Levels: The Host (9 page)

“Well, look here, girls and boys. Mucho dinero. Look at all this, will you? Isn’t
that nice.”

The one speaking turned and looked directly into Watly’
s eyes.

“What’re we gonna do with you now, huh? You like this stuff? You a fade-out? You a pain-freak? You’ve got Second Level eyes, fella. I can tell. I hate them Second Level eyes. You want me to take those eyes out?” He/she opened a long blade that looked well worn and squatted in front of Watly’s splayed body. “You want me to take ‘
em out?”

Watly could feel the donor try to clear his throat and move his tongue. The mouth was bone dry. No sound emerged. The person with the knife leaned forward. The knife’s heavy plastic handle was stained a dark color and there were flecks of something brownish dried on the blade itself. The point was just a few inches from Watly’s face, hovering there, swaying gently back and forth. Watly’s donor seemed frozen in position, going cross-eyed staring at the
chipped metal.

A piercing female voice cried out back at the mouth of
the alleyway.

“The Ragman!” she yelled. “The Ragman’
s coming!”

The crowd surrounding Watly turned to look. The one with the knife backed off. Watly could hear mumbling
and whispering.

“The Ragman. Ragman
comes here?”

“Here
he comes!”

“Here comes
the Ragman!”

There was respect—almost reverence—in the way the group pulled apart to let the short, dark figure pass through. Watly’s donor kept his eyes glued to the man. The Ragman. He was bearded, stocky, and only about five feet tall. His eyes were dark and his skin smooth and free of makeup. He wore clothes similar to the others, but here and there—at a seam or torn edge or wrinkle or cuff—tiny points sparkled and glittered like gold or brass. His eyes held them. Held them all. There was a charisma to the man, an intensity you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He seemed brighter, somehow. Lit from within. The
Ragman approached.

“What’s going on here, Tavis?” The voice was deep and resonant. It was the voice of a superior—
a commander.

The one with the knife spoke up. “Nothing, Ragman. Just a cuffer with
a wad.”

The Ragman looked at Watly and then down at the pile of money. He turned back to the other. “You were gonna knife him, huh, Tavis? Gonna knife him
up good?”

“I was thinking that. Ragman.” He/she held up the blade. “Yes.” This Tavis creature appeared to have the shadow of facial stubble under the thick makeup, as well as an obvious swell of large breasts under the dirty rags. The voice sounded too deep for a woman, yet too high for
a man.

The Ragman knelt next to Watly. “You a donor, mister?”

Watly heard his own voice respond. “Yes, I’m a donor.” The accent that came out was definitely
Second Level.

The Ragman looked Watly’s body up and down. “You realize we’re gonna take
your money?”

“I
realize that.”

The Ragman glanced at the hosting-cuff. “You a fade-out?”

There was a pause. Watly thought he’d die.
Answer the man! Tell the truth!
“No, I’m not a fade-out.”
Thank you for that response,
my friend.

“You a pain-freak?”

Again a pause.
Please
,
thought Watly.

“Not really, no.”

The Ragman turned to the others. And to the one he had called Tavis. “You were gonna hurt him. Kill him, maybe. Look at his shoes, children. Look at them. Never forget the host. Never forget. Somewhere in there”—Ragman gestured to Watly’s head—“is another person. Watching us right now. You’ve got to judge the host as well as the donor. This host is one of us. You can tell by the shoes. Those are class-one poor man’s shoes. The pocket-jacket’s used. The hands are working hands. You don’t hurt a cuffer till you judge the host. The host could be you. Look at the face, children. It’s the donor’s expression but the host’s face. The face is one
of us.”

Watly felt his donor prepare to speak again. “Then you’re not going to
hurt me?”

The Ragman stood and turned away. There was a pause and then he spun, reared back, and kicked Watly full force in the thigh. He threw his whole weight into it and it tumbled Watly’s body over on its side. The crowd roared with approval. There was laughter. Watly’s donor grabbed the leg and grimaced with a pain Watly shared. The whole leg felt like fire. Searing pain. The Ragman leaned in and the donor cringed
with fear.

“I’m sorry to the host,” the Ragman said, breath close. “I’m sorry to the one inside. It was for you, donor. It was a lesson to you. The pain is real. The pain hurts. Tomorrow the host will have a bruise and you will not, but you will still have the memory of the pain. Do not take the idea of pain so lightly. I see in your eyes you don’t like it. You’re no pain-freak. Next time don’t
be foolish.”

