Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  Skyscrapers gleamed all around. In the distance the really tall ones towered like giants over the city. Watly was awestruck. To the left, the Gavy Tower seemed to tilt west and touch the edge of the sun. Its golden exterior burned with reflections. Watly felt the warmth of real sunlight—daylight, not daylite—hit him on the nose, cheeks, and forehead. And there was Alvedine—that chunky, broad-shouldered building that seemed to rise forever. And the two Empire State Buildings with their shiny connecting bridges. The Man-With-Hat-One. And the Chrysler. All of them. Vertical space. Air. Sky. Sun.

  Watly drew little circles in the gravel with the pipe cutter. The sights were incredible. His mind felt numb. He leaned back into the knapsack and continued looking upward, breathing slowly and deliberately, relishing every inhale as if it were a gourmet meal.

  Suddenly there was a crunching sound from directly behind him. It was the noise of heavy footsteps on gravel. Watly spun around.

  “You’re a pretty crafty one, huh?” the cop said. He stood just a few yards away and held the double-bolted haver nerve rifle with both hands. “I told my partner, Neper Balden, I said—I said, ‘Neper, this Sergeant Fenlocki fella’s crazy. Posting a cop at every single exhaust tube is just insane,’ I says.” The officer hocked loudly and spat a thick wad of mucus onto the gravel. “‘Waste of police,’ I says. ‘Who the hell’s gonna climb up one? Huh? Who’s got the eggs? An air tube? No one could. And what for?’ But the sergeant’s a stubborn man. He seems to think it’s a likely escape route. ‘Second Level’s weakest point,’ and all. Well, wouldn’t you know he was raping right. And I was wrong. How about that?’’ The officer grinned and showed a missing front tooth. “It’s Watly Caiper hisself and I’ve got him.”

  The man’s feet were spread and planted firmly. He was bracing his stocky form against the inevitable recoil of the nerve gun. “Yes-sir-ee. Yes-sir-ee. It’s the man. Watly Caiper.” He laughed and spat again. Watly rose forward up on his knees.

  “I’m gonna kill you now, Caiper.” The cop chuckled. “It’ll be the easiest million a body ever earned.”

  “Just a second, officer.” Watly felt sweat trickle down his forehead. He got nearer the man by walking slowly forward on his knees. “One last favor...”

  “Nuh-uh, Caiper. This is it.” The office sprang the bolt.

  Watly crawled closer still. He had to get near. “Just one favor. Do it in the head. I want it fast.”

  “And why should I, Mr. Mutilator? Why should I? Why not just get you in a hand or foot? You know how long that’d take? Maybe a full minute or two. The longest raping minute of your life. I could just stand here and watch it climb up the nerves of your arm as you screamed and rolled around. It’d serve you.”

  “In the head, please,” Watly said quietly. His face was now only a foot and a half from the barrel of the gun. Close. Real close.

  “No way. I got no reason to. And since you asked for it special, I’m definitely not doing it in the head. Too good for you.” The man spat again—this time at Watly. He missed and the spit hit gravel.

  Watly pleaded with his eyes. The officer turned the gun down and over slightly so it was pointing at Watly’s left hand. This was good. This was a chance.

  “Kiss this world goodbye, Watly Caiper.”

  Watly moved even farther forward. He found himself suddenly aware of the weight of the pipe cutter in his hand. He lifted it slightly. His senses seemed heightened. Everything slowed. It was as if the outside world was suddenly shifted into extreme slow motion. He saw the officer’s finger as it began to gently squeeze the trigger. He saw the gleam in the man’s beady eyes—the smile and the growing look of pleasure. He saw his own left hand rush forward—as if no longer a part of him—and grip the cold barrel.

