Levels: The Host Page 2

  Watly shifted from his left foot to his right.

  Thump thump thump.

  Mr. Oldyer hadn’t said one word yet. He just sat and stared at Watly, thumping that No. 2 pencil proudly on his plasticore desktop. A real wood pencil like that must’ve cost him a full week’s pay, Watly thought. He’s really showing it off.

  Thump thump thump.

  Watly wished he could think of something to say—something witty or sarcastic. A quip. Where the hell was a quip when you needed it most? Needed it for your own sanity. Watly’s brain was dry. This Mr. Oldyer—this unapproachable building of a man—stood between Watly Caiper and his future. This was it. Watly didn’t want to blow it. Not now. Not after coming this far.

  Thump thump thump.

  Even before the enormous man finally broke down and spoke, Watly suspected this was the kind of guy who could make every word in existence a curse. Watly braced himself for it. Everything this man would say was going to sound like an obscenity. And curses—rape, bolehole, subspawn—would sound worse than ever slipping from this man’s sloppy flesh wound of a mouth.

  But nice, positive words—good words—would be tainted with fatty toxins. Words like pretty, happy, wonderful, kind would be corrupted when spewed from those two lopsided lips. Even wholesome, positive words like fuck would end up tainted. Fuckhead, fuckable, fuckface—all would sound like bad things instead of good when they escaped from this blubber-puss.

  Watly stared at Oldyer’s mouth. He remembered hearing once about how in ancient pre-Cede time, pre-history, the word fuck was indeed considered a curse: something harsh, something one couldn’t say in polite company. Whereas, back then, rape was not considered a curse word at all. Pretty strange, that. It was like they had everything backward in those days.

  Thump thump thump.

  Mr. Oldyer broke his stare and turned his massive head down to look at the papers on his desk. The facial blubber trembled for a moment and then the man laid his pencil carefully before him. No more thumping. There was a palpable release of tension. Watly exhaled slowly through his teeth and focused on the toes of his shoes.

  “Watly Caiper, huh?” Four swinging jowls shuddered with the impact of speech on Oldyer’s face.

  The brown half-walls of the small office seemed to close in around Watly. He felt as if something was tightening around his neck—pressing, squeezing. Yes, Watly had been right. This man made even Watly’s own name sound like an obscenity.

  “Yes, sir. That’s me.”

  “Come a long way, haven’t you, Caiper?” the big man said in a monotone.

  Watly smiled but kept his mouth shut, not sure what was expected of him. It hadn’t sounded like a question. What do you want, fat man? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.

  “You’ve passed through four examinations and two physicals, right?” Oldyer looked up from the papers and resumed his scrutinizing gaze. “You know how to talk, firstface?”

  “That’s right, sir. Been here all day.” Watly’s hands were damp again. They’d been going damp like that on and off since he’d first gotten on line at five that morning. The whole thing had been much more an ordeal than he’d expected. The enormous queues, the tension, the waiting, the shuffling, the forms, the prodding, and the endless, endless questions.... Yes, sir-ree, the admissions procedure at Alvedine Industries’ Hosting Building was... less than soothing.

  Watly surreptitiously wiped his clammy palms across his pants legs on the pretext of smoothing the fabric. A conspicuous dark stain of sweat was left behind.

  “So you want to be a host—is that it, Mr. Watly Caiper?” Oldyer’s voice now had a tinge of sarcasm to it.

  “Yes, sir. That’s it exactly.”

  “A fade-out host? A final host?” Oldyer’s sunken eyes gleamed.

  Watly’s stomach did a complete half turn. Something bubbled in his throat. “No, no, Mr. Oldyer. Not a fade-out host, sir. Just a host. A regular host.”

  The huge man was playing with him. Any other circumstances and Watly would have socked him in the jaw. The guy was a secondkissing bolehole. But it was all too important. This was the big time.

  “We’re always in need of a good fade-out host, Mr. Caiper,” Oldyer said slyly, leaning back in his chair. He was smiling. The man was showing off his power. He was threatening Watly— trying to intimidate him, trying to make him hinky and more.

  Watly allowed himself a tight little smile back. “I’m not interested in dying just yet, sir. I understand fade-out hosting pays very generously but I’d have no one to leave the money to. Right now, sir, I’m just interested in hosting.”

  “And why would that be, Mr. Watly Caiper? Why do you want to be a host?” Mr. Oldyer lifted his pencil again and began to slowly—almost sexually—caress it with his fingertips.

  Watly picked out a particular Oldyer nose hair to focus on before answering. A gray one. “I need the money, sir—Mr. Oldyer. It’s the only way I know of to make a lot of it fast.”

