Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

Watly choked on a ball of air, coughing violently. The mist shimmered. Thank terra there was no audio. A shiver ran up his spine as the coughing subsided. He almost believed Sentiva could somehow see him—see right through the cables, and right through his masquerade. Her typed question floated a few inches from his face in the CV mist, taunting him. Did she really know? Maybe she was just guessing. She must just be guessing.

  Watly steadied his fingers and placed them carefully back on the proper light-keys. He typed.

  WATLY CAIPER? YOU’RE JOKING? IS MISTER CAIPER STILL ALIVE? REMARKABLE. IMAGINE MY SURPRISE.

  WHO THE HELL IS THIS? I’M SIGNING OFF NOW IF

  IT’S ME, MY DEAR. OLDYER.

  Again there was a pause.

  IS IT.

  Watly had to play this very carefully. He didn’t even know if Oldyer and Sentiva had ever actually met. She hadn’t typed a question mark. Why hadn’t she typed a question mark? Maybe a question mark—such a vulnerable little indication of ignorance—would not be her style.

  HOW NICE TO COMMUNICATE WITH YOU.

  WHAT DO YOU WANT, OLDYER.

  HAD A LITTLE VISIT FROM THAT BLOND DOCTOR FRIEND OF YOURS TODAY. FELLOW TRIED TO KILL ME. NOT A NICE MAN AT ALL.

  There was no response for what must have been a full ten seconds.

  A PITY HE FAILED.

  I BEG TO DIFFER. BUT. WHATEVER THE CASE, MY LITTLE FRIEND, I WISH TO STRIKE AN AGREEMENT.

  I DON’T MAKE DEALS.

  YOU WILL WITH ME.

  WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO BARGAIN WITH?

  YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVE TO BARGAIN WITH. YOU SOFDICK SUBSPAWN. YOUR FREEDOM, YOUR LIFE. I COULD TURN YOU IN. I’VE GOT THE GOODS ON YOU. ADMIT IT, LITTLE FRIEND, I SCARE YOU.

  NO ONE EVER SCARES ME. MR. OLDYER. EVER.

  OH? WHY WOULD YOU TRY TO KILL ME IF I DIDN’T FRIGHTEN YOU? I MUST BE PRETTY IMPORTANT. I’M THE ONLY ONE LEFT WHO CAN LINK YOU TO THE MURDER.

  THERE IS NO CONNECTION BETWEEN YOU AND ME. YOU ARE NO MORE THAN A LOOSE END.

  WELL. THIS LOOSE END WILL START FLAPPING IF WE DON’T COME TO AN AGREEMENT.

  YOU HAVE ALREADY BEEN PAID HANDSOMELY FOR YOUR SERVICES. MR. OLDYER. WE HAVE NO FURTHER BUSINESS.

  I HAVEN’T BEEN PAID ENOUGH. I HAVEN’T BEEN PAID ENOUGH TO KEEP ME QUIET. AND I CERTAINLY HAVEN’T BEEN PAID ENOUGH TO BE POKED AT WITH YOUR DOCTOR’S SCALPEL.

  The CV image stayed blank for a while. Watly waited for Sentiva to continue the conversation. Had he pushed too far? Did she buy any of this? He glanced at the Ragman and Alysess. They both nodded encouragement. You’re doing fine, their faces said. A message from Sentiva finally appeared.

  HOW MUCH.

  AN ADDITIONAL ONE MILLION NEW YORK DOLLARS.

  YOU’RE INSANE. MR. OLDYER.

  I ALSO HAVE HIGH EXPENSES. I HAVE SOME UNEXPECTED MEDICAL BILLS NOW, AS WELL AS THE EXPENSE OF TRAVELING FAR FAR AWAY—THE OUTERWORLD, PERHAPS—WHERE I COULD LIVE QUIETLY FOR THE REST OF MY VERY LONG LIFE.

  There was another break before Sentiva responded.

  HALF.

  HALF WHAT?

  I’LL GIVE YOU HALF A MILLION.

  AND I’LL STAY HALF QUIET.

  During the next pause both Alysess and the Subkeeper gave Watly a cautionary look, warning him to be careful, not to go overboard. But Watly thought it had been a nice touch. Oldyer wasn’t a compromiser.

  VERY WELL. MY FRIEND. WHEN IS THIS MILLION-DOLLAR BLACKMAIL DROP OF OURS TAKING PLACE. WHEN WILL YOU PICK IT UP.

  Watly look a deep breath. This was it. This was the make-or- break point.

