Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  Watly shrugged. “It must be very difficult to—”

  “Nonsense!” the Ragman snapped, but he didn’t look honestly upset. He was enjoying himself—teaching, surprising his students, challenging them. “There are trees all over the world, my children. Trees growing all over the UCA. We’ve yet to kill them off. Surely you’ve seen the images of forests on the CV. Well, I’ve seen them in person. The only reason there are few trees in Brooklyn is there’s no raping room. No raping dirt for them to grow in.” There was a pause in the conversation as the Subkeeper looked down to see Tavis stealing bits of weeders from his plate. He ignored the behavior as if he were used to it.

  “Perhaps...” Alysess spoke hesitantly, “perhaps the cost of importing them—importing wood—into Manhattan, Brooklyn, and so forth, brings the cost up to—”

  “Then why was it all pulled out, my children?” The Ragman grinned again, looking as if he knew the secrets of the universe. “Why was it all removed from First Level years and years ago? Every scrap of it. Beams inside of walls were torn out and replaced by steel, cemeld, or whatever. Floorboards were ripped up and placene laid down. Why? Is wood a jewel? Is it unreplenished? No. Trees still grow in this world: forest reserves out west, the protected zones in Jesusland—We couldn’t raping breathe if there weren’t trees out there. The keepers of the rain forests still get paid off by all the UCA countries... and importing wood is no big deal—I know this for fact. Then why? Why is a simple wooden pencil something so rare and precious down here?”

  “I don’t know,” Watly answered.

  “Because you don’t think, my children. Nobody thinks anymore. The answer is right in front of you. Why is First Level soaking wet—saturated—and why is there no wood down here? Why? Put it together in your head. Put the two things together. It’s not an accident. It’s intentional. It’s all Second Level’s doing. It’s on purpose. They make it leak down here—there’s water running through the First Level ceiling. All through it. It was designed that way. Designed. And the wood business—it’s all the same thing.”

  “Why?” Alysess asked—but the answer seemed to be coming into her eyes already. She looked disturbed.

  “Fear,” the Ragman answered.

  Watly was still confused. “Of what? Fear of what?”

  “Fire. The fear of fire.”

  Watly took a long drink of his own soljuice—it tasted freshly made—and put his glass on the table very slowly. “All that—the drips, the scarcity of wood—all that is to prevent fire?” Watly had trouble digesting the thought.

  “That’s it. Fire. Bad fire on First and up goes Second. Couldn’t have that, now, could they? So they keep us wet—they soak us—and take away what’s flammable. Then it’s safe.”

  Alysess seemed to accept the idea more readily. “It all makes sense,” she said, looking upward at the lights floating over them.

  “How do you know this?” Watly snapped at the Ragman, suddenly angry.

  “I know this.”

  “Is it because you have the sight? Is that it?” Watly remembered their first meeting—he and the Ragman—and the words spoken back then: I have the sight—it is how I have survived this long. And Watly remembered the warm palm on his forehead and the warning of death, death all around.

  “I have the sight,” the Ragman said now, finishing his juice with one gulp. “But that is not how I know this.” Tavis suddenly stilled, eyes down, listening intently. “The sight does not give me a picture. The sight does not tell me a story. It is a flash—a pinpoint—a tiny fragment I am left to interpret as I will.”

  Watly leaned closer over the table toward the Subkeeper. “Can you use it now? Can you use it to help me? Help us?”

  The Ragman looked annoyed at Watly. Tavis began eating again, noisily cleaning everyone’s plate but his/her own. “First of all,” Ragman said, “you don’t understand it. It is not a fortune. It is not a warning. It is not a possible future. It is a flash of what will happen. No matter what. It will not tell me something that can be used as a guide to avoid a personal badness. It will only tell me the inevitable. It tells me nothing that can be avoided. In fact, the avoiding may be what causes the thing to pass.”

  “But the knowledge is useful, isn’t it?” Watly demanded.

  “All knowledge is useful, my children.” The Subkeeper smiled wryly. “Such as how to revolt without death.”

  “Why don’t you use the sight to find out?” Watly snapped. Alysess gave him a warning look. Don’t push your luck, Watly, her expression said.

