Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  Watly held out a hand toward her. “I’m sorry” was all he could think to say.

  “So am I,” Alysess said bitterly, with no acknowledgment of his hand. She chewed and swallowed loudly.

  “Well... so am I. So am I sorry.” Watly dropped the hand and grabbed something brown from the tray. It tasted salty but good. “I didn’t plan it this way, you know. I didn’t say: ‘Let’s see who I can rope into this thing and mess up real bad.’ I’m not the one chasing us. I’m not the raping cops. I’m not whoever the hell it is who started all this crap! I never wanted this to happen.” He swallowed and took another piece. “You think I want this? You think I like that now you’re in this as much as I? You think that makes me happy?”

  Alysess reached for more of the food and snatched up a handful angrily. “You want to know what I think? You really want to know?” She shoved more of it into her mouth and chewed until she could speak again. “I think you’re glad. I think you’re glad you have company in all this melted garbage. I think you’re happy you’re not alone!” Her eyes lowered to the bloodstains on Watly’s clothing.

  Watly sat up taller and leaned into the wall. “That’s catshit.” He ate one of the small green things.

  “It is not catshit,” Alysess said as she pulled over the medipak. “Misery loves—”

  “Oh, come on! I didn’t intentionally—”

  “You can’t tell me—” she started, carefully removing Watly’s clothes to get at his injuries. By now Narcolo’s makeshift bandages underneath were caked with dried blood. “You can’t tell me it isn’t nicer going through all this with someone than without.”

  Watly reached around Alysess to get at more of the small green things. They were quite tasty. “That’s not the point. I never intended to get you caught up in all this. You’re acting like I—”

  “That is exactly the point,” she snapped, and began treating his wounds with the salves and dressings from the medipak. Watly flinched at the sting. “It shouldn’t hurt,” she said as she spread more ointment over the slug wound in his arm.

  “Well, it does.”

  “Well... good!”

  Tavis threw the door open and dumped another bedroll beside them. “A servant I’m not.” The androgynous voice was bitter and the painted features tightened up in anger.

  “Fine!” Watly yelled. “Then leave and we won’t treat you like one!”

  Tavis turned back in the doorway, colorful face suddenly calm and angelic. “Are you going to have sets now?”

  “No, we are not going to have ‘sets’ now,” Watly said, trying to get up. Alysess held him down and continued treating his wounds. “But if and when we ever do decide to have ‘sets,’ we will stick our heads into the hallway and quietly call out your name—‘Tavis? Taaaay-vis?’ we’ll say—so that you can, if you’re nearby, hear our gentle call and come to watch us. How’s that?”

  “That’ll be fine,” Tavis said, and left the room.

  “Jeez!”

  “Stop wiggling, Watly—or I’ll never finish this raping stuff.”

  “Well... finish the raping stuff.” He scooped up more of the green things and gulped them down.

  Alysess worked on his arm, his side, both legs, his neck, and—finally—his jaw. Doing the jaw seemed to bother her more than the rest. She avoided looking at Watly’s eyes as she worked on it and kept her head lowered toward the medipak.

  When she was done treating him they both finished what was left on the tray, eating silently, neither looking at the other. After the food, they unrolled their respective bedrolls—one on each side of the room. Watly was by the door and Alysess by the far wall.

  Watly used the toilet and then lay down on his bedroll and stared at the ceiling, looking at the geometric patterns the tiles made. His own dim reflection was sectioned into hundreds of tiny Watly-bits.

  “This whole thing’s a mess,” he said quietly.

  There was a long pause.

  “Yes, it is,” came the reply.

  Watly turned to see Alysess was also lying down, staring at the ceiling. The pinlights near her bedroll put her face in silhouette. Her features were hidden, but the outline of her nose, forehead, lips, and jaw was clear and sharp.

  “I’m sorry,” Watly said. “Really.”

  Something sparkled on her cheek, just below the eye.

  “I know you are,” she said. “I am too.”

  Soon the bedrolls were brought together, the pinlights lowered, and after a while—after a long while—Tavis was called in.