The Ragman straightened. Suddenly he seemed the tallest one there. “Again, my apologies to the host, but you are not beyond lessons yourself. There is a softness to your features that tells me you were not made for this. A good host is hard. Reconsider your occupation, child.” The Ragman reached down and touched Watly’s forehead with a warm palm. His voice grew soft and Watly was mesmerized by the beauty of it. There was compassion and lightness to it. “Some say I have the sight. I do. The sight is mine. It is how I’ve survived this long. The sight tells me things. Of you, the host, it tells me pain. More pain than this. Much. A thousandfold. And death. Death all around. Blood will come. Be apprised, child.”

The Ragman swiveled dramatically on one foot and left the alley. His strides were long and fluid. They seemed out of place on such a small figure. The money was gathered up by Tavis and the crowd
quickly dispersed.

Host and donor, Watly and the Stranger, slowly rose and limped out of the alley. Two blocks later there was a tingle in the jaw, a click of metal shifting, and a loud clatter as the hosting-cuff fell to
the street.

Watly
was free.

CHAPTER 9

W
hen Watly Caiper finally arrived home at Uncle Narcolo’s apartment that night he was more than a little tired. He was beat. He was weary. He was at the point of physical and mental collapse. He was badly bruised and very stiff. And he was shook up. Real shook up. But.
..
he was Watly Caiper and Watly Caiper alone. And he was alive and without major injury. For those things he was truly grateful. (He was also grateful for the eight hundred in New York dollar bills and the balance of nine thousand in titled and untitled credit pieces stuffed deep in his pocket-jacket.)

“That you, Watly? Good to see you. Good to see you. I’m making a pie for dinner tonight. A big pie. High in protein and full of good things. This and that. But that’s not all, Watly. Oh, no. There’s more than pie for us. More than pie. Lots of things, kiddo. But it’s a heavy pie, Watly, so we mustn’t spoil it with too many extras. Can’t fill up too much. It’s almost a stew pie—you might call it. But
not really.”

As usual, the apartment was spotless. Narcolo Caiper had kept up his well-earned reputation for cleanliness. At the moment he was racing around the kitchen as usual, doing his cooking ballet. Watly smiled, enjoying the sensation of controlling his own muscles, and crossed over to the couch, limping slightly. He sat down heavily and put his feet on the table. Rape, he was tired. Everything ached. And that damn leg
....
But it was nice to be home. It felt safe. Comfortable.

“Could you turn on the cable-vidsatt for me, Uncle?” Watly said
without energy.

Narcolo looked up. “Oh, no. Oh, no, Watly, not the CV tonight. Not now. First off, the damn thing’s half broke. Never been fixed. Everything comes on cockeyed and fuzzy. The mist goes crazy. No, no. No CV. Secondly.
..
” The old man paused and his features went soft. “Secondly, I gotta ask you how you are. You’ve had a big day, kiddo. You’ve had a big one. I was worried. I was a little worried, you know? I want to know—I want to know if you’re okay. Are you okay, kiddo?” Narcolo’s face looked pained. He seemed to be bracing himself for the
bad news.

“I’m okay,” Watly said with some effort. “I’m fine. Tired
but fine.”

Narcolo’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s good. That’s good to hear. I was worried sick about you, Watly. Worried sick. I feel—I feel bad about the other night and all. I feel real bad. I was a sofdick bolehole. I was a beanhead.” He turned the stove down and rounded the counter to Watly’s left. “The thing is—it’s just that.
..
point being.
..
“ Watly saw a tiny splash of wetness under each of Narcolo’s eyes. His uncle’s throat seemed to catch before he could continue. “It’s just that I
feel responsible.”

Watly tried to lift his head but he felt too weak. Emotionally drained. Physically drained. “You’re not responsible, Uncle—”

The old man jumped in. “Oh, but I am! I am. Weren’t for me you wouldn’t be here—it’s true! In fact it was my idea in the first place—this hosting thing. My idea. You wrote me—remember? Asking your big-time uncle if he had any ideas how you could be on the road to motherhood. And like an idiot I wrote back. ‘Watly,’ I said. ‘Watly, you come here to Manhattan. You stay with me. I’ll vouch for you. Come to the big time. Manhattan’s where the money is,’ I said. ‘Maybe we could get you a job hosting,’ I said. I remember saying it—like I was some big shot with connections. Well, I didn’t have no connections, kiddo. I was never a host or anything. Sure, I worked for Alvedine. Sure. I was a terradamn
clerk
, I was in
records
, for subsake. I was a nobody. So I really didn’t know nothing.” Narcolo’s hand worked the front of his shirt into a tight ball. “I thought you’d come here and.
..
and keep me company and after a few tries at Alvedine admissions you’d give up. I thought you’d settle in and get steady work—construction, maybe. We’d have a ball, you and I, kiddo. Maybe if.
..
maybe if, you know, I won the Level Lottery— silly, I know—but maybe we’d move up together.
You know?”

