Levels: The Host Page 13

  What is it about breasts, Watly thought, that’s so damn intoxicating? Why do I love them so? Perhaps that is their purpose. To be loved. Perhaps they are plumage. Meant to attract, to cause an ache. No other mammal has them like us. Mammaries needn’t stick out like that. It serves no function for them to bulge. Not at all. They each say. Touch me, I am beautiful. Cradle me and fondle me and pinch me, I am beautiful. And they are. And these in particular.

  This whole body said, Touch me, I am beautiful. She was strikingly touchable. Strikingly beautiful. Fuckable. Fuckable in the literal sense. There was an extreme youthfulness to her entire appearance, though Watly found himself thinking she was older than she looked. Thirty? Thirty-five? Can’t say.... The only physical flaw he could see was that her jawline was just a bit too strong. It overpowered her face—her perfect little flip of a nose, her slightly swollen-looking lips, the long lashes, the high cheekbones.... The jaw was just too firm. Tough. It gave her a sharpness—an edge—she did not otherwise have. Aside from that, she was perfection. Watly wondered if perhaps someone like her needed one small flaw in order to reach perfection. Perhaps the definition of physical beauty was a person who had perfect little flaws to accentuate the beauty of the rest of the body.

  The woman’s eyes were closed and her body had not moved at all since the donor had entered.

  And then Watly thought she might be dead. The woman looked dead. There was no movement. And that paleness. Deathly paleness.... It occurred to Watly that her head was sunken so far back into the mountain of pillows that she could be horribly mutilated without it showing. The back of her head could have been, for all he knew, hacked to bits. It was not a pleasant thought. He did not want to be proven right. Blood and bone and grayish-green pieces of brain. He did not want to see that. The evening had been bad enough already.

  “Nice piece of ass, huh, Watly?” The donor chuckled. “Don’t you worry, now, Watly Caiper. She’s not dead. Not at all. She’s just drugged. She’s out of it.” The donor walked to the bed’s edge and focused on the woman’s rib cage. Sure enough, Watly could see a very gentle rise and fall as she breathed shallowly. “She is not in any pain, I assure you, Watly. It’s all part of the game. You can trust me. The pile of pillows is her throne and she is a queen in repose. Fear not.”

  The donor began to slowly disrobe, eyes always on the woman. Watly was again taken aback momentarily as his body became aroused without him. His organ filled rapidly, rising with each heartbeat. It was weird, but this time it didn’t feel quite as removed as it had with the first donor. The woman was attractive. In some other circumstances—another time, another place—Watly could easily see himself being turned on, incredibly turned on, by just such a woman. Yes, indeed. Who was she? Why was she drugged? The drug must have been a powerful one. Aside from the breathing, she was lifeless. What a strange fantasy for the donor to be living out. A beautiful, lifeless woman. Very beautiful. The erection felt like it wasn’t just the donor’s now. Watly shared it, guiltily.

  “Now, let’s have some fun, shall we, Watly Caiper? After this it’s all downhill.’’

  The donor climbed on the bed and—without any fanfare or preparation—began to have intercourse with the motionless woman. To Watly it was a very strange experience. The donor was surprisingly gentle and careful—almost loving—but the woman may as well have been dead. There was moisture down there, something slick and natural-feeling—perhaps a lubricant applied when she’d been drugged in preparation for this bizarre ritual. The wetness made it feel almost normal, as if she too was excited, was aroused. But she was a rag. She was limp, lifeless. There was not a flinch, not a twitch or grunt from her direction. The donor, however, seemed to be enjoying it all immensely. Her inaction did not affect the slow strokes, the loving kisses, or the gentle caresses. There was a tenderness to everything done. The only sound was a moist slap slap slap pause slap slap slap of the wet joining. It was not at all the way Watly could have expected this donor to have sex. For such a cruel and cold person, this was surprisingly passionate and surprisingly gentle. There was love here, or something close to it. Care.

  The slapping sounds grew louder and closer together. The pauses stopped. The donor was pounding hard now with a building lust. Watly felt the rising tickle in his balls and abdomen—the spreading fullness—as he heard an animal groan from the back of his own throat. The huge bed shook violently.