  As Watly and Alysess made love, Watly would occasionally look over to the corner, where Tavis—watching quietly, intently—fiddled beneath his/her raglike clothing with whatever genitalia she/he had down there. It still was impossible to tell. Whatever the creature was, it enjoyed the show politely through to the end.

  “Are you a he or a she?” Watly finally asked softly after the pleasure faded to memory.

  “Yes,” was Tavis’s answer.

  CHAPTER 37

  The wounds healed slowly. As the next few days passed Watly was sore and uncomfortable. Alysess told him that, though it would improve, he had permanently lost some mobility and strength in his left arm. Permanently. This was not pleasant news.

  His side still ached but was getting less sensitive daily and his knees and shins were all scabbed up and itching like crazy. Other than that—other than all that—he was fine. His body was pulling together, knitting, closing... regrouping. Gaining what strength there was to be had.

  And there they were. He and Alysess. In the subs.

  In this elaborate and strange complex of tunnels and platforms and hallways and rooms. It was virtually a whole city under Manhattan. A Third Level. With CV, water, food, electricity, ventilation, everything—obviously tapping into the First Level supplies somehow. Stealing a little here, a little there, plugging into this or that source. Raiding the cables, the pipes. A new world—beautiful in its own way. Clean and dry and closed off. How long had it been here? And how long had its denizens been building, expanding, planning, plotting, preparing... making ready the “revolution”? Creating, no doubt, the painted-face style for the express purpose of anonymity. Manufacturing a First Level underworld for its own uses. Maybe even molding Sexsentral itself into one large hiding place. And all—all led by the Subkeeper. The Subkeeper, late of fairy tales and bedtime cautions. A real, live person.

  “Corbell Alvedine was one of us, you know,” the Subkeeper said. “She was on our side. She would have helped our cause.” He stared at Watly. “If I thought you had actually killed her, I’d have turned you in myself. Or killed you. For revenge. She was a good woman. Was going into politics. Trying to change the world from the top down. That is why she was killed. She was killed by the same kinds of people who killed your mother. People who saw someone active, strong—someone who could make a difference, cause problems. This was a political murder, my children, make no mistake. An antirevolutionary murder. Mark my words.”

  Watly and Alysess marked his words. They marked his words often. He was a powerful man. The more time they spent with him and saw what he controlled—what he had, in fact, created—the more respect they had for him.

  The disappearances Watly had heard vague stories about suddenly made more sense. People who had vanished—people who had organized or spoken out against the way things were— hadn’t necessarily been taken off and killed. No. Many were down here now. The Ragman had recruited them. His people had quietly captured the outspoken ones to join in the revolution. And if friends and relatives of those who had vanished chose to believe they’d been murdered for their views, so be it. All the better for the revolution.

  On their second day in the subs, the Subkeeper had taken Watly and Alysess on a tour—not of the entire sub level, that would have taken too long—just of their immediate area. They’d visited conference rooms,
libraries, research laboratories, metal shops, dining halls, sleeping quarters, wardrobe and disguise rooms, and astonishingly well stocked armories. Weapons of every kind were there, lined up one after the other on racks along the red-tiled walls. Nerve rifles, chip pistols, grenades, sonic disrupters, scrambler rifles, I-cutters, and I-bazookas, gas guns and blast canisters... everything. All clean and shiny, well kept. Perhaps each one stolen or bought one or two at a time, little by little, so as not to draw attention. Maybe some were smuggled in from Jersey or the Noreast Commonwealth. Maybe even from the Outerworld. Or perhaps most of them were manufactured right here in the workrooms. Either way, it must have taken years to gradually build up these tools of revolution.

  “I suppose we won’t need all these when you teach us the secrets,” the Subkeeper said as they walked down row after row of weapons. His tone was cynical, almost teasing.

  “I never said that,” Watly answered defensively. “Don’t put words in my mouth. You’ll see when the time comes.” Watly couldn’t help but cringe at all the death equipment around him. How many lives could this room take?

