. But he won’t get away again. We’ll catch him and we’ll kill him. The people have spoken.”

  Watly watched this Sergeant Fenlocki closely as he talked. This is my executioner, he thought. This is the man responsible for my own death. It’s his job to see that I die.

  The sergeant was an older man with a liberal spattering of gray hair around the temples and a face full of character lines. He spoke clearly but very softly. His eyes seemed gentle and compassionate. First Level cop eyes. This is a reasonable man, Watly thought. If I could just talk to him…

  Sergeant Fenlocki was still speaking.

  “…we have to go on a door-to-door search, but we’ll find him. And if we discover anyone is helping him in any way, we’ll prosecute that person to the full extent of the law. That’s a promise.”

  “Thank you. Sergeant Ogiv Fenlocki, and good luck with the case. Here again is the image of Watly Caiper, the murderer. Remember, there is a reward of one million for first kill or capture.

  “And now a report on sex newsmakers….

  Watly turned the sound down. Suddenly he felt awful. What was he going to do? How was he going to get out of this? Wasn’t there some way to clear his name? Turning himself in would do no good. The Crimcourts would just be a formality. He was already convicted and sentenced by the “people.” What raping “people?” The raping government is what raping people. Shit. He was drowning and he was dragging good people down with him. Narcolo Caiper and Alysess Tollnismer—both could be given death for what they’d done. Alysess had sheltered him and was now looking for answers at Alvedine. Narcolo had clothed him and packed a bag…. The bag. Narcolo had packed some booze, hadn’t he? Now was just the time. Drinking was a sub of a lot more comforting than trying to figure out a solution to all this.