Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  “What about the politics? What was she going to run for?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Sentiva said. “Maybe Chancellor.”

  Watly swallowed. “Chancellor? Of Manhattan? Wow. Now, who wouldn’t want her to—”

  “You want a list of everyone in Manhattan politics, Mr. Caiper?” Sentiva interrupted harshly.

  “Well... what about Alvedine Industries? Who’s next in line for the job? Who’s running the business now that ‘Corber’ Alvedine is dead? Could it be that an ambitious—”

  “I don’t think that’s the motive, Mr. Caiper.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—at least for the time being—I’m running Alvedine Industries.”

  “Oh,” Watly said, feeling somewhat foolish. “Well, what about Corbell—did she have a lover? Could there have been some kind of lover’s quarrel?”

  Sentiva looked at Watly coolly. “We were both faithful to each other, Mr. Caiper. In our way. That was our arrangement. That was our life.”

  “Isn’t it possible—”

  “No,” she snapped harshly. “It’s not possible at all.”

  Watly felt frustration rising. He wanted to pace again but he stopped himself. “Can’t you think of anyone who might have done it? What you’re telling me is: ‘Nobody and everybody did it’! This doesn’t help me!”

  “Is it my job to help you?” Sentiva yelled suddenly. “As far as the world is concerned, you did it. Is it my job to give the scapegoat a scapegoat?”

  Watly realized this entire trip to Second Level might have been worthless. He pushed the police cap back down on his scalp. It felt itchy. “All I want is a clue,” he said softly. “Just a clue.”

  Sentiva said nothing for a while. After some time, she snap-ignited another cigel and pink smoke filled the room once more. “I would help you, Mr. Caiper, if I could,” she said. Her eyes were focused at some middle distance between them. “I would. Honestly. But if you didn’t kill my poovus, I don’t know who did. No one specifically gains by her death. Many people gain, I suppose. I don’t know who killed her.” She looked at him quizzically. Her gaze traveled down to his feet and back. “I think perhaps you didn’t.”

  Watly smiled weakly. “Thank you for that,” he said softly.

  “Don’t thank me, Mr. Caiper. It’s not that much of a compliment,” Sentiva said, pushing a strand of her long hair away from her face. “I’ve only been convinced because your simple- mindedness rules you out. You are a prime example of the sheltered, First Level, CV-born-and-bred mentality. You’re a tried and true plurite.”

  “What’s that?” Watly asked, not sure he wanted the answer. She had said it like the strongest curse.

  “A plurite?” Sentiva laughed. “You mean to tell me you don’t know what a plurite is? This just gets better and better. Your stupidity is astounding!”

  Watly felt himself flush. He tried not to get angry. “What is it?” he asked again, his voice controlled.

  Sentiva stared at him, smiling. “What race are you, Watly Caiper?”

  “Huh?”

  “What race? What kind of person? What breed? What’s your genetic ancestry?” Sentiva seemed to be getting a kick out of Watly’s bewilderment.

  “Race? I’m...” Watly faltered. “I’m just a human being....”

  Sentiva glared. “I’m not asking for your species, I’m asking for your race. I’m asking about your ancestors.”

  Watly was totally confused. “I... I’m whatever everyone else is.”

  Sentiva laughed again, sounding even more aloof this time. “Ah—there’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Caiper. You’re a plurite. You’re a First Leveler. You’re a mix, Caiper—you’re a mongrel like everyone else down there. A blend. A combo. A... stew. The only purity left in the world is on Second Level.” She stood and turned around slowly. “Look at me, Caiper. What’s the difference between us? Do you see the difference? Did you see a difference in the people in the street up here? Have you even noticed?”

  “We’re all mixes....” Watly said quietly.