  “The time will come sooner than you think, my children,” the Ragman said. “We’re almost ready. We have the firepower now. And we’re well staffed. We have a trained army.” The Subkeeper spoke proudly. Watly thought of the painted creatures of Sexsentral, hungry for blood. This was an army? Was this an organized revolutionary force? He turned to Alysess. She rolled her eyes.

  “And the people, my children,” the Ragman continued. “Most importantly, the people. They’re ripe now. They are ready to help us. The seeds are planted. ‘California’ worked. ‘California’ was a success. All people needed to hear was that others had done it, that others had succeeded. The rumors did it. The plan succeeded beyond even my expectations. Hope inspires, my children. Hope works wonders.” The Ragman stopped at the door and all three of them stood and looked back at the room full of deadly contraptions. “We will begin soon, my children. It is our time. Life is unfair, yes. But it need not be as unfair as it is now. We can change it.”

  Watly agreed. Life is unfair. But was this the way to fairness? Killing? Guns?

  “You may fail,” Alysess said quietly.

  Watly shot her a sharp glance. Don’t anger him on this subject, Alysess!

  “With you two to help us,” Ragman said with a smile that seemed full of sarcasm, “how could we do anything but succeed?”

  And on they walked, down one hallway after another, through one room after another. Watly found himself amazed at his own thoughts as they traveled. He was actually caring. He was actually worrying about the revolution. Worrying for the revolution. He was thinking they were right to rebel, right to seek change, yes. They were justified. We all are justified, he thought. But this is not the way. No. This is not the answer. He was—subs help him—thinking like his mother.

  The three of them continued walking in silence down the blood-red corridors. Those in their path stepped aside as they passed, some almost bowing to the Ragman. It was obvious he was the leader. He held real power down here.

  Watly wondered, as the days in the subs passed, what would happen if he couldn’t come up with “secrets” to tell them when the time came. What would happen if he couldn’t think of ways to revolution without death? He’d have to come up with something. His mother would have had the answers. She would have known. Watly hadn’t a clue. What were the secrets of fighting without fighting? Selfish/good warfare?

  But that was all another problem. He’d probably never live long enough to worry about it. He was still wanted for murder. He still had to solve the crime. Revolution or not, Watly was a high-priority, death-imperative criminal. And Alysess had conspired to help him. He had to resolve those problems above all others. Fast. Time was growing short. It was evident that the subs would not be hospitable forever. A week or two maybe, at the most. Watly and Alysess were not expected to relax and hide out there. This was not a reprieve. This was not a new home, secure and protected. They were temporary guests. As soon as Watly was well enough, they were expected to get on with their business, clear their names, and then earn their keep as revolutionaries. Watly thought he already detected impatience in the Ragman. If they did nothing, soon he’d toss them to Tavis for his/her slicing-and-dicing pleasure.

  During their sub stay, Alysess was put to work right away. There were plenty of wounded Revies—hurt in combat training or up in Sexsentral—who needed doctoring. Watly himself, injuries and all, was made to earn his food down there in the subs soon after. When Watly was well enough for light labor, the Subkeeper gave him duties as a sub tile cleaner. It seemed fitting to clean. Just like P-pajer had. Just like he had in Brooklyn. Just like Narcolo had around the apartment. It was nice to be mindlessly busy in the family tradition.

  Watly would dress in the protective jumpsuit and helmet, help move out the furniture from the room to be cleaned, and blast off the dirt from the tiles with a high-powered sprayer. Each day he did a different room or hallway. Each day he had a new co-worker.

  He always tried to find out more about his surroundings as he worked, snooping around and prodding his co-workers for information. “Where did the subs get funds? How did they tap into the CV, keyboard cables, water, and other supplies? Who were they stealing from? Where did the money come from to build such a place?”

  What answers he did get were usually vague and evasive. Watly got the feeling the subs had not been created and maintained using the most moral means. “The end justifies...” and all. Watly’s questions usually did little more than make his partners distinctly hinky.