  I’M NOT PICKING IT UP AT ALL, MY LITTLE FRIEND. I’VE BEEN LESS MOBILE SINCE MY LITTLE RUN-IN WITH YOUR DOCTOR’S BEDSIDE MANNER. MY HEALTH IS NOT IDEAL. NO, YOU’LL DELIVER IT, DEARIE.

  WHERE SHALL I SEND IT. MY OBESE EXTORTIONIST.

  NOT SEND, SENTIVA. DELIVER. IN PERSON. ALONE. UNARMED OR THE DEAL’S OFF. AND I GO TO THE COPS.

  HOW SHREWD OF YOU.

  TONIGHT. ON THE FIRST LEVEL.

  Watly held his breath as he waited for her reply.

  I DON’T TRAVEL TO THE FIRST LEVEL.

  THEN I DON’T KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT.

  No words appeared for a while. Watly thought he might have lost her. And then—

  WHERE.

  YOU’LL LIKE THIS. IT’S A FITTING LOCATION.

  WHERE.

  ALVEDINE. HOSTING ROOM NIE WELTER ONE. MIDNIGHT.

  CUTE.

  NO WEAPONS. NO FRIENDS. OR YOU’LL NOT FIND ME.

  FAIR ENOUGH.

  COMMUNICATION ENDED.

  OH. OLDYER. BEFORE YOU GO. ABOUT YOUR INJURIES—MEA...

  Watly slipped the main ringlet back in its casing and the keyboard dimmed. The connection was severed. It was over. He pushed his chair from the keyboard. He was exhausted. Alysess moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “Good job, Watly.”

  “Yes, my child,” the Ragman said with affection. “Good job.”

  “Was it? Was it really?” Watly leaned back in the chair and stretched. “I don’t know. She’s very smart. She could’ve known from the beginning it was me. She could’ve been playing along.”

  “I don’t think so, Watly,” Alysess said. “I think you fooled her.”

  “Remember—” Watly turned and looked at them both, “she is not to be taken lightly. She is incredible. I know for a fact. Even if I did fool her just now, she’s still dangerous. Very, very dangerous. I could feel her anger even in the typed words. I could tell she’s not going to keep her end of the bargain. I could feel it. She has no intention of paying Oldyer off. He is a loose end. She wants to kill him. Probably planned to kill him all along. Was just waiting for things to die down. I’ve got to be ready for that. She could just as easily kill me.”

  Watly stood up and started for the door. It was time to change clothes. Tonight he had a heavy date. Tonight he would be meeting Sentiva Alvedine again and—much as he’d grown accustomed to them—the penis-bubble pants simply wouldn’t do.

  CHAPTER 43

  What if the sight were a lie?

  What if the Subkeeper’s visions were just so much fancy footwork? Hocus-pocus? Suppose a person combined common sense with educated guessing and mixed in a little old-time theatricality and a pile of catshit—wouldn’t they get the same thing? Couldn’t the Subkeeper be doing with his sight the very same thing Watly had done in saying he knew how to revolution without death? Couldn’t he be faking it? Why not? It was a great way to impress people. The bearded fortune-teller might just be using it to keep his position of authority. And if so, then the whole “violent death of Watly Caiper” thing might not only happen far in the future... it might never happen at all. Watly might live a long and full life—well into old old age. And then die softly, pleasantly—years and years from now. Wasn’t that just as likely as not?

  Or, okay, Watly thought, what if there is such a thing as sight? It’s possible. What if there is a way for some people to catch snippets of the future? Okay. Well, who’s to say it can’t be misinterpreted? Who’s to say the Subkeeper can “read” it correctly? He’s got no credentials. There’s no such thing as “sight licensing.” Who’s to say the man didn’t make a mistake? And more: what’s to prevent the interpreter from lying? How was Watly to know if the Ragman was telling the truth about what he saw? Suppose he had wanted to scare Watly, shake him up a little, put him in his place? It was possible. Watly didn’t know the guy that well. Why trust him?

  Some goofy little scruffy guy lives underground, lords over a bunch of beanheads who like slicing people up, spends his time planning an impossible overthrow... then comes along, touches my forehead, and says I’m going to die. Why the rape should I believe that?