  “Wrong again, Mr. Caiper. You’re just proving your ignorance. We on Second are not mixes. Not like you.” She looked at him with disgust. “You’re all a little bit of one thing and a little bit of another. A little bit of everything. You’re all mutts. Look at yourself. Your skin is darker than mine, your nose is broader, your eyes more slanted. You’ve got every damn thing in you. Touch of this, touch of that. All squished together. It’s subtle with some, but you’re all the same. You bred together, Mr. Caiper. For generations races mingled and mingled and now you’re all plurites. Oh, there are variations—some are darker, redder, some are curly-haired, tall, short, eyes more or less almond-shaped—all varieties. But you’re all mutts. We up here are pure.”

  Watly stepped back a few feet. He was speechless for a moment. “What about the First Levelers who’ve made it to Second?” he said angrily. “Doesn’t that disprove all this? All those First Levelers who’ve made it up here must corrupt your ‘purity.’”

  Sentiva sighed and crossed toward Watly. “What makes you think,” she asked softly, her eyes dark, “that any First Leveler ever made it to Second?”

  Watly shook his head. He felt slightly dizzy again. This was too much. “It happens. You hear about it all the time. People sometimes get enough money. And—hey—people win the Level Lottery, you know. I see it all the time on the—”

  “On the CV?” she interrupted. “You see them win on the CV?” There was something almost like pity in her eyes. She nearly whispered it now: “The ‘Cee-Vee?’”

  Watly stepped back another few feet. He felt disoriented. This was all like some Narcolo Caiper conspiracy theory. This was crazy. Everything he’d ever heard... “I don’t believe this.” He swallowed dryly. “You don’t look that different from me. Nobody I saw up here looks that different from me.”

  “But we are. You are a plurite, and we are all just people. Pure caucasoid ancestry. Pure mongoloid. Pure Negroid. Pure everything. We are all of a kind. Not a single blend among us. Within your ranks there are variations, yes. But still you are all mixtures. Look at your history, Caiper. Your past is a legacy of genetic corruption. You are all the products of miscegenation.”

  He coughed. “What’s that?”

  Sentiva laughed coldly again. “Never mind, Caiper. It’s an old term you wouldn’t understand. In fact, you understand so little it’s remarkable you’ve survived at all. Your whole concept of reality, Mr. Caiper, is based on the CV. Your entire existence is based on a fabrication. Your truths are based on a lie. You’ve bought the line just like everyone else. It’s incredible. I almost feel sorry for you.”

  Watly felt his anger rising. He couldn’t control it now. “I don’t need your damn pity!” he yelled. “And I don’t need your condescending attitude either. I may be naive about Second Level—or a lot of things, for that matter—but you’re no better. You may have more information available to you, but you’re no smarter. I doubt you’d last five minutes back where I’m from— back with us ‘composite’ people.” Watly was shaking. He tried to regain control of his emotions.

  “Touché, Watly Caiper. Touché.” Sentiva sat back down. She still seemed totally relaxed—no fear, no worries. A tough Second Level Woman. Sublimely civilized. “You may be right. Living on Second Level does tend to give one a distorted view as well, I’m sure. Personally I’ve never been down there.”

  “You should try it,” Watly said coldly. “It might open your eyes.” He looked down to the plush carpet, mad at himself for letting go like that. This was not the time. This woman could be a much-needed ally if he played it right. In spite of her hot-and-cold attitude, underneath was something that almost read like warmth. Under the elitist snobbery was—what?—affection? She might help him.

  Sentiva turned from Watly and looked across to the large windows. Sunlight glare
d off their surface, obscuring the outside world. “Well, Mr. Caiper, unless you have more questions—or you want to haver me with the rifle, or take me hostage—barring all that, I’d appreciate being left alone now.”

  That was it. It was over. Watly realized the uselessness of their conversation. All it had done was mess up his sense of reality. All it did was confuse him. It had gone nowhere. He had no new clues—no leads. The whole damn trip was for nothing. And now he could look forward to trying to get back down the way he got up—or some other way entirely if inspiration struck. In any case, it was a hell of a lot of wasted energy for naught. He wasn’t even positive if he had another ally or not. Her conversion to his side, if it had happened at all, had not been obvious. At least it seemed she understood his innocence, whatever good that did.