Watly leaned forward. “I appreciate that, Uncle. I do. And, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I ever thought I’d make it myself. It was a surprise
to me.”

Narcolo Caiper began to pace back and forth in front of Watly. “I know you think I’m a crazy old man, Watly, and I’m sorry. It’s just I don’t want to be responsible. I don’t want to be responsible if you
get hurt.”

“I haven’t gotten hurt yet,” Watly said. “
Not really.”

“You did
one hosting
. And I’m proud of you. You did good. You look okay. Tired but healthy.” He stopped walking and turned to face Watly directly. Watly noticed the old guy had missed a few spots shaving. There were little tufts of gray hair on his chin and neck. “But that was just
one
. Just one hosting. You never know what happens next, kiddo. You were lucky so far. I don’t want to be responsible. I couldn’t live
with that.”

“Uncle—”

Narcolo cut him off, his eyes clear and honest-looking. “I couldn’t live with it, Watly.”

“You are not responsible!” Watly was getting angry and he felt renewed strength in that. Narcolo was pissing him off with all this fear. He didn’t want to get angry at this old, lonely guy, at this “family,” but there it was. It was nice that his uncle cared. It was nice that his uncle worried. But this was too much. This was getting silly. “Who made you responsible?” Watly said, his voice coming out louder and more forceful than he’d intended. “I came to Manhattan on my own power, Uncle.
I
signed the waiting list at Alvedine and waited the month—
me
.
I
stood in line all day.
I
got the job. I
accepted
the job, Narcolo,
me
. Just me. You helped me out—that’s all.” Watly slowed and took a breath, trying to regain his composure. Sometimes talking to his uncle felt like talking to a child. Maybe that was part of the appeal. Maybe that was one of the reasons he felt so close to Narcolo. He was a shriveled old child. Sometimes giddy and out of control, sometimes whiny and tantrum-prone. A surrogate infant. Watly’s
baby substitute.

“I’m grateful, Uncle,” Watly said soothingly. “I thank you. I love you. I appreciate your concern and all that, Uncle. But it’s not your fault or
your responsibility!”

Narcolo Caiper seemed to weaken and his shoulders slumped. He looked deflated. A major pout seemed imminent. His small frame sagged inward. “How much did you make today, Watly?”
he asked.

Watly pulled the cash and credit pieces out of his pocket and scattered them over the table. His arms felt tired, almost numb. “Just what they said I’d make. Ten thousand minus
the advance.”

Narcolo looked at all the money for a moment. “That’s a lot of money, kiddo. A lot.” The pout disappeared. There was some of that giddy, childlike excitement washing over the old guy that Watly liked to see. But this time it wasn’t particularly welcome. Watly was tired. Watly had been through a lot. He had no baby-
sitting energy.

“Listen, Watly,” Narcolo said, almost giggling. “Listen. That’s it, okay? No more. Take your money. Go back to Brooklyn if you really want—and put it in a saver or a bank. Pack it in now, okay? Or stay right here—you’re welcome, you know. Live well for a while—you’ve earned it. You could spend quite a while living pretty high with that kind of money, Watly.”

In spite of the fact that his uncle looked so cute and vibrant again—full of hope—Watly felt himself getting really furious. He wasn’t even certain why. There was a sudden tightness across his chest. He tried to contain it.
Why is the old man fighting against my dreams so?
“That’s not the point, Uncle,” he said. “Not at all. I need a lot more than that to do what
I
want.”

“Why?” The old man’s expression was vulnerable and boyish. He seemed to be begging, pleading for the right answer. For the answer he wanted to hear. “Why do you
want this?”

