Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  Paving a shining way.

  We’re newspeople.

  We’re newspeople.

  Greeting a brand-new day.

  Sing a song of information.

  Sing it loud and clear.

  Bursting with communication.

  Every day this year.

  News, news, news, news...

  And now the local sex news:

  The new ratings are in, and experts say low-tech sex is on the upswing. In the forefront...

  Watly turned and saw that Narcolo had silently laid out brunch for him on the coffee table. The old man was eating alone in the kitchen area, facing the wall and humming to himself as he chewed. There was some adorable sulking going on there. Watly smiled inwardly. He wanted to break the tension between them—to say something—but thought better of it. Let things cool down a bit more, Caiper. You need a rest.

  The food smelled and looked delicious. It wasn’t burned this time. Somewhere in the aroma Watly smelled sunbean, but it was heavily disguised. Narcolo had coated the dish with a high-gloss gel for looks and garnished it with tiny sprigs of some green vegetable. It tasted wonderful from the first bite. Best meal in days. It felt good to fuel the system. Watly could sense his strength coming back with every swallow. His body had been through an ordeal and the long sleep, cool water, and good food helped ease aches and pains. Of course, his mind too had been through an ordeal. But aside from feeling slightly fuzzy around the edges, he was calm and alert. The body was the important thing.

  Watly took inventory. He was definitely up for tonight’s hosting. Aside from a few cuts and scrapes—and the big, painful bruise on his leg where he’d been kicked—he was in decent shape. Probably the most discomfort came from the sore muscles. That first donor had held Watly’s body so very differently that every joint now ached slightly. But it wasn’t bad. He’d made it through his initiation hosting in one piece. One bruised, traumatized piece, maybe, but a piece nonetheless.

  He watched more CV, jumping the pleats whenever he got bored. The hours passed quickly. Watly said nothing to Narcolo and Narcolo said nothing to Watly—at least nothing directly. There was a lot of mumbling coming from the old guy as he cleaned up the apartment all around Watly. An occasional “Well, don’t blame me” could be heard clearly.

  Watly finally got ready a short while before his hosting time. The pocket-jacket was still slightly damp, but the veneer pants were completely dry. He’d come to think of them as his hosting clothes. Narcolo had washed the oil and dirt out of both the night before. Scrub, scrub. They were hung on a makeshift wire clothesline in the bathroom. Watly took them down and put them on, butterflies filling his stomach rapidly again. A generalized feeling of hinkiness that he’d been able to control all day suddenly wasn’t as easy to repress. The CV probably hadn’t helped. He’d had too much of it for one day. Too much news songs, music hall, and porn. And the whole apartment was cloudy with stale CV mist. His mother, of course, would have disapproved. He’d watched for way too long by her standards. “Cable-vidsatts are chains,” P-pajer Caiper would say. “They control the people. They poison their dreams.” She had not been a fan. But Watly had wanted some mindless entertainment today. He’d thought he’d needed it. But maybe he’d overdone it.

  Watly found his shoes near the bathroom door. Narcolo had apparently cleaned them as well. He must have quietly taken a brush to them in the early morning before starting to make Watly’s brunch. Scrub, scrub. Good old Uncle. Why did I have to snap at him so much?

  Narcolo Caiper was sitting reading a leaf in the corner chair. Watly walked over to him and gripped his shoulder.

  “I’m going now, Uncle,” he said. Narcolo glanced up. He looked pained and nodded solemnly. Watly smiled. “Help yourself to the money, okay, fella? Most of it should be yours anyway.”

  Narcolo made a sour face. “Peh!” he said. Watly turned to the door but the old man’s voice stopped him. “You be damn careful, Watly Caiper. Damn careful. Hear me, kiddo?”

  “I will, my friend. And... I’m sorry about the—”

  “Just be raping careful!”

  Watly closed the door quietly behind him, smiling.

  It was a little early to be leaving, but Watly felt like walking. He was also eager to see Dr. Tollnismer again. When he’d returned last evening from his first hosting, she had still been there, looking as radiant as before. Watly himself had been a bit worse for the wear after his Sexsentral experience. They’d spoken briefly.

