Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  Great, Watly thought. Just great. I wonder when the next cleaning day is—two days? three? a week? I’ll never make it. They’ll open the place up and find diced Watly. Whose idea was this anyway?

  Watly leaned heavily into the metal wall and watched his clothes flap and flutter as if they were trying to jump off his body. I should’ve listened to the dream, he thought with irony. “Beware the air,” they’d said. Beware the air.

  CHAPTER 24

  It was a beautiful day on the Second Level. The municipal building on Eighty-first and Koch Avenue had been freshly painted recently—a bright powder blue that intensely reflected the sun’s rays. The most dazzling part of the whole building was the polished tube that gleamed like a silver chimney up on the roof’s rear left corner. Ringed with golden sound mufflers, the tube disappeared into the white gravel on the roof’s surface and reappeared on the west side of the building a story below. It was held in place by delicate brass lion’s-head clamps—and angled all the way down the side of the building until it entered the pristine road surface below.

  It passed through four thick layers of road surface—whitetop, plasticore fibers, cemeld, and iron gratings—and a middle layer of sewage pipes, water pipes, cables, and assorted wires. It opened out into the anterior fan chamber, which was surrounded by the layers of First Level ceiling, more pipes and cables, iron, steel, cemeld, and the fan motor. Inside the chamber itself was a tall man with the beginnings of a mustache and the beginnings of a bad headache. His name was Watly Caiper and he was a bit on the hinky side at the moment. Below him was the fan, model 307, recently cleaned, currently in operation. Below that was First Level’s Koch Avenue.

  It was dripping lightly there, daylites on full. The street sweepers had yet to arrive to tidy up the unsightly mess left by the fan cleaner. A half-full bus passed by slowly, listing to the right, one of its cylinders malfunctioning and in need of repair. Two bicyclists raced up the street toward the long line forming on the corner. The line was for Level Lottery tickets. Although tickets didn’t go on sale until later in the week, people were already camping out on the line. It was a very popular, semi-annual contest. Once a year, one winning Firster was promised the prize of life on Second Level. The event was always broadcast live on all CV pleats. Lottery tickets sold for five hundred New York dollars each, and most people bought more than one. By the end of the week, when the tickets went on sale, the lines would be two blocks long.

  At the hopeful lottery players’ feet, the First Level sidewalk was lumpy and pitted, slick from the drips that fell. Below it was more piping, old, rusty sewage pipes, the melted-garbage reinforced tubes, CV cables, electrical cables, keyboard wires, and a concrete foundation. Below that was a layer of crisscrossed steel beams. Then there was thick plasticore. Under that: clean red tiles.

  Perfect, rectangular dies, blood red and highly reflective.

  The tiles curved downward to form the ceiling and walls of a large, unfurnished room. It was one of many rooms. On the floor of the room were more tiles, also red, but these were scuffed and scratched.

  In this particular room there were thirty-seven people. Fighting each other. There below the street of the First Level, a war raged. Combat training. Hand-to-hand, unarmed fighting. A combination of karate, jujitsu, and street fighting. The thirty-seven were learning how to kill with their bare hands.

  Ten of them—ten of the thirty seven—had once called themselves the Skyfinders. They had gathered and talked with each other about California. One morning, like many had before them, they disappeared. Missing and presumed dead, as planned.

  That day of their disappearance, the Skyfinders had woken up disoriented in a red-tiled room much like this one. They were naked and had been blindfolded and bound together with thin cord.

  “Do you mean what you say?” a deep voice boomed at them.

  “About what?” one of them squeaked out timidly.

  “About California, about Revy, about freedom,” the voice answered.

  “Who are you? Where are we?” another Skyfinder asked.

  There was a long pause. The tile was hard and cold against their bare bodies. They were hungry and scared. They were all sure they were about to be executed.

  “I am the Ragman,” the resonant voice finally said. “And you, dear comrades, are in the subs. Welcome to the revolution.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The strangest thing happened to Watly. He lost his knapsack. There in the fan chamber he lost it. But only temporarily. Just for a moment. It went on a little trip and came right back.