Watly sat up on the couch and looked directly into his uncle’s eyes. They were still moist, reflecting the dim light. “Didn’t you ever have a dream, Uncle? A passion? A.
..
a reason?” Narcolo turned and avoided his gaze. “Didn’t you ever have something that you wanted so bad it became the focus of your life? Didn’t you ever have something that you wanted so bad that the wanting
itself
became the.
..
the definition of who you are?” Watly pulled his feet off the table, knocking some of the credits off. “Well, if you didn’t then I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. If you didn’t, you won’t understand. But if you
did
—even for a moment—if you did, you might know what I mean. Maybe getting to Second Level someday is like that for you, I don’t know.” Watly stood up, ignoring the vicious protests of his leg muscles. “I want my own child, Uncle. I want to be a mother. To raise my own. That’s what I want. That’s
all
I want. You know better than I that it wasn’t too long ago, old friend, when that wouldn’t have been much to ask for. But now you have to fight for it. And I’m willing to do it. Call me an egoist if you want to—and maybe that’s part of it.
..
maybe I want the glory, the little ‘me’ running around. Or maybe there
is
such a thing as a ‘calling.’ Maybe there
are
a chosen few. Either way, it’s my only goal, Uncle—and you’re not going to talk me out of it.” Watly tried to catch his uncle’s gaze. “It’s all
there is.”

“How many mothers do you know, Watly?” Narcolo said softly, his eyes lowered. “How many children? Not counting the CV, when was the last time you saw a mother or
a child?”

“It’s not an easy thing to be, Uncle—I know that. I know
the odds.”

“What
are
the odds, kiddo? Do you know? There are kids on the CV. Watly, there are kids all over the CV. But those kids are on Second Level, Watly. They’re all on Second. That’s where the money is. The antiprophies
alone
must cost
fifty thousand.”

Watly was getting even more frustrated with Narcolo. He was
tired
, terradammit! Real tired. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, old friend. Why do you think I’m hosting? For
my health?”

“Fifty thousand, Watly. You’ll die before you reach half that amount. Things
could happen.”

“And a bus or cruiser could run me down tomorrow,”
Watly snapped.

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do, kiddo.” Narcolo sighed and then cleared his throat slowly. It sounded full of gravel. “All I’m saying is to use your head. Why does it cost so much to have a kid, Watly? Why all the expense? Figure it out. Think on it. Think. They don’t
want
you to have a kid, Watly. Send me to the Subkeeper if I lie. They don’t want us to procreate, to.
..
to
breed
. They’re letting us die off. Second Level can have all the kids they want. The upperfolk. But we’re overpopulated, Watly. We’re dirty and smelly and we take up space. There are too many of us. And now—to top it off—we’re grumbling. We’re making
them nervous.”

Narcolo let out a phlegmy cough. “Do you honestly believe, Watly, that if, by some fluke, some incredible luck, you
got
enough money for the antiprophies, and you
got
a willing female who could pass all the examinations, and you
got
enough money to pay her, and you
got
a chance at the licensing test, and you
got
enough money to take the test, and you
got
enough money for the mothering license—do you honestly think they’d let you pass it? Honestly? They’re trying to thin us out, man. It’s obvious. Someday.
..
someday, when they need more lackeys or cops or servants or.
..
paperweights—I don’t know—someday, they’ll let a few of us have kids. Or maybe they’ll just send down a few of their
extra ones.”

Watly wasn’t accepting this conspiracy theory. This was modern talk. California gossip-type talk. He waved his uncle’s words away, but the old
man continued.

“Let me finish, Watly Caiper. Most of the world is First Level.
Most of the world
. Literally or figuratively, it doesn’t matter. Take yourself. Take your hometown. Brooklyn was all First Level, right? You could see the sky above, but you were ‘First Levelers’—true? Of course it’
s true—”

Watly broke in. “We were poor, yes. But there were those who
were certainly—”

“You were
First Level!
All of you! They’re thinning us down, Watly. All of us. Too many of us is a threat. That was the whole idea behind prophies. I’m convinced of it. If prophies were just started because of too much of
all
populations, why charge so much for antiprophies? Poor people can’t afford them. Why not just have a test or something? Answer me that! I’ll tell you why. It’s because prophies are not for the rich and the powerful. They can buy antiprophies at the drop of a hat. They can. Second Level is full
of babies!”

Watly sat back down, feeling more exhausted than ever. His leg throbbed. Next the old man would be talking Revy, at this rate. “I don’t buy this stuff, Uncle. It’s not
my concern.”

Uncle Narcolo stepped in closer. His eyes glistened once again. “You have a nice little dream here, kiddo. It’s sweet and warm and cozy and I love you for it. I do. But it’s just a dream. It’s a fantasy. You want fantasies, move to Jesusland. Kiddo, maybe it’s time you
grew up.”

Watly let his head drop backwards.
Who’s telling who to grow up?
“What is your
problem
, Uncle?” he asked wearily. “Even if I’m wrong about everything—even if I can’t do anything I plan on—the absolute worst thing that could happen is I make a pile of money hosting and have to figure out another way to spend it. Big
raping deal.”