  Watly then saw the world tilt as he sprang forward and the perspective changed. There was a blast from the rifle and a bolt flashed out harmlessly toward that clear blue above. A struggle began—a fight for control of the rifle. They were rolling around on the gravel, the gun pointing away from both. And again Watly became aware of the pipe cutter. He was thinking—even while fighting furiously—that someone had once told him something about the human skull. He tried to remember. A street tough in Brooklyn had said it. “Hit a person on the side of the head,” the guy had said, “if you want to kill them. Right in the temple. But if you only want to knock them out, hit them on the top. The top of the head.”

  On the top. Okay. The top. And so, somehow, Watly got room to swing and came down with the pipe cutter. Hard. The handle hit directly in the top center of the officer’s head with a cracking thud. That did it. Bonk. The battle was over. The man went limp on the white gravel and the rifle clattered down. Over. Over.

  Watly knelt again. He was heaving for air. That should keep the cop out for a while, he was thinking. That should hold him. Out cold, he is. Watly leaned in to the officer. Yup, out cold. Only it was more than that. Much more. The man was dead. Stone cold dead. No breathing, no heartbeat, and a stream of spittle dripping from the gap between his front teeth. Watly had killed the cop with a blow that was only supposed to make him unconscious.

  Shit. Not another one. What about the rule? What about the old saying. Hitting someone on the top of the head wasn’t supposed to kill them. It was a proven rule of thumb, wasn’t it? A fact? A law of nature or something? Why didn’t anyone say it depended on how hard you hit? Why didn’t anyone say these rules weren’t always true when it came to the fragility of the human skull? Of human life?”

  After a few moments Watly threw up. He had had enough.

  “Welter-five-nie. Welter-five-nie. Where’s your call-in?”

  The cop’s speaker was squawking.

  “I feel sick,” Watly groaned from a few feet away.

  “Do we read you? You feel sick?”

  “I feel really sick,” Watly said, hardly aware he was speaking to someone.

  “We copy. Take a personal-time, officer. We have authorization.”

  “That’s great,” Watly said as he held his stomach tightly.

  “Hope you feel better. We’ll send a replacement. Signing off.”

  There was a click. Watly felt chilled and weak. He shuddered all over. Did they send a replacement? Oh, rape on dried catshit. Watly looked around. The only thing he could do—the only plan he had—was distinctly unpleasant. Distinctly unpleasant. He shuddered again. Is there no limit to what one will do to save one’s own neck? Does it never end? Selfish/bad, this is. Selfish/bad.

  Fifteen more minutes passed before Watly threw up again. This time it was more like the dry heaves. Painful spasms with no results. Things had changed. Things were different now. Lots of things. He was now dressed as a police officer. He had on the snappy blue jacket and pants and the rakish cap—all slightly large. Over one shoulder was his knapsack and over the other was the haver nerve rifle. Back behind him was the air tube, and somewhere way down inside it—perhaps still sliding lower, down and down—was the body of a stocky dead man wearing only underwear. Somewhere near him, near this dead guy, was a pile of filthy old clothes—a jersey jacket and anklepants. Above all this, the bars over the tube’s opening had been neatly bent back to look as natural as possible. The disturbed gravel of the roof had been smoothed. Everything was calm and serene. Untouched.

  Watly walked across the roof stiffly—toward the raised door that let into the building below. He felt empty inside, both literally and figuratively. He felt he had thrown up not just food. He had thrown up part of himself. He had vomited out some intrinsic part of Watly Caiper. A little piece of his humanity, his morality—or something. The other murders had been different. Watly had not pulled the trigger on the gun that shot the bum. He had not carefully aimed the unpiloted copper at the two officers. He had not planned the riot. (Had anyone died in that? It could be.) And he certainly had no intentional part in the donor’s killing of that poor woman. He had been powerl
ess in that.

  But this was not the same. This Watly did on his own. Self-defense—yes. But still, a man was dead. And he was to blame. Directly. He had killed him with a blow to the head and coldly shoved him down an exhaust tube. Undressing a dead man, pulling off all his clothes, dragging a half-naked corpse across a roof, scraping skin off on the rough gravel, hoisting the heavy body and squeezing it down past metal bars... had Watly really done all that? Had he been capable? Oh, rape. This was a sickness. All of it. This was a cancer that grew more and more. Worse and worse.