  “I cannot pick and choose what I see, my child, any more than you can reach into unfamiliar darkness and decide what you will touch.” The Ragman pushed Tavis’s hand away from his plate. The feeding frenzy seemed to have finally become annoying to him.

  “Help me. Help us, “ Watly said.

  “That is exactly, in case you’ve forgotten, our deal. I help you and you help us. I will not, however, put my people in jeopardy. Any of them. But I will use my resources to assist you two in clearing your names—” he laughed an abrupt little laugh, “if that’s possible. And you, in turn, will help us. The doctor will doctor... and the Watly will... what? Tell us some secrets, yes?”

  Watly looked down at his now empty plate. “Yes,” he said. He suddenly felt foolish—caught in a lie. How can you revolution without death?

  The Subkeeper rubbed his beard gently from side to side. “My only problem is... once your name is cleared—if it is cleared—once your name is cleared, why should you still help us? Why should you keep your half of the bargain?”

  Alysess pushed her plate of food toward Tavis, giving up on eating from it herself. “You have our word,” she said.

  “The word of two hunted people is not a word, my children. No, I have to make it impossible for you to change your minds.” The Ragman thought for a moment. “Ah. I have it. The police want to kill you both now, isn’t that the case?”

  “Yes,” Watly answered.

  “Well, if you successfully, with my help, change their minds about that—but then don’t help us—we will hunt you down and kill you. And we, my children, will be a lot more successful. You can’t hide from the subs. We are Manhattan now.”

  Watly’s throat felt dry. He was out of juice. “We will help you. Just help us. Use the sight.”

  “There are other ways to help you, my children. The sight won’t—”

  “I want you to use it.” Watly felt anger welling up.

  “Watly.” Alysess touched his arm. “Maybe this isn’t the best idea—”

  “The sight,” Watly demanded.

  The Ragman smiled. “Very well.”

  Again Tavis froze in position, listening. The Ragman reached his arm across the table and touched Watly’s forehead with his palm. The palm was warm and dry, relaxing. Above his beardline, the Subkeeper’s cheeks went pale. Very pale. Tavis seemed to have stopped breathing. All conversation in the dining hall ceased. Finally the Subkeeper removed his hand from Watly’s head and placed it down slowly on the table before him. He looked shaken. Troubled.

  “What?” Watly asked.

  “Watly—” Alysess tried to break the mood.

  “What?” He yelled it this time.

  The Ragman closed his eyes. “I see a fat man—big—enormous... and dead. And, and... I see, I see a baby.”

  Watly shivered. “What baby?”

  “That’s all.” The Ragman’s eyes were still closed.

  “That’s not all. You see more!” Watly was half standing now, leaning over the table.

  “Watly—” Alysess tried to pull him back to his seat.

  “That’s all you need to know, my child.” The Ragman’s voice was soft and motherly. There was sadness in his expression. His cheeks were still pale—almost pure white. Almost Second Level white.

  “What else do you see?” Watly grabbed
at the Ragman’s collar.

  Tavis, eyes still on the lunch plates, began to laugh.

  “Watly, let’s drop it—okay?” Alysess pulled on Watly’s arm.

  Watly just held the collar tightly, shaking it from side to side. Some of the golden flecks came off on his hands. Tavis’s laughter rang wildly.

  “All right, Mr. Caiper.” The Ragman’s eyes sprang open angrily. “I’ll tell you what I see. And remember, thus is not a guess. It is a fact. It is the truth. It is inevitable.” Red showed through beneath the pale cheeks now. Deeper and deeper red. “I see... violence and pain. I see agony.” The wise eyes closed for a moment. “I see your death, my child. I see the death of Watly Caiper.”

  The hall echoed with Tavis’s laughter, loud and gleeful.

  CHAPTER 38

  To be back on First Level was nerve-wracking enough for Watly, let alone to be half naked to top it off. But the Ragman’s dressing advice had been firm: “When people dress they always dress for one of two reasons, my child,” he had said. “Either to reveal or to conceal. All clothing accomplishes one or the other. A wanted man will be expected to hide—to conceal himself. That’s why you must do the opposite. No one expects a criminal to dress to reveal.”