  Watly needed this kind of thinking. It was the only way to calm himself down. His own mortality was hanging heavily over him and he needed to feel
more comfortable. It was particularly hard now. The hosting room was very dark. It seemed like images of Watly’s own death were lurking in every corner. The only light came from the open doorway. It sliced across the white floor and then faded out before reaching Watly’s position behind the hosting chair. Everything else in the room was shadowy and dark. The huge hosting machine with its many dangling cables was just a vague gray shape in the corner. Behind Watly, the reverse-corrected mirror reflected nothing but the doorway half blocked by the chair’s silhouette. If Watly moved to the side, he could see the dark edge of his head in the mirror. He avoided moving. The sight of motion in the reflection—even his own—disturbed him. Everything was so still. Everything so quiet.

  Watly reached down to see that he still had the blast canister Alysess had prepared. It was there, next to his foot. He picked it up and held it tightly in his left hand. All he had to do when the time came was compress its top. One push and the gas would shoot out in the direction the thing was aimed, knocking Sentiva out cold. An hour’s worth of sedation in one blast. That should do it. All he needed to do was point it in the general direction of her face, get close enough, and press. Bingo. That was the plan. He hoped he could catch her before she fell so she didn’t get hurt. The pregnancy, and all... the future baby.

  The canister was curved in a moon shape to fit in his hip pocket but Watly wanted it handy. He placed it back down next to his left foot again. Then he thought better of it. It should be even handier. Hold on to the thing. Stay ready. Keep your finger poised over the top.

  Watly reached to pick the canister up again. As he bent low something moved. Something in the corner of his eye—not the reflection of his head in the mirror, but something from the direction of the door. Like a cloud obstructing the sun for a split second, a shadow had flickered past. A person? A late-night worker? Or was it Sentiva? Had she passed by the door? Had she actually entered the room? Or had it just been the edge of Watly’s eye—an eyelash he’d seen and thought—

  Watly gripped the concave canister tightly, remembering what a cold-blooded killer Sentiva Alvedine was. But she’s expecting Oldyer, he reassured himself. A slow-moving, enormous, supposedly wounded man who couldn’t possibly squat down behind a chair. A loud, impatient man who wouldn’t be able to sit silently in the dark for more than ten seconds.

  What time was it now? His buzbelt’s timekeeper was on mute. It must be late. Surely it must be midnight by now.

  Watly slowly transferred the canister into his right hand, holding it in the firing position. He inched his head up cautiously to take another peek at the doorway. It was empty. And nothing in the darkness moved.

  There was a slight sound—very slight—that came from directly behind Watly. It was very soft and very brief. It sounded to him at first like it must be his own shoe moving ever so slightly in the tile. Or perhaps the fold of his pants cuff slipping from where it had snagged on the back of his heel. It was that kind of very subtle, almost imperceptible sound. But Watly heard it. And he knew, after a moment, that it wasn’t his shoe or his cuff. Someone was there.

  “That’s funny”—the voice whispered right behind Watly’s head—“it doesn’t look like a Mr. Oldyer. It looks like a Watly Caiper. I’m not surprised.”

  It was Sentiva. Next to him. Right there—smelling warm and slightly sweaty. Watly turned. He came up high with his right hand, clutching the canister, ready to fire. She was on him—over him—before he could even twist to face her. And there was something in her hands stretched taut. Something threadlike that caught the dim light and sparkled. It was a charged sawcord. Deadly.

  “This time you’ve overstepped your bounds, my friend. This time you’ve gone too far. Instead of a dead Oldyer there will be a dead Caiper.” He heard anger in her voice—fury at Watly’s trick. Or perhaps fury at having her suspicions proven right.

  The thread was up and over his head. Watly threw his hand up and turned to flee, his face stopping smack against the back of the chair’s headrest. The canister slipped and was out of his hand. It had fallen, trapped between his raised arm and the chair.

  Sentiva was on his back now, her arms pulling the thread in from behind. Watly saw dimly she had overshot some. The glimmering cord was not just around his neck as she’d intended. It went all the way over the back of the headrest, the blast canister, and his right arm. He struggled but there was no leverage. His arm was twisted all the way to the left, pressing on his neck. Sentiva tightened the cord. There was a burning odor as it bit into the metal of the headrest.

  Watly kicked backward with his feet but she moved too fast for him. He hit nothing, his feet wild. He was choking against the pressure of his own arm angled across his throat. There was no air at all getting to him.

  And now a loud pop as the cord cut through one of the two steel posts on the headrest. She pulled tighter, whispering, “mea culpa.” The voice was dead winter.

  Watly tried to grab backward at something with his free hand. He found a handful of her hair and pulled hard—as hard as he could. Her tightening of the sawcord never faltered.