  “Here’s your cuff back,” Watly had said as he dropped the heavy thing on one of the white counters.

  She looked at him with surprise and then honest concern. “You look a bit of a mess, Watly Caiper. Are you okay?”

  “I’m dandy.”

  “You’re tired, huh?”

  “I’m more than tired.”

  “But you’re not hurt?” She looked worried.

  “No, not really. I’m a little sore here and there, but nothing too much. I’m still in good shape.” He winked broadly. “And I’m still devilishly handsome.”

  “You’re also in the wrong room,” she said with a smile. Those incredible teeth again. Her eyes—sensitive and intelligent, shiny.

  “Wrong room?”

  She nodded. “You’re supposed to return the cuff to the cashier downstairs and then pick up your new assignment at the front desk.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.” The doctor turned her head to one side and squinted. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Who, me?”

  “You just brought your ‘devilishly handsome’ face up here to see me, didn’t you?”

  “Now that you mention it...”

  “You go right back downstairs, Watly Caiper, before you get us both in trouble. And don’t forget the cuff.” She herded him toward the doorway.

  He walked backward reluctantly. “When will I see you again?” he asked.

  She picked up the cuff and plopped it into Watly’s outstretched hand. “You’ll see me again when you host again, Mr. Caiper.” There was a shy pause before she went on. “Soon—I hope.” She gave him her most brilliant smile yet.

  Watly stopped at the door. “I’m either suffering from total exhaustion... or I’m in love.”

  “Get out of here, Caiper.” She gave him a playful shove. “Oh, and Caiper... it’s Alysess.”

  “Huh?”

  “Alysess Tollnismer, M.D.”

  “Glad to know you.” Watly had tried to shake her hand but she’d already closed the door on him.

  And now, as he headed uptown toward Alvedine for his second hosting, he could hardly wait to see her again. Alysess. As each moment passed he seemed to feel stronger about the woman. He hardly knew her at all but she had somehow become important to him. Very important. Thump-thump heart important. Maybe it was just sex. Just lust. Just those hidden brown breasts he wondered about. Or maybe there was something else. Her vibrancy. Her life. Her... name? Alysess. Pretty name for a pretty woman. Poovus material.

  There was barely any dripping at all so Watly kept his hat off. He felt good. Aside from an ache or two he was fine. This was going to work out. Things would go his way. The air around him seemed fresher and he was getting almost giddy over the idea of seeing Alysess. Perhaps they could talk awhile before the hosting started. The night hosting.

  It was the time of day when most people were going home from work rather than to it. The streets were bustling with activity. Half-filled lowtrucks were being pulled by swiftly, their pullers practically jogging. Bums were accosting all who looked like they had a buck. Watly had taken a little of his money with him and handed a few New York dollars out when the fancy struck him.

  The daylites went to half with an abrupt click. Everyone paused for a second to let their eyes adjust and then continued on. It was a pleasant evening. Some of the t
enters were cooking meals on the sidewalk with heat-em-ups. Hardly anyone wore a hat. Bicyclists rolled by lazily. Watly allowed himself the luxury of wondering what the weather was like. What the weather was really like. He imagined it warm and with a gentle breeze. The sun would be just touching the horizon and everything would be golden. For a moment Watly wanted to run away. He wanted to forget his silly dreams. He wanted to sprint to the Hosting Building, grab Alysess by the wrist, and run off with her. They’d keep on running and running until they saw the sky. The real sky. Then they’d stop and make love under it. And when they were done they’d make love again. And on and on. And then they’d talk. They’d hold each other lazily and talk. Get to know each other. Each other’s dreams. As the wind blew and the night grew cool, they’d go to a place where no one had ever heard of Alvedine, or hosting, or money, or Second Level, or being a doctor, or being a mother.... Being a mother.

  That was the thing.

  That was the thing.

  Ah, well, sometimes it was nice to dream a different dream, even for a moment.