  And so the Ragman had sent Tavis off to bring special clothing: heavy boots, a blue short-sleeved pocket-jacket, and, finally, thin black pants with a large clear plastic bubble at the crotch. Everything from Watly’s belly button to his upper thigh was completely exposed.

  “Nice cock, Caiper,” Alysess had quipped after he’d dressed.

  “Thank you for your delicacy,” Watly had answered.

  And he’d waddled off, the stiff bubble chafing unpleasantly. Should he find himself in an emergency that required still more misdirection, the pants were equipped with a ringlet which, when pulled, engaged a vacuum that should produce a reasonably healthy erection for all to see. If nothing else, the outfit was certainly absurd enough to distract those around from wondering if the wearer was a priority-one criminal.

  “When one wants to hide from searchers,” the Subkeeper had said earlier, “one must become an annoying thing the searchers shove aside so they can see better. This is an important secret of survival.”

  And so in this outlandish outfit—along with a touch of bright makeup across the forehead and cheeks and a small hairpiece—Watly walked down the middle of First Level’s Park Avenue in the broad daylite of afternoon. He was headed for Oldyer’s apartment.

  Mr. Oldyer: the “big man” of Alvedine, the one who—if one went by Narcolo’s confession—must have known at least something when Watly first walked in. He must have been instructed to pass Watly—to accept him as a host. He was a part of the conspiracy. A part that was one of the first steps toward roping Watly Caiper in. And now Oldyer was either dead or going to die soon, according to the Ragman’ s sight. I see a fat man... big—enormous... and dead.

  As he walked, Watly wondered, not for the first time, if he was going to kill Oldyer. Did the Ragman’s sight mean Watly would commit yet another murder? In self-defense perhaps? It was this kind of questioning that had made Watly insist on the Ragman providing him with a weapon. “If I am to kill Oldyer then I am to kill Oldyer,” Watly had said.

  “We don’t know that,” the Ragman said. “You-who-would-revolution-without-death need a weapon?”

  Watly thought fast. “Remember, I never said revolution without weapons or the threat of weapons. I just said revolution without death. Anyway, this is not the revolution I’m doing here. This is my personal investigation, you see.”

  This feeble argument was enough to do it, and now, as he walked, Watly could feel the butt of a small chip pistol in his pocket-jacket, brushing reassuringly against his ribs. In the other pockets were various items the Ragman thought might come in handy. Money, credit pieces, food, and a variety of Subkeeper’s “override” documents and cards. Watly felt well prepared. And he was back in his element. Back with his people. Back on the First Level. Smells, drips, and all.

  The traffic was thin and Watly pressed steadily on. Most people he passed looked at his crotch and not his face. The outfit was working well. Occasionally Watly would glance down at himself and catch sight of his limp penis dancing back and forth with each stride he took, wagging like a tail. I wouldn’t look at my face either, he thought.

  Walking rapidly, it didn’t take him long to get from the secret sub exit near Thirty-fourth Street to Oldyer’s apartment building on Twenty-third off First Avenue. Watly walked in through the front hallway without hesitating and bounced up a flight of stairs. The stairways and landings were well lit and freshly swept. Oldyer’s place was on the second floor, a back apartment. Watly neared the door, but stopped when he heard voices from inside. Two males talking. They sounded angry.

  He crouched, touching the pistol through the jacket, making sure it was still there, and crept toward the door. As he got closer the words gained definition.

  “... no more than we decided. That’s it. You’ve already been paid all you’re going to get. We’re not interested in blackmail. You don’t frighten us, Oldyer.”

  Watly recognized the flat, emotionless tone. It was Mitterly. Dr. Aug Mitterly.

  “You fail to understand, Mr. Mitterly”—it was Oldyer’s voice now—”I’m not asking. I’m telling.”

  There was the sound of movement behind the door now—rustling and scraping. A struggle, perhaps. Watly turned and swiftly climbed another flight. He knelt near the landing and leaned under the plasticore railing to look down at the door. After a moment the door opened and a tall blond-haired figure appeared, dusting off his jacket. It was Mitterly. He left the door open behind him and calmly walked down the stairs. Watly heard the footsteps fade as Mitterly exited the building. Then no sound. Nothing. Watly waited a beat or two and climbed down to look in Oldyer’s apartment.