  It happened when he took the thing off. He was going to go carefully through its contents to see if anything inspired him. If nothing inspired him, he planned to get as drunk as possible with what was left of the booze. Watly pulled the bag off his shoulder and started to open it. He lost his grip. As the bag fell Watly lashed out with his right hand to grab it. He couldn’t grip it so all he ended up doing was knocking it into the middle of the room. Watly grimaced, prepared to watch all his belongings fall into the fan and be pulverized. They didn’t. The bag hit the central air current and flew straight up the middle of the room toward the ceiling. Then Watly saw the bag sort of slip sideways off the powerful blast of air and fall outward into the wall, sliding back downward into Watly’s hand. All this took place in a split second. Fascinating. It had ridden the air upward—balanced on it like a pail on a jet of water. It had done a full loop-de-loop.

  Watly looked down at the blades. They were a complete blur. He could see through them to the bars below. Beyond that was the light of the street. The shadowy forms of a few rushing people could be seen clutching their hats and bustling along. Life went on down there, below the smear of whizzing blades.

  Watly looked upward. The upper screen seemed miles away. He put the knapsack back on, tightening its straps. If I can fly in a dream, Watly thought, who says I can’t fly in reality?

  Watly let his body lean forward slightly. Instantly he felt an increase in wind. It almost shoved him back against the wall. He kept his back arched and his hands at his side. With his legs straight and locked he let himself lean even farther. The wind held him. His body was pointed in at an almost forty-five-degree angle. He didn’t fall. Watly lifted his arms outward—palms in—and let the increased wind resistance push him back up. Incredible. This just might work. The air was not just air in here. It was a palpable thing. You could touch it—feel it—ride it. Use it like a tool. It was alive.

  Watly leaned inward again. This time he tried to gauge the air current. It was like some invisible rushing rapids buffeting skyward—a reverse waterfall. Watly tried to relax his body, bending at the knees and elbows. Now or never, Caiper. Now or never. He took a deep breath and jumped forward. His body plowed into the center of the chamber and the breath was knocked back out of his lungs. He’d landed on an almost solid ball of air. He was out of control, careening wildly in empty space. His clothes tore at his body and dust blinded him. He was in a void, held aloft by a screaming jet of wind. Invisible hands shoved him about. Watly felt his body rising. He tried to balance. More clouds of dust flew into his eyes. He brought both hands in to cover his face. He pulled his limbs inward for protection. Suddenly he was tumbling end over end, heading straight down into the center of the fan.

  Spread your body out, Caiper! Open up. Make your body a sail.

  He tried bringing his hands back, but he did it too swiftly. He was off center now, spinning down toward the side of the air channel. The fan’s blades were closer still. Watly vaguely made out the edge lip as it neared. He twisted and flipped himself toward it, landing on his hip with a thud. All this had taken just a few seconds.

  Okay, Caiper. Not bad. Live and learn. We’ll try again.

  He stood up, rubbed the painful hip, and prepared to jump again. This time he leapt off too forcefully. He dove into the middle of the airstream, flipped over in a perfect un
intentional somersault, and landed feet first on the far side, almost falling back into the blades. It took a moment for him to realize what happened.

  It was nearly comical. Dazzling, Watly thought to himself. Just dazzling. I should be on the CV variety or music-hall pleat.

  Once more, Mister Caiper. Watly turned and pushed off—using less force this time—and aimed for the very center. He kept his arms and legs spread wide but slightly curved. Body facing toward the fan. The skin of his face fluttered like cloth. Again the dust blinded him. He closed his eyes but kept himself in position. The air held him. He was rising higher and higher. Any tiny movement changed his resistance and altered his position. A bending of the wrist sent him sideways. A flexing of the ankle leaned him forward. Bringing his arms and legs in a little made him go back down. Keeping them spread out made him rise. It was a very delicate balancing act. He kept his arms and legs spread and his hands cupped and relaxed. He was in free fall, wind whipping all around him. He was flying like in the dream. Look, Ma, no hands.