  After orgasm, the donor stayed in the woman for a few moments, eyes closed. Watly found it a welcome relief. With his eyes closed, somehow Watly felt more in control. At least he didn’t have to look at what someone else wanted him to. He could pretend it was just he, Watly, relaxing. Relaxing after an admittedly incredible orgasm. One of those big colorful ones, where the sweet spasms seem to go on forever.

  The period of rest was short-lived. Watly’s donor kissed the woman on her beautiful full lips and left the bed. She had not moved more than a fraction of an inch during the whole episode. Aside from the spreading stain on the sheets between her legs and the damp sheen to her body from Watly’s sweat, she looked just the way she had when they’d found her. Beautiful and still.

  What was this? What had just happened? Rape? Had Watly just been party to the obscenity of a rape? Who had drugged the woman? And why? Just to rape her?

  The donor got dressed again.

  “A momentary diversion from our main objective, Watly. I’m sure you don’t blame me. She is a beautiful specimen. Try not to judge me too harshly for taking advantage of the fair maiden while she dreamt. I suspect her dreams were no less vivid. And Watly, my friend, what man could resist such a treasure?” The donor stopped and looked back at the bed. After a long moment of visual caressing, the donor looked away.

  “But now we must hurry, Watly. Time is passing. I wouldn’t want to leave your body before our true job is done. No, that wouldn’t do at all.”

  After pulling on the boots and lacing the workervest, the donor left the room without looking back. Watly wondered if the woman would realize what had happened to her when she woke up. If she would feel the trauma of rape. The ultimate abomination. He also wondered, somewhat guiltily, if he’d ever see the woman again. He wondered if he’d ever see anyone again.

  They did not head downstairs as Watly expected. They continued right past the curved stairway and turned down another hallway. After passing more foreign-looking antiques on more wooden tables they came to a stop at a bank of elevator doors. They were old elevators but looked in perfect condition. The donor summoned up a car. It arrived rapidly and they stepped in. After it climbed three floors, the donor stopped the car and stepped out.

  This hallway was virtually identical to the others. The only real difference was in the donor’s behavior. Watly sensed a new cautiousness. The walk became slower and more like that of a stalking animal. Occasionally the donor would glance up at the battery of recorder lenses that appeared every few yards on this floor of the building. There was no attempt to hide from them. If anything, Watly almost felt the donor was putting on a show for their benefit. Performing for the recorders.

  They turned left at a branch in the hallway and approached the door at the end. The donor slowed as they silently neared. The door looked the same as all the others. It was, of course, made of real wood. The donor pressed an ear against it. Watly could hear nothing.

  With great care Watly’s donor opened the door a crack. Inside was a spectacular den. The walls were covered with leafcases and old prints and maps. Two wooden desks held brass keyboards and ornate globes. Antique chromells glistened dully from the shadows. Scattered around the room near the ceiling were more recorder lenses staring blankly out. Watching. Listening. Recording everything. A real gas fire burned from a stone fireplace in the corner, casting flickering shadows over the entire room. A heavy leatherlike wingchair faced toward the fire. Watly could see the shadows of two feet under the chair’s legs. Someone was sitting in it, feet crossed
comfortably.

  The donor slipped in and closed the door without even a click. It seemed to Watly that they had stopped breathing. The donor reached into the workervest and slowly removed the surgeon’s cutting blade from its case.

  The person in the chair shifted and the leatherlike squeaked. The donor froze.

  For what seemed to Watly like a full ten minutes the donor remained frozen in position, ignoring any of the body’s protests or cramps. Then the scalpel was transferred smoothly to the right hand and gripped there firmly. They took a silent step toward the chair. Then another. The boards creaked.

  The occupant of the chair stood and looked over the wing back.

  “Who the rape are you?” It was a middle-aged woman. She stepped away from the chair and began backing up. She was thin with short black hair and dressed in an expensive business suit. There was obvious fear in her eyes. She dropped the leaf she had been reading.