  More burning smell and the second post popped. The headrest flew off. Watly fell backward onto Sentiva, losing grip of her hair. She grunted but kept the cord taut. It was now digging into the canister, cutting right through it. Watly could hear the hiss as the gas escaped uselessly. It was expelled outward—into the darkness.

  Another three seconds and the cord would finish cutting the canister neatly in two. Then it would slice through his arm, severing it completely in a moment, just a moment, and then, finally, it would dig into his neck, decapitating him in one quick pull. Was this the violent death Ragman had foreseen? Was this the way it had to be? Watly felt himself grow weaker from the lack of air.

  Somewhere hanging low down by his right side was a new Ragman-issued chip pistol—but he was nowhere near it now. Now that he would use it—use it quickly—he couldn’t get to it. He tried reaching across his own body, feeling for the butt of the gun. He stretched farther, his body contorted. His fingers brushed it. There. He wrenched his body sideways and pulled at it. The pistol was free now, but he had no grip. Where was the grip? His fingers fumbled with the weapon. It slipped out sideways and clattered to the floor beside them. He twisted violently again, reaching for it once more. Now it was close. Almost in reach. A few more inches.... Sentiva kicked it with her right knee. The gun slid far away. Watly felt consciousness slipping from him.

  He reached back again to get her hair but she didn’t even seem to feel the pain. Pain is nothing to her, Watly thought.

  “Mea culpa,” she grunted, pulling harder still.

  In the dim corner of the room the hosting machine lurched. It seemed to be moving toward them, leaning in closer.

  The sawcord now popped the canister in half and the two parts rolled from Watly to the floor. They made a sharp clattering sound. He felt new pain as the thread dug through his jumpsuit and into his arm. With all his strength he pulled hard with his left hand and ripped out a whole tangled clump of Sentiva’s hair. She continued pulling the cord in. “Mea maxima culpa,” her strained voice came. He tried twisting his body side to side, rocking, flailing his legs about—but the cord held him.

  The vague form of the monsterlike hosting machine slid all the way out from the wall and a dark figure climbed from behind it.

  Now the sawcord was digging deeper in Watly’s arm and he felt blood spurt out.

  The dark figure neared and knelt next to them, and Watly saw a canister in the shadowy hand aimed just behind his head—aimed at Sentiva’s face.

  “No fair, Watly,” came Sentiva’s voice next to his ear. “I see you’ve brought company—”

  Then there was a sharp percussive sound from the canister— cagoon—and Sentiva’s arms finally went limp. Totally limp. She was lifeless behind him. Harmless. Out of commission.

  Watly coughed and choked and gasped fo
r air as he sat forward. The sawcord fell to the floor. He struggled to breathe again. His Adam’s apple felt mashed and battered. After a long bout of coughing, he tried to speak.

  “What the rape”—Watly’s voice sounded hoarse to his own ears—“took you so long, Alysess?”

  Her eyes shone in the darkness. “I couldn’t see a damn thing from back there in this light. Why didn’t you call for help? I would’ve come out sooner.”

  “My throat—” he coughed again, “was otherwise occupied.”

  Alysess closed the door and put the lights on, blinding them both with the brightness. When their eyes adjusted, she began cleaning Watly up. She was quick but gentle. The doctor was back in her element now. After dressing Watly’s injured arm— fortunately the cut had not gone too deep—Alysess had him help her lift Sentiva into the hosting chair. The unconscious woman’s limp head lolled all the way backward. Watly was reminded of how she’d looked the first time he’d seen her. Naked and vulnerable.

  “She’ll have to do without a headrest,” Watly said hurriedly. “It’s her own fault.”

  “You’d better get going, Watly. You’ve got less than an hour to get up there and get set. With Sentiva’s pregnancy I don’t dare give her more sedatives. And sometime soon the guard will be by....” Alysess looked worried.

  Watly kissed her and smiled grimly. “Just don’t let her wake up. She’ll kill you in a second. Be careful.”

  “It’s you I’m worried about,” she said. She opened her medipak and began pulling equipment out. “Hurry. I’m going to set up to turn this stuff on at one-fifteen exactly.” Watly kissed her again and left.

  He was on his way up. Taking a little “vacation,” as it were. It was Watly Caiper’s turn at the controls.

  Watly Caiper’s turn to be the donor.

  CHAPTER 44

  It would have been nice to go right back to the subs. It would have been nice to find the man with the crooked nose, who looked an awful lot like an older version of Watly, and have a long talk. They could sit in an empty mess hall with two bottles of booze and put their feet up on the tables. They could talk about the Brooklyn days. Well, maybe later. Maybe after this was all over.