  It was dark in there and it took a second for all the shapes to become specific. The place was a mess—just what you’d expect from a man like Oldyer. It was small and filthy, cluttered with crap. Piles of clothes and garbage loomed in every corner. Ancient porn chromells hung cockeyed from the walls. There was no movement. Then Watly realized the big man was sitting near the door—right in front of him. Still. Perfectly still. Oldyer was dead, yes. Throat slit ear to ear, eyes wide and bulging. Blood had run down the front of his enormous white-shirted belly and onto the floor. His whole body was just a huge pile of lifeless blubber now. Another pile just like all the others in the cramped room. Nose hair and all. Blubber. Dead bloody blubber. Watly turned away.

  The familiar sense of rising nausea overcame him. Does death ever get easy to look at? Even the death of a crass, disgusting, awful man? Thump thump thump. The man with the placene pencil. I still owe you five New York dollars for that thing, he thought absurdly. A wave of dizziness washed over Watly. Why was there so much death?

  Mitterly. Suddenly Watly felt he had to catch up to Mitterly. Where had the doctor gone? Watly closed the door on the body of Oldyer and rushed down the stairs. Back on the street, Watly ran west to the avenue and, once at the corner, spun around, looking for the blond. Off in the distance toward the north, Mitterly’s light hair could be seen bobbing up and down as he slowly, confidently walked up the street. Watly jogged toward him. A few people smiled as he passed, enjoying the bouncy view within the pants’ bubble. After a bit more than a block Watly had caught up and needed to slow down in order to remain safely behind the doctor.

  For a man who had just slit another’s throat, Aug Mitterly was certainly relaxed. He strolled along easily, arms swinging loosely by his sides. Watly stayed a few yards back and to the left. Where was the doctor headed? Home? To his “boss”? Or off to murder someone else? Maybe this was “cleaning day.” Maybe he was wiping out all the loose ends. Everyone connected with this mess.

  No more death, cold man. Please. No more.

  Wat
ly looked at the pale skin above the back of Mitterly’s white shirt collar as they walked. Purebred skin. How old are you, Aug? How old? Older than me? Old enough to have known my mother? Old enough? Maybe it was you, Aug Mitterly. Maybe it was you who poisoned her. Maybe it was one of your first jobs. She was murdered, Aug. The Subkeeper told me so. She who wouldn’t hurt anyone. She who said there was fighting and then there was fighting. She who cared. Selfish/good. Subkeeper and his people had their eyes on her, yes they did. Going to recruit her for the revolution; Subkeeper said that. But somebody found out—or maybe she was just too much trouble. She knew how to fight. How to make noise. How to point and say, “Hey, this isn’t right.” So they killed her. Dead. No. Not her appendix at all. Poison in the gut.

  Suddenly Watly wanted to kill Mitterly right there. He wanted to pull out the chip pistol and shoot him in the back. He wanted to punish him for everything—whether he’d been responsible or not. He wanted to kill him for Narcolo: an old man who had died because he was unhappy. And for P-pajer: a woman who had tried to make things better. And for Alysess and her ruined career. And for the fat man, Oldyer, who had died of greed. And for all the people Watly had hurt or killed while trying to live—just raping live. And for Corber—Corbell—Alvedine: the first victim in the whole mess. And for the unfairness of it—the unfairness of it all. Of the hosting. Of hosting period. Of Second Level. Of plurites vs. pure-ites, of the drips. Of wood. Of the CV and its lies. Of life, dammit. But mostly... mostly Watly wanted to kill Aug Mitterly for himself, for Watly Caiper. Selfishly. Selfish/bad.

  The Ragman had seen death. Death for Watly. And Watly did not want to die. He did not. And Mitterly had no right to live if someone like Watly could die. None at all. Well, Watly wasn’t going to die. He was going to break the rules. He was going to live in spite of the sight. He would prevail. He and Alysess.