  Watly picked up his pace and bounced along on the balls of his feet. Hosting wasn’t all that bad.

  It all depended on the donor.

  At Alvedine Industries Watly was surprised to find the front doors locked. For a second he thought maybe he’d made a mistake. He searched the pocket-jacket for his assignment slip. It had, unfortunately, gotten washed along with the jacket. Watly found it in a soggy ball in one of the bottom pockets. It was still legible and Watly spread it out against his knee.

  Assignment Slip

  confidential to watly caiper

  from Alvedine Industries

  Next Hosting Assignment:

  tomorrow, seven p.m.

  (evening)

  Report Alvedine Hosting Building

  There it was. No mistake about it. Watly turned and tried the doors again. They were all locked. He peered through the glass. The reception area and cashier’s station were dark. So were the front hallways. Everything looked closed up for the night. Maybe his assignment had been a typo. Maybe it was supposed to be a.m. But then, it actually had the word evening written in. Funny. Night hosting.

  Watly walked back down the steps and looked at the building. Maybe for night hosting they had you enter through the cuff-return door. The cuff-return entrance was open twenty-four hours.

  Watly rounded the corner and saw the lighted floater indicating cuff return here. What the rape—it was worth a shot. He pushed through the door.

  “Watly Caiper?”

  There was a tall blond-haired man standing just inside the entrance. He wore the standard all-white doctor’s uniform and held a monitor. He was very pale—almost sick-looking.

  “I’m him,” Watly said, a bit startled.

  “You’re the night host?” the man asked. He hadn’t yet looked at Watly directly. His eyes were focused distractedly over Watly’s shoulder.

  “That’s me, I guess.”

  The man turned and started down the hall. He was halfway down before Watly realized he was expected to follow the guy. Watly had to trot to catch up.

  “Sorry about the front door, Caiper. They closed up early today. Good you figured out how to get in.”

  “I’m a little confused....” Watly said. He was having trouble keeping up with the other man. “Is the building closed for the day? What’s the story with night hosting?”

  The tall man stopped abruptly and faced Watly. He seemed suddenly furious. Dangerous. “The world does not revolve around you, Mr. Night Host. Some people have regular hours. Most of the workers go home at five. We only keep a skeleton crew here after that. Any other problems?”

  “Take it easy. Take it easy. I was just curious.” Watly wondered if there was a right side of the bed for this guy to get up on.

  He kept his mouth shut as they went to the fifth floor. Watly’s tall companion was taking the exit route to fifth, so, since they were entering and not leaving, all the arrows faced them as they walked. Yellow, red, and blue arrows pointed backward. It was strangely ominous. It seemed to Watly like a big sign saying, go back, watly caiper! go away!

  Nearly comical. Nearly.

  The tall blond man was slowing and Watly could now keep up easily. He headed toward the same hosting room Watly was used to. Watly followed, relieved they hadn’t changed rooms on him. Relieved it was Dr. Tollnismer’s room again.

  When the man folded the hosting room’s door open, Watly could see there was no one inside. Just the chair, the metallic dinosaur, and the other accoutrements of hosting. No person. No Alysess. No white smile. No smart eyes. No poovus.

  “Where’s Alys—Where’s Dr. Tollnismer?” Watly asked. He was still standing in the doorway, not sure he should enter. The blond man was already at the white counter, fiddling with a cable. He glared up at Watly.

  “What?” he snapped. He was daring Watly to repeat the question. Daring him to admit to even having had a question. Oh nothing, Mr. Nasty Paleface, I said nothing at all.... That was the proper response.

  Watly took the dare instead. “My, uh, usual doctor, Dr. Tollnismer... she’s not here yet?”

  The man sneered. He must have been roughly Watly’s age but there was something jaded and dead around his eyes. And that pale, almost cadaverous skin.... “I’m your doctor today, Mr. Night Host. Tollnismer doesn’t work nights.”

  Watly felt his stomach grab up on him. No Alysess? It’s okay, Caiper. No big deal. You’ll catch her next time. Better to concentrate on the hosting anyway. She’d be a distraction. You’re getting obsessed about a beautiful stranger.