  The huge jowls reared up to form a smile again. A big one. “Oh, you’re a treasure, Mr. Caiper. A real treasure. Need the money, do you? That’s precious. I’m stunned. Imagine my surprise. Kelgar!” Oldyer’s voice boomed out—directed over the half-wall to the next office. “Kelgar! This unique fellow’s in here because of financial considerations! He needs the money!” The big man rose with great exertion. His fat wobbled asymmetrically over the top of his pants as he rounded the desk toward Watly’s side. The floor shook slightly under Watly’s feet. “Imagine that!” There was clipped laughter from beyond the half-wall. “Needs the money!” Oldyer moved closer and held his face just a few centimeters away from Watly’s. Watly could smell the stale alcohol-infused breath, the rancid skin. He saw that Oldyer’s swollen nose and cheeks were covered with a fine latticework of blood vessels that grew more engorged by the minute. A map of blood. The guy was flushed. “Mr. Caiper,” he said. “Mr. Caiper, in the entire history of hosting—since it first began—there has never been a sofdick subspawn of an applicant like you who came across my desk, or any other terradamn desk... who didn’t need the raping money.” Oldyer accented each of the last few words by poking Watly in the stomach with his blunt index finger.

  Watly Caiper remained as still as possible. He wanted to strangle this Mr. Oldyer. This bole- hole. He wanted to knock him down and see how high he’d bounce. He didn’t. He didn’t budge. He breathed. In-out. In-out.

  Oldyer moved even closer and Watly thought for a moment the big man meant to kiss him.

  “You’d like to hit me, wouldn’t you, catbreath?” Oldyer asked softly. “You’d like to knock me over. I’ve read your file. There’s more than a streak of prideful violence in there.” Again a sharp poke in the solar plexus. “You don’t dare, though, do you? ‘Cause you want this real bad and it’s all in my hands.” Oldyer backed off a few inches. “Do you know what my job is, Mr. Caiper? My job isn’t to accept you. Oh, no. My job is to weed you out. My job is to turn you away. My job is to send you out of here on your bole. Just because you made it this far you think you’re second shit. This department alone sees over a thousand people a day just like you. Just like you. You know how many of those people get by us?” Watly shook his head. “On a good day? None. On a good week? Maybe one, if you’re lucky.” Oldyer moved back to his side of the desk. “So, Mr. Watly Caiper, the odds are against you.” Oldyer paused and sat his huge form back down. “That is, unless you want to be a fade-out host....”

  Watly clenched his teeth. The guy wouldn’t give up. “I do not want to be a fade-out host, sir.”

  “Then give me a reason I should make you a host, Watly Caiper. I’ve got your file and papers in front of me and there’s nothing special there. Give me a reason”—Oldyer’s eyes smiled, though his mouth showed nothing—”why I shouldn’t kick you out right now.”

  Watly felt his mind go blank. Somebody must have pulled the stopper and le
t his brain drain out. There’s gotta be a puddle of it somewhere down there.... He openly wiped his hands on his pants this time. Give him a reason, dammit!

  “Well, Mr. Oldyer, I’m, uh... I’m in good shape. I’m strong. Uh.” Watly groped for something—anything. “I’m relatively attractive to either sex. Pretty fuckable-looking. I... uh... can take a lot of punishment. I’ve got a lot of stamina and endurance....”

  Oldyer started shuffling the papers around on his desk. “You’re not helping yourself, Caiper,” he said offhandedly. He pulled aside one particular form and began inspecting it. “Says here you did factory maintenance work in Brooklyn and that you just moved to Manhattan last month. Are you a tenter or are you staying someplace?”

  “I’m staying with my Uncle Narcolo. He has an apartment.”

  Oldyer seemed to perk up for a moment. “Narcolo?” he asked. “Narcolo Caiper?”

  “That’s right,” Watly said, his hopes rising a notch at Oldyer’s perky tone.

  The man scratched his large bald scalp. “He used to work here a few years back—Narcolo Caiper... Narcolo Caiper—he worked in files, I think. Retired now, I believe.” Oldyer grinned, ignoring Watly. He seemed pleased with his own memory.

  “Yes, sir. He’s a real fuck, a great guy. He—”

  “Subspawn,” Oldyer snapped. “Connections will get you nothing here, Caiper.” The cavernous eyes turned back to the form. A thick vein near one oversized ear bulged outward. “So you’re staying in an apartment. Near here, is it?”

  “It’s very convenient, yes, sir.”

  There was a long moment of silence from Oldyer. Over the half-walls, Watly caught snatches of conversation from the other interviews and examinations going on all around him—insecure mumblings from applicants and self-confident bellowings from interviewers. It was the same everywhere.

  “Let me guess, Mr. Caiper. You want the money because you’d like to save up and someday move to Second Level. The good life, and all that? Gave up on playing the Level Lottery, huh?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Dying relative out in Jersey Commonwealth needs an operation?”

  “No, sir.”

  Oldyer looked annoyed he hadn’t guessed right. The nose hairs actually seemed to bristle. “Then what’s your sad story, Caiper? What’s your tale?”

  “Antiprophies, sir.”

  The fat man looked confused for a second, as if he’d never heard the word. “Antiprophies? You want to be a mother?”

  “That’s it, sir.”

  “A mother? A mother, huh? Had a calling?” There was new respect in Oldyer’s voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have a female? Volunteer or mate or anything?” Oldyer’s face transformed into that of a pouting child for a moment. “You have a poovus?” he asked.