  Beware the air, Watly thought. Beware the air.

  He was riding the air. Riding it. Straight up to the ceiling. It felt like he was clinging to the top of an enormous sphere that might roll and tip him off at the slightest wrong movement. He was weightless, going up and up. Within seconds his back hit something—something that gave a little. It was the screen. Watly was plastered against it, twenty feet above the fan, his body held in place by the force of wind. The knapsack dug into his back. He could feel the booze bottle against his spine.

  Now what? he thought. Here we have a young blind man stuck to a ceiling. Very good. Take a bow, Caiper. For my next trick...

  Watly opened his eyes. They were painfully irritated and full of dust. More flew in. Through the blur he could see very little. He slowly tilted his head back. There was a metal frame around the edge of the screen holding it in place. Watly moved his hands slightly toward it. It had a very thin ridge around the edge—just enough to stick the tips of his blistered fingers under. He turned his hands palms up and gripped it.

  Already he felt his body losing balance on the invisible sphere. He’d changed the resistance. Watly held tight with his fingers. His legs swayed lower, no longer being pushed as strongly into the screen. Soon he was hanging by the frame, his body totally vertical. The wind flew past and over his now streamlined position. But it still helped him. His fingers alone could never have held him in place.

  Watly kicked back and forth with his feet and then let them dangle. Occasionally he would swing them back up and the intense wind would catch his torso and hold him until he moved them back down. His body weight was loosening the screen’s frame. He could feel it slipping out. Now his fingers fit easily under the ridge. He tried to sway and bounce without losing grip. His side of the frame pulled lower. It was coming all the way out. After one particularly hearty bounce, the frame’s edge popped out completely, swung downward, and hung open. Watly clung to the edge of it as it dangled from one corner. Above was darkness. His body swayed against the unstable metal. Slowly and gingerly he climbed up the side of the screen, hand over hand, using the wind’s help. The air seemed to push and guide him onward, keeping him from falling or sliding backward. Soon he was at the opening, pulling himself through with his hands. Up into the darkness.

  Above the fan chamber there was a right-angle bend and then a horizontal tube. It was almost pitch black inside. The only light came from behind, through the opening where the screen had been. Watly had to stoop to fit. In a way the wind seemed stronger here, more concentrated and channeled. Watly followed it along, letting it continue to push him and goad him forward. It made a hollow groaning sound as it echoed down the pipe.

  If he held his arms out, his fingers trailed along the curved walls. The metal was cold, dry, and seamless. Watly walked onward, crouched like some strange simian. The farther he went the darker it became. As he continued, Watly realized the roar of the fan was now more bearable. He was putting some distance between them. That was good.

  Now it was pitch black. Watly walked on steadily, his back aching. How far have I walked? The tube began to tilt upward slightly, angling into a gentle slope. Watly found himself slipping backward every now and then. With no point of reference, it was impossible to tell just how steep the slope was. But it was definitely getting harder to continue. He began to use his hands, pressing outward against the sides. This helped him gain some control back.

  Then Watly walked into a wall. It was a soft and malleable wall but it still surprised him. He reached forward to touch it again. It wasn’t really a wall at all. It was a fibrous, netlike skin that the air easily passed through—some kind of filter. Watly found that it ripped and shredded quite easily. He tore an opening in it, stepped through, and passed beyond it. He figured it must be something workers replaced every so often—after it had trapped enough of whatever small particles made it through the first two screens.

  After traveling awhile longer Watly squatted down in the darkness and leaned into the curved walls. He needed to rest. As he sat, his body wanted to slide back down the tilted tube, but Watly pressed his feet into the side opposite him and wedged himself in position. His body was beyond fatigue. It was actually at the strange point where aches and pains turn into mere sensations. Discomfort became an awareness of one’s limitations and little else. He almost felt good. Martyr-ish, long-suffering, endurance-testing good.