  Watly felt himself answer. “I’m a friend, my dear. A good friend.” The donor moved closer and the scalpel gleamed as it reflected the firelight. Watly felt his whole body tense.

  The woman had backed her way into a corner. “What do you want? What the rape do you want? Take it and get the hell out!” Her hands were trembling.

  The donor kept advancing. “I want you, my dear. You don’t know how long I’ve waited.”

  The woman’s eyes were frantic now. She knew she was trapped. Watly wanted desperately to help her. He’d never seen such terror in another’s face. She grabbed the edge of her desk and pulled a brass keyboard up by its cord. “Stay away from me! Stay back!”

  The donor kept coming. The woman swung outward with the keyboard and, just as it contacted weakly with the side of Watly’s head, he felt his own arm come down violently with the blade. His body was a savage thing, unstoppable. The keyboard bounced to the floor harmlessly as the first stab went into the woman’s left shoulder. The charged scalpel went in cleanly and cut clear down the front of the woman, almost removing her arm at the shoulder. And it was Watly who had done it. Watly. He had seen his own body do it to her. She screamed horribly and went down, with her right hand up for protection.

  The me is not the body, thought Watly.

  The donor neatly sliced the woman’s hand off at its wrist. Blood splattered all over the prints, the chromells. Her screaming continued and her eyes pleaded.

  The me is not the body....

  The donor came down again with the blade and it opened a huge hole in the woman’s stomach as she kicked out with her feet.

  The me is neither hand nor face nor sex....

  There were blood and intestines everywhere and still the woman screamed, twitching and spasming.

  The me is Watly Caiper, I.

  (A sense of self....)

  Watly watched his hand come down once more and the blade cut out a huge hole in the woman’s chest. Her screaming lessened.

  The body is an it.

  The body is a that....

  The woman squirmed and twisted, but she no longer screamed. A gurgle came from the back of her throat. Blackish blood flowed from her mouth. The donor raised the blade again.

  It could belong to another.

  For the me is a movable thing....

  This time the blade went into the center of her face and cut deeply down, slicing it almost in half. She stopped twitching.

  The me is a movable thing.

  The me is a movable thing.

  The donor slowly stood up beside the mangled corpse, gradually controlling their body’s breathing.

  “Mea culpa, Watly Caiper. Mea culpa. I’m afraid you’ve been a bad boy, my friend.”

  Watly hardly heard. He was somewhere else entirely. He was dancing with Alysess. Dancing in that warm and friendly place where no one ever heard of hosts, or donors, or money, or Alvedine... or murder. Most importantly, no one ever heard of murder.

  PART TWO

  MAXIMUM CULPABILITY

  Beware the air

  –Watly Caiper’s dream

  CHAPTER 14

  “You’ve been fighting again, Little-Watt,” P-pajer said. It was not a question. Watly’s small body was a mass of cuts and bruises. His clothes were filthy. He stepped in closer. The orange light of sunset—Brooklyn sunset—sliced in sharply through the kitchen window, making it hard to see his mother’s sad eyes. She led him to the sink to clean him off. The kitchen table was messy with papers from the neighborhood petition she’d been collecting. She smelled good—musty, dirty good. Hard-work good. The kitchen smelled good too. Spicy and warm.

  Young Watt winced as she cleaned the wounds. “For a good reason, Mom,” he said.

  “Isn’t it always a good reason, Watly?” She frowned. “How many times have I told you? Hmm? Never throw your fist, Watly. Raise it, yes. And your voice too. And your head....”

  “They were calling you names—”

  “Yes?” P-pajer stopped cleaning the scrapes on Watly’s face. She turned his small body toward her. “And?”

  Now Watly felt stupid. “That’s it,” he said, feeling suddenly teary. “But bad names.”

  P-pajer looked honestly bewildered. “So?”

  Watly felt sure the tears would come any second now. He tried to fend them off with silence. There was an achy, full feeling behind each eye.