  One particular co-worker, a tall, broad-shouldered man, said nothing at all to Watly’s queries. He worked silently next to him almost to the end. Watly gave up on him and hummed the poovus song. The hours passed slowly that day.

  When they were almost done cleaning, Watly was finishing up the corners and edges with his needle nozzle. His partner was putting away some of the equipment.

  “You the Caiper guy?” the man asked, finally breaking the silence.

  Watly nodded.

  “I knew your mother. Years ago. We worked together in Brooklyn before I came here to join the Revy preparations.”

  Watly stopped spraying and looked at the guy, trying to see his face behind the protective helmet. The glass was too dark.

  “There are others down here who knew her, too,” the man said softly. “Others who were ‘disappeared’ to the Manhattan subs. We should talk sometime. We could talk about your mother. She was a fuck. It was a long time ago, but I remember her. She had eggs.”

  “I’d like that,” Watly said.

  The man nodded and picked up his cleaning machine. He pulled off his helmet as he left the room. “See you around.”

  Watly caught a glimpse of the man’s face as the guy walked out. Darkish skin, a high forehead, and a distinctly crooked nose.

  A very familiar-looking face. Similar to—

  “Hey, mister!” Watly called after him. “Hey! Were you my mother’s poovus?”

  But the man had already vanished down the maze of red corridors.

  And Watly had to go back to the matters at hand. Healing, cleaning, learning, and trying to figure out the puzzle he was enmeshed in. He’d find the man later. Later.

  Now he was pressed for time. He had to solve all this murder catshit. At least he had equipment at his disposal now: keyboards, files... and the Ragman’s expertise. The Ragman’s expertise was most important of all. Watly did not waste it. Each day he fed more bits and pieces of the story to the Ragman and each day he was astounded at the tiny revelations that came back. It seemed as though his world—everything he had taken for granted—was being pulled apart and blown away one astonishing section at a time.

  “The removal of a cuff,” the Ragman was saying as he chewed, “is child’s play, Watly. Technological child’s play. I could do it tomorr
ow if I needed to. All you need is money, a lab, and a few intelligent scientists.” He drank some soljuice and wiped at his beard with the back of his hand. They were all in a large dining hall, seated at one of the long placene tables. The Ragman sat on one side with Tavis to his right, and Watly and Alysess sat on the bench opposite. The crowd had thinned and only a few people were left, scattered about the room in small groups, talking quietly and finishing their lunches.

  “What about the cards—the forged travelpasses?” Watly asked.

  “I could make you a new set in half an hour, my child. It’s quite a primitive method of tricking a travel tube, actually. It proves nothing. This surprises you?”

  Watly got the feeling the Ragman enjoyed playing teacher. He even seemed, perhaps, to be growing fond of them as time passed. Impatient, but fond. Here were two new pupils he could mold. Two new faces to amaze. Tavis, on the other hand, sat silently through these talks, eating everything in sight—often from other people’s plates—dark eyes darting about anxiously.

  “Why does it drip so much, my children? Do you know?” the Ragman asked as if following a lesson plan. The question was posed as though he expected—wanted—the wrong answer.

  “The rain,” Watly replied softly.

  “What rain?”

  “When it rains on Second it leaks down here,” Alysess said.

  The Ragman smiled. He had gotten his incorrect answer. “And when it doesn’t rain? It can’t rain forever. When it is sunny above? Why does it still drip on First level?”

  Watly thought a moment. He looked at the Subkeeper’s expression. The answer was not apparent in the bearded one’s eyes. “I always thought it just got so wet from the rain that the drips continued.”

  “Did you?” The Subkeeper looked pleased. “And you?” Alysess nodded. “You are both typical, my children,” he said. “You take things for granted. You don’t question, look for answers. ‘Why is it always so wet down here? Why is everything soaked?’ You don’t ask. You don’t think to ask.” He stopped to drink more juice before continuing. “Let me ask you. What’s the deal with wood? You tell me: Why is there no wood? Why is it so expensive? Huh? Is it rare? Is it impossible to grow a tree nowadays?”