  Watly did not rest long. After a short while the surrounding darkness seemed unsettling. He would rather be moving, concentrating. Sitting still, the mind wandered too much. The darkness was too total. If he let them, amoeba-shaped objects began to float vividly before him. Smiling monsters started to appear and dance. Then burning children. Mutilated women.... Watly rose and climbed on.

  He passed through three more of the soft filters before he saw light up ahead. It was very faint and very far ahead but it was real. And something else: It was not daylite. It was not man-made. Somewhere at the end of the wind-filled howling tunnel was sunlight. Up ahead. Real, honest-to-terra sunlight.

  CHAPTER 26

  It was out under the real sun that Watly Caiper killed someone new. This was arguably his fourth murder. If one counted the poor bum (which Watly did), and if one believed the news report about the two police officers in the copper crash (which Watly wasn’t all that sure about), then he had already killed three people. Or, at least, had been responsible for their deaths. One could even stretch the point and count the big one—the donor’s murder of that woman. It had been, after all, Watly’s own hands that had done that job. But Watly refused to count that. No, four was enough. Four murders in three days was plenty. This was escalating way out of control. Everything had been blown out of proportion. Watly Caiper. Misunderstood Watly Caiper. Watly Caiper: potential mother. No. Not at all. Watly Caiper: serial killer. Blood on your hands, Watly. Knock ‘em down one at a time, do you, Caiper? And this was the worst. This death. It couldn’t really be called an accident. And no one was in charge of Watly’s mind but Watly. “There’s fighting and then there’s fighting,” Watly’s mother had always said. “No one, no one has the right to hurt another person. If there’s anything sacred in this world, it is a person’s physical integrity. A person’s life.”

  Watly felt sick. He burped and tasted stomach acid. Killer.

  Everything had been going along so well. The light up ahead in the tube had gotten brighter and brighter as he continued forward. Watly saw the glow reflected all along the shiny curved walls. The hollow groan of the wind seemed to echo less and become a loud, breathy whistle sound. Watly used more and more effort to climb as the angle increased. Pretty soon he seemed to be going almost straight up, pushing out with his arms and legs for leverage. Inching up the smooth surface, the only thing keeping him in place the constant outward pressure of his limbs. Two times he slid back downward and lost a lot of ground before stopping completely. On he went. He w
asn’t going to get discouraged.

  The light was almost painful now. It seemed too bright, too fast. Watly found himself squinting, his eyes tearing up. Eventually he was right below it. The tube angled in a sharp curve and pointed directly up. Watly wedged himself in position—feet spread—and leaned into the tube’s bend. Right above him, divided and sectioned into geometric shapes by thin metal bars, was blue. Crystal clear blue. The most brilliant blue ever. And a touch of puffy whiteness scattered here and there. But the blue—that light, pure color—was the thing. It alone was worth the climb. Sky.

  Watly blinked. His eyes felt virginal, never used before. He reached up and tested the metal bars. They were thin and square-shaped. The pipe cutter clipped them neatly with no problem—pwonk, pwonk, pwonk—and they bent back easily. Soon Watly had an opening big enough to pull himself through. He did just that—squirming a bit and shifting the bag to make it—and he was out under a dazzling sun. A real sun.

  Watly jumped off the rim and sat down heavily. He leaned back into the shiny surface of the tube, feeling the ridges of the golden sound mufflers, and ripped off his makeshift ear protectors. What a relief to have them off. He massaged his lobes and rubbed the line under his chin where the belt had been tied. He was on a roof—sitting in white gravel on a Second Level roof. His unbound ears throbbed and Watly winced at the loud moaning whistle that still came from the mouth of the air channel behind him. He crawled a few feet away from it and sat again, hugging his knees. All around him was sky. Beautiful sky. Watly could see forever. He breathed deeply. The air was charged. It was full and rich and felt like medicine to his overworked lungs. What’s the season? Watly wondered. It’s late spring, isn’t it? I’ve lost track. What was it back in Brooklyn? That was my last sun. Yes, it must be late spring by now. May, maybe.