  Watly started toward the door. “Can you turn off the anxiety field for me?” he asked, sounding—to his own ears—too much like a sheepish little boy.

  She rose and crossed to the near end of the foyer. There was another numbered plate on this end. She punched in the code and the light went green. Watly turned to her once more. “There’s nothing you remember? There’s no one you suspect? No one in particular? Friend? Politician? Sex partner? No one with the code?” he pleaded one last time.

  Sentiva inhaled and Watly got a brief sense of the shape of her perfect body under the dark clothing. The memory of those delicious, firm breasts....

  “No, Mr. Caiper. Unless...” she squinted, “unless Corbell gave the combination to her private doctor—which I doubt. It’s highly unlikely.”

  Watly perked up. “Her doctor? Who was her doctor?”

  “Mitterly. Dr. Aug Mitterly.”

  Watly smiled. “Well, it’s something. I already knew he was involved, but at least this confirms it. Maybe he’s the mastermind. Maybe he hired the donor as a hit man—”

  “You’d better hurry or the field will come up again,” Sentiva said quickly.

  Watly walked down the foyer toward the front door. “An address? An address on the doctor?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Four-oh-one Park Avenue South. Second Level,” Sentiva said after him. “Perhaps, then, Watly... perhaps I was of some help after all.”

  He turned and saw she was smiling a genuine smile. No sarcasm, no condescension, just a genuine warm smile. She was spectacular. A fuck. Yes. And perhaps she was on his side now as well. If nothing else, that might come in handy.

  “Goodbye, Sentiva,” he said.

  “Goodbye, Watly.”

  Watly turned and opened the door.

  On the top step, right before him, was Sergeant Fenlocki, flanked on either side by two officers with guns drawn. A few steps down four backup officers squatted with rifles poised. On the street below were three spotless unmanned coppers with each shiny gun turret trained on Watly. Around those were various cruisers and more police—all with guns aimed at Watly. The amount of dark barrels facing Watly seemed almost infinite.

  “Hello, Mr. Watly Caiper,” Sergeant Fenlocki said with a smile. His nasolabial folds deepened. “We discovered your... calling card... in a certain air tube and thought we might find you here.” His grin grew. “The jig—as they say—is up.”

  PART THREE

  UNDERNEATH IT ALL

  For the pull is a killer

  and my day has just begun.

  – Pull Song

  CHAPTER 29

  Walking through the tunnel from Brooklyn to Manhattan was not as easy as it sounded. From end to end the tunnel was well over two kilometers long. The air was stale and stagnant. At times it seemed almost impossible to breathe. But Watly was in good shape back then. He’d just had that two-day walk from his childhood home and he was ready to take on Manhattan for the first time. One long, empty claustrophobic tunnel was not about to slow him down. No. He was in the big time now. Doing good. Besides, he’d only have to do it once. He was on a one-way trip, headed toward his glorious future. Yeah.

  At the end of the tunnel, his papers were double-checked carefully by a Manhattan customs officer. The officer accepted his immigration reluctantly. She looked vaguely disgusted that yet another person was being added to this already crowded place. The questions were routine.

  “Is this your first time in Manhattan?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How much money do you bring with you?”

  “One hundred forty-five New York dollars.”

  “Are you diseased in any way?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Got any drugs?”

  “No, ma’am.” (Like the scanners wouldn’t have picked it up if I did.)

  “Are you carrying any wood on you?”

  “No, ma’am.” (And if I was and had declared it, Watly thought to himself, you’d take it from me and sell it, right?)

  “Any friends or relatives live in California?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  On the officer went, one question after another. When she was done, Watly’s visa was branded and he was on his own. All alone in First Level Manhattan. Free to tackle the glamorous life.

  The first thing he noticed was the dripping. The air was thick with moisture and large drops dribbled from the daylites and the ceiling above. The whole place reeked of mold and mildew. The streets were slick and greasy-looking. Watly’s hair was getting damp. It was sort of like rain but oilier and it descended unevenly in big pendulous drops. I must get a hat first thing, Watly thought.