  Watly stayed in the doorway. After a while he forced himself into the room and sat in the recliner. He felt a twinge in his leg where the bruise was, so he shifted sideways. Damn, but that Ragman guy had kicked hard.

  “Finally decided to join us, huh?” the blond man said, and crossed over to fold the door shut. “Let’s get this thing over with.” What was all that nastiness covering? Fear? Was the creepo afraid of something? He pulled a hosting-cuff off the wall and brought it over to Watly. Everything seemed to be happening very fast. The cuff already?

  “Uh...”Watly watched the top of the blond’s head as the man secured the cuff on him. “Uh... aren’t you going to read the Hosting Rights and Regulations thing?”

  The man clamped the cuff tightly and looked up. Watly shuddered. The guy’s eyes were totally empty of humanity. Blank. “You heard it last time, mister. There something you forgot?”

  Watly swallowed hard. “Where’s my euphoric?” The doctor was pulling the hosting device from the corner already. Some of the cables dragged behind.

  “Euphorics are not necessary this time, Mr. Night Host.”

  Watly sat forward. “Wait a minute! Wait just a sec. What about my pains? Aren’t you going to ask me about pains? I have pains that need treating.”

  The man stood over Watly and with one broad hand firmly pushed him back against the chair. “This donor’s not picky, mister. You don’t need a euphoric and you don’t need a pain check.”

  “What do you mean I don’t need a pain check? I have a bruise. A bad one. I have scratches. Sore muscles. There’s discomfort.” Watly felt panic building. Something was wrong here.

  “Your donor doesn’t care, night host. You want to make trouble? You want to call it off? You can call if off right now if you want, but I guarantee you’ll never host again. I guarantee it.” The man’s eyes seemed even deader than before. They were like a doll’s eyes.

  “I just don’t understand. This isn’t like last time. How can you do it this way? You’re supposed to read the rights. You’re supposed to give me a raping euphoric. You’re supposed to deaden the pains. Am I right?”

  The man made a close approximation of a smile with his lips. It looked more like a grimace. The teeth were yellow next to the pale skin. “All depe
nds on the donor. This donor doesn’t care about a little discomfort, Mr. Night Host. Now, are we on or not? Yes or no? You doing this?”

  Watly felt confused. This was nothing like he’d expected. No rights or regulations. No Alysess. No euphoric. No pain check. It all stank. “I just want some assurances....”

  “What assurances, mister?” The doctor turned and released the two cables with end plates. He pulled them chairside.

  “Is this guy some kind of pain-freak or something?”

  The man was touching the plates behind each of Watly’s ears. He returned to the main controls with that eerie stain-toothed smile spreading. “You’re safe, mister. I think you’ll live through it, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  The man turned and stared straight at Watly with a look of supreme impatience. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s something wrong here and I don’t like it.”

  “You want out, tell me now.” The man deftly flipped three ringlets out of their casings and connected two loose cables.

  Watly held a hand up. “Can’t you just wait a second. Doctor?”

  “Yes or no,” the man said. His features had returned to their original stony coldness. “I got a job to do. I’ve got no time for coddling. Yes or no, Mr. Night Host.”

  Watly couldn’t believe the way this was turning out. He was being pushed. He wasn’t being given enough time to think. This was all wrong. “Hold on just a second!”

  The blond man gripped the final two ringlets and glared. “Yes or no! Right now, mister! You hosting or not?”

  Watly felt he didn’t have a choice. There was only one response. If he said no, it was over. No mothering, no nothing. This was the only way. So this doctor was a bolehole, that’s all. So the guy was a rape face. What was Watly going to do—give up all he’d worked for because some underpaid catbreath second-kisser had an attitude problem? This was his only chance to get his dream. But damned if he wasn’t going to report this guy’s behavior when it was over. This was unacceptable. It warranted a serious complaint.

  “Can we just cool down here a second?” Watly said as calmly as he could. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it. Just take it easy, already.”