  His mother held her hands out to him. “I can fight a word with a wound? A verbal insult with a physical injury? I have the right to hurt someone’s person for a word?” She gripped his shoulders. “Listen to me, Watly. This is important. No one has the right to hurt anyone. No matter what. Not you, not me. No matter what. That is the truth no one dares to face. That is the frightening reality of life. No one has the right to touch anyone.”

  “What if they touch you first?” Watly said. Now the dam burst and tears flowed freely down his scraped cheeks, stinging. He tried not to sob but that came too.

  “Then there are ways...” P-pajer looked off toward the source of the last golden rays touching the tiled floor. “There are ways....”

  “What ways?” Little Watly cried. “Tell me the ways!”

  P-pajer turned and smiled wistfully. “Soon, my baby. Soon. When you’re old enough to need them, I will tell you the secrets. For now, you don’t need them. You just need to stop fighting.”

  “I can’t stop fighting,” Watly said, and his mother hugged him hard as he cried. Her strong hands stroked his dusty hair. There was caked blood there, too.

  “You can if you want to,” she whispered, close to his ear. “That’s all it takes.”

  And Watly pulled back from her arms to look at her. He thought he’d never loved her more, nor understood her less. She smiled at his questioning look. Her hair was caught in the last ray of orange—it burned at the edges with light. The lines in her face were strong lines, forceful human lines. The face was loving and kind and oh-so-very wise. Watly felt more tears bubbling up. Through them he saw something sparkle over his mother’s shoulder. Off in the far distance out the kitchen window, a building reflected the last of the sun. Watly squinted at the glare. It was a Manhattan building. Way, way off. It was the Alvedine Building. Glowing from on high.

  Later, over the rich smells of dinner, Watly’s mother raised her hands from across the table, catching Watly’s eyes with hers. She wanted his complete attention. Watly stopped eating. He swallowed the weeder he had been chewing.

  “You’re not selfish enough, Little-Watt,” P-pajer said solemnly.

  Watly smiled slightly, thinking she was being sarcastic.

  “I’m serious, Watly. You’re not selfish/good enough. Selfish/good. Good/selfish. That’s the answer.” Her eyes were unwavering. “The world would be a better place if more people were selfish. Selfish/good. It is the answer, Watly. Everything you do in this life is for yourself, anyway. Everything. If you give me a gift, you are givi
ng it because it makes you feel good. You do it for yourself. If you martyr yourself for some cause you do it because the idea pleases you, makes you proud. You do it for yourself. You do everything for yourself. It’s important to realize that. To remember that.”

  P-pajer looked down and took another bite of food. Watly kept watching her as she ate, mesmerized. She looked up again and continued. “When you are old enough to have sex, Watly, you will see that the only good sex happens when the participants are selfish. They work for their own pleasure, and the pleasure of giving pleasure. Bad sex happens when they try to please each other at their own expense. That never works. And this is true of the rest of life as well. Fight for yourself, Watly; fight for your own freedom, for your own pleasure, for your own dreams; fight for your own food and shelter, for your environment, and for the satisfaction that doing it for others gives you. Helping others is selfish, Watly. It feels good. It is profoundly selfish. Selfish/good.”

  “Then fighting is good,” Watly said. P-pajer wiped her mouth and sighed. “I know, I know,” Watly jumped in. “Fighting is not good.”

  “Fighting selfish, Watly,” she said strongly. “Fight without hurt. Fight so your hands don’t get bloody. Fight so they don’t shed your blood. Fight so you don’t feel guilt over injuring another. Protect your fear. Fight so you never have to feel bad about a single move you made. Protect yourself. Fight selfish.”

  P-pajer leaned forward. “Fight like a coward, Watly. It takes more courage.”

  Watly stiffened at the thought. The idea confused him. Even offended him.

  His mother whispered softly now. “Anyone can be a hero, Watly. That takes no guts at all.”

  Watly stared into those dark, wise eyes. They seemed so deep, so far away. I love those eyes, he thought. I love them but I don’t understand them.

  He tried, as the years went on, to understand her more. But somehow, though there was love and there was caring and connection, he found little understanding. She was a strange woman. A mysterious woman. He needed more time to figure her out.