  “Hat, boss?” A voice came from behind. “Hat for your wet head? I’ve a cheap one for you. You got anything other’n New York money, boss? You got foreign money? Penn money or maybe Jersey? Great drip hat for Jersey dollars....”

  Watly walked by rapidly, ignoring the sales pitch. He was smart enough to realize he wasn’t very smart. He was just out of the tunnel and an easy mark. It would be wise to go straight to Uncle Narcolo’s without delay. People down by the tunnel probably waited there just to take advantage of those like him. The “new ones.”

  Two workers pulling a heavily loaded lowtruck crossed in front of him. They were concentrating on their labors but still singing a jolly pull song. The song was energizing—a work song, a “let’s get the job done” song. Watly listened and picked up the tune as they passed. It was an easy tune, the melody strong and motivational to get your heart going. He sang it while he walked the long blocks toward his uncle’s place, checking his direction sheet every now and then.

  I’ve got aaaarms for the pull.

  I’ve got aaaarms to do my work.

  For the pull is a long one

  and the way is dark.

  I’ve got llllegs for the pull.

  I’ve got llllegs to keep me firm.

  For the pull is a killer

  and my day has just begun.

  More workers pulling lowtrucks passed. This area was full of them. Goods needed transporting, and this was the way. Pull songs overlapped and mingled and soon Watly had lost his entirely.

  “You’re fresh, aren’t you, Jacko?”

  Watly was startled by the voice so close by.

  “Don’t be frightened. Just noticing your freshness. You new today?” The short woman was walking right alongside Watly. She was in her eighties easily—maybe nineties but had no trouble keeping up. Her face was heavily shadowed by the wide brim of her hat.

  “I’m just in, yes,” Watly said reluctantly. He picked up his speed a little, trying to leave the old woman behind.

  “You think I want to rob you, huh? You think you’re gonna get taken ‘cause you’re just in?”

  Watly kept silent, walking faster still.

  “Jacko! Jacko, not all here is evil. There’s such a thing as good here....”

  She touched his jacket but Watly tore it out of her grasp. “Whatever you want, I’m not interested,” he said loudly.
>
  “I want you to make a right, that’s what I want.”

  “What?”

  “Take my advice. One more block straight and you’ll be robbed and beat up bad enough to be dead. That’s all, Jacko. That’s my help. I had to do it. We all ain’t bad.”

  Watly slowed and squinted. “And this is true?”

  “Every fresh one who goes up there gets ripped an’ rolled bad. They see you comin’.”

  The old woman started walking away.

  “Why the warning?” Watly asked.

  She turned. “We aren’t all bad, Jacko. Like I said, there’s good here if you look for it. Look around you, fresh one, no one else is afraid like you. Your fear makes you stick out—makes things happen to you. Bad things happen to the afraid. You got no eggs showing. It’s a deep and drippy drip-day and you have no hat. This is also funny.”

  “Where should I get a hat?”

  The old woman tilted her head and stared at Watly with her shadowy eyes. “I’ll give you mine as a lesson, Jacko. Not all is bad here.”

  “I can’t take it.”

  “Take it.” She undid the strap.

  “How much?”

  “A gift to the fresh one.” A toothless smile opened up and her eyes glimmered.

  “I’ll give you five New York dollars for it,” Watly said, and he took out his money sack from the satchel.

  “No, no,” the old woman said, and she thrust out a withered hand. Before Watly had even realized it, that same hand snatched up his money sack and the tiny woman zipped down the street and disappeared around a corner with amazing speed. Watly was left standing there. Open-mouthed and broke. This was the country of Manhattan. The island country.

  Welcome to the new world, Jacko.

  Watly walked on toward Narcolo’s place, stunned. Totally stunned. He avoided the direction the old woman had warned him about, on the off chance that it might actually be the truth. This was all quite an education.