  Numbly, and without trying to hide himself at all, Watly took the roof elevator down to street level. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and began to walk south. No one paid any attention to him. A foot-patrol officer was apparently no rarity. He saw quite a number of pedestrians strolling up and down the avenue. All were exquisitely dressed. Their clothing was really fuckable—and probably unbelievably expensive. Wild shocking colors and opalescent fabrics. Everything looked shiny and brand-new. No patches, no stains, no rips. And those fancy shoes again. Leather? There was something different about the people themselves, as well. The skin on their faces looked exaggerated—too light or too dark. One extreme or the other. Caricatures of people, instead of just people. And some of them seemed surprisingly young to Watly. Impossibly young. Younger than Watly himself.

  Watly let himself become submerged once again within the sights and sounds around him. It was the only way he could continue. Look and smell and listen and breathe, Caiper. Don’t think. No more thinking. Never think again. Life is too short to think. Thinking just gets in the way. Thinking slows you down. Just look around you. See the beauty. Smell the cleanness. Hear the peace.

  It struck Watly suddenly—almost physically—that the most wondrous thing about Second Level compared to First was a very simple thing. A basic thing: People had only one shadow here. Just one. Like Brooklyn. The solitary sun cast only one elegant shadow for each object. On First Level there was never only one shadow. Down below, as one walked from beneath one daylite to another, a fan of shadows danced about, fused and separated, faded and grew—always in motion and never alone. Here it was different. Here a person could have a sense of solidity. One person: one shadow. Elegant.

  A sedan went by, one woman driving. It was an antique car—in perfect condition—retrofitted with a new engine at the back but without compromising the original lines. Watly’s stride faltered and he stared at it. Beautiful. Fuckable. It was a bright red Chevy from the nineties or maybe turn-of-the-century, in incredible shape. Following it a more modem vehicle zipped past—again a private sedan, clean and polished, only one driver, cylinders blazing beautifully.

  Watly looked down at the smooth, unbroken surface of the white streets. Unblemished whitetop. No potholes, no lumps, no primitive makeshift repair jobs—none of the patchwork, almost archaeological quality of down below. The streets and sidewalks up here looked virginal—boring in their lack of character. But they were beautiful. Everything was beautiful.

  Watly tried not to show his awe. More people passed by and he almost bumped into one. A few First Levelers in workervests and black jumpsuits trotted along with eyes lowered. Watly picked up the pace and turned east. Structures were set apart up here on Second. Watly had never realized how many buildings must have been five stories or lower down below. It seemed most of them never made it up this high. Those that did make it to this level bore little resemblance to their lower counterparts. There were beautiful slate roofs, tile walls and shingles, and golden and wooden entrance ways. Sprawling private homes with gingerbread-carved flying buttresses, ornate cupolas, brightly colored shutters, and striped awnings. Tall house-offices made from old high rises. Even the skyscrapers looked personalized. Some had crenellated parapets at the top and others were painted in vast bold graphics and abstract designs. Space and more space.

  Watly saw something up ahead, coming toward him. Something incredible. On his side of the sidewalk, nearing with every step, two people approached him. One was a thin, middle-aged man wearing a colorful cape. The other was clutching the man’s hand and running alongside him, trying to keep up. It was a child. A lovely little child. Four or five years old at the most. It had wide and curious eyes and perfect pale skin. Watly felt his throat constrict.

  The two neared and passed by, brushing close. A child. A baby, really. Hardly more.

  Up ahead was another—another child. This one with a woman. He was a little boy and had a shock of bright orange-red hair. Freckles. He was younger still, and seemed wobbly on his legs. Awkward. Watly felt dizzy. He felt an achy love kind of feeling for the smallness. For the youngness. For the beauty. This was a kid. A real live kid. A boy, talking with great animation and energy.

  Watly got closer and could make out a few words. The child’s voice was high and breathy and full of giggles. His little cheeks were red with exertion and he gestured broadly and unselfconsciously with the one free hand as he spoke. As they brushed past, ignoring him totally, Watly made out one word in particular. He heard it clearly, as if it were meant for him. Again his throat grew tight and Watly thought for a brief moment that he might cry. He might break down right there on the street—right there in a police uniform on the Second Level—and cry hysterically. He didn’t. He swallowed and controlled the urge, pressing it inward. He kept walking. But still that one word echoed over and over in his head. It wouldn’t stop. The word had been said casually by the child. It had been plunked down in the middle of a sentence with little thought. But Watly had still heard it.

  The word was mommy.

  CHAPTER 27

  Watly hadn’t remembered the bay windows. Of course, the first time he stood here at the foot of these steps, he’d not been himself. Not himself at all. And now as just himself looking up at the front of the large building, he could take it all in. To either side of the front steps were deep bay windows made of a weathered wood. The building was imposing and powerful-looking and seemed—from Watly’s perspective, at least—just tall enough to graze the sky. There was no movement from behind any of the windows. The place was lifeless. It was waiting, daring him to take a step.

  Watly knew that even a man dressed as a policeman would draw attention if he stood gaping up at a private home for too long. It was time to move again. Time to get going. Time to trot up those same front steps he had climbed what seemed like years ago. Time to pay another call at the Alvedine residence. Watly shifted the heavy rifle’s strap and started forward.

  There was an eerie sense of déjà vu as Watly touched the front door and saw it was completely unsecured. A trap? The wooden door swung inward easily without a creak. Just like it had before. To the right Watly saw the plate with numbered keyboard. A security device, no doubt. Let’s hope it’s off, Watly thought.

  He took a step into the foyer, closing the door behind him. Ahead was the sitting room, illuminated by all the natural sunlight streaming in. Watly took another step down the short foyer. There was no one around and no lenses visible. It seemed safe enough. If it was a trap it sure didn’t look like it yet. He edged forward slowly. As he advanced, hinkyness overcame him. His chest felt tighter and his pulse quickened. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should never have come up here. Never have come back to Second and certainly never have come back to this house. Not this house.

  He took a step forward.

  This was an awful idea. He was going to die. He was going to die any second now. It was inevitable. It was a trap.

  Watly was having trouble breathing. His chest felt tight and constrained and his skin was crawling. It was a horrible panic attack, or something.

  He took one more step forward, almost in the sitting room now. He was sweating in what felt like great sheets of liquid all down his face.

  Rape, I’m going to die, he thought. I’m going to die and it’s gonna hurt real bad. It’s the pain I don’t want—the pain!

  Watly couldn�
��t move forward anymore. He’d gone as far as possible. His legs were trembling.

  Maybe I’m dying right now! Maybe this is it! Maybe I’ll die right here all by myself. All alone. The worst kind of death you can have. A lonely death.

  He took a step backward and suddenly felt better. Another step and the fear subsided even more. He backed up all the way to the door. Now he felt okay. His confidence was back. He felt himself again.

  This was strange. What was the story here? Watly took another tentative, experimental step down the front hallway. Sure enough, his fear increased. The sense of dread and fright was an almost tangible thing coming on stronger with each step down the hall. This was not just Watly. No, something more was at play here.

  Watly retreated again and looked back at the wall keyboard. Etched in the lower right-hand corner of the metal plate was some small writing:

  anxiety field controls

  An anxiety field. That was the security device. No wonder the door had been unlocked both times—the house was protected by an anxiety field in the front hallway. An old but effective method of stopping intruders. Supposedly illegal now. Watly glanced around. This entrance was the only way in—as far as he knew. The outer windows had looked solid and impenetrable. Anyway, he would attract attention trying to climb to one in broad daylight. No, this was the only way.

  Maybe he could push his way through an anxiety field with sheer willpower. It might be possible. Watly backed up against the door and gritted his teeth. I can do this, he thought. All I need is strength. He pushed off from the door and plowed forward toward the sitting room.