  “No, sir.”

  Oldyer inhaled and let out a long, drawn-out whistle. It started high and descended slowly, the sound of someone falling off a cliff. “Gotta give you credit for trying, Caiper. You’d need a rape of a lot of money—antiprophies, a female, a license. A lot of money.” Oldyer’s eyes glazed over as though he’d slipped into a daydream. He was gone.

  “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Oldyer,” Watly said as firmly as possible. Wake up, Mr. Fat Man.

  Oldyer still looked like he was drifting, his mind far away. “That’s fine, Caiper.” Without looking down, Oldyer gathered the various papers together on his desk. “Application denied.”

  Watly thought he hadn’t heard right for a moment. “What?” he said softly.

  “Application denied. You know the way out. Follow the blue arrows.”

  “Denied? Just like that?” Watly felt his face getting hot.

  “Just like that.” Oldyer was sealing up the papers in a plastic sanifile. He finished quickly and pulled out another file from behind his desk. The next person’s file.

  Just like that.

  Watly stood still. Breathing. In-out. In-out. Just like that a man crushes another man’s dream. Just like that. Watly felt dazed. He cleared his throat gently. “Are you asking me to leave?”

  Oldyer snorted. “I’m telling you to leave, rape face.”

  Watly started to back slowly out of the cubicle. This couldn’t be happening. This man arbitrarily decided to deny Watly’s application. Arbitrarily. Just like that.

  Watly stopped at the doorframe and scanned the small cluttered office. There must be some way to change this huge man’s mind. Watly wouldn’t give up without a fight. This was too damn important. This was his life.

  “Mr. Oldyer?” Watly let his voice go louder than he had all day. It felt good. It felt right.

  “I thought I told you to leave, Caiper.” Oldyer spoke without looking up from his new set of papers.

  “Two minutes, Mr. Oldyer. Two more minutes of your time. Just two.” Watly found himself pacing wildly back and forth in front of Oldyer’s desk like some crazed salesman. “Two little minutes—that’s all. Humor me for two minutes, Mr. Oldyer, and then I’ll get out of your life forever.”

  Mr. Oldyer glanced up from his desk and manipulated the pockets of flesh around his mouth to form a sneer. It was not a pleasant sight. “Why the hell should I?”

  Watly swallowed and stopped his pacing. “Entertainment,” he said deliberately. “Think of me as a minor diversion.”

  Oldyer smiled and leaned back. His chair squeaked as if in pain from the change in weight distribution. Watly wondered if it was reinforced. “You’ve got one minute, Caiper. Make this good.”

  “Okay. Okay...” Watly was trying to think and talk at the same time. “Supposing, sir, just supposing I owed you a certain sum of money. Let’s say one thousand New York dollars...”

  Oldyer rolled his eyes. “A bribe won’t get you anywhere with me, Mr.—”

  “No no no.” Watly started pacing again. “Not a bribe—not a bribe. Just suppose I owed it to you. Legit. Hypothetically, of course.”

  Oldyer smiled again. “How the hell would—”

  “Just humor me for a second. If I owed this to you... there’d be virtually no way for you to get it. You know why, Mr. Oldyer? Because I’ve got zip. I’ve got nothing in my pockets and nothing in the bank. No savers. Nothing. I’ve got no job, and any job I could get—it would take me years to pay you back on the best salary. Except one job. Hosting. Hosting’s the only job. If—hypothetically, of course—if I owed you that thousand, I could easily pay you back with interest after only a few minutes of hosting.”

  Oldyer was looking impatient. “What’s the point, Caiper? You don’t owe me nothing.”

  “No, that’s true, that’s true... but bear with me a second.” Watly pressed his fingertips together. “If—hypothetically—I had, say, stolen the money from you or owed you because I wronged you in some way, it wouldn’t pay for you to turn me in. No, it wouldn’t pay. If you had me arrested there’d be even less chance I could ever repay you. You’d never see the money. No, the best thing for you to do would be to make me a host, right? Then I’d pay you right back, because basically—” Watly smiled, “basically I’m an honest fuck.”

  “Are you threatening me, Caiper?”

  “No, sir. Absolutely not.” Watly stood opposite the big man, right up against the desk.

  “Sounds to me like you’re either trying to bribe me or threaten me. I can’t figure which. Either way I don’t like it and either way I’ve had enough of this. You’ve had your minute.”

  “I’m not bribing you and I’m not threatening you, sir. What I am doing...“ Watly reached over in one swift movement and snatched up the No. 2, “is breaking your pencil.” Watly snapped it neatly into two pieces and then broke each one again with a loud pop.

  All four of Oldyer’s chins dropped. “You bolehole! Do you know how much that thing cost me?” His huge features seemed ready to explode. Watly lean
ed back and let the wooden pieces fall through his fingers.

  “Exactly,” Watly Caiper said with a smile.

  CHAPTER 2

  The daylites were down to half by the time Watly Caiper left Alvedine Industries’ Hosting Building. He walked down the front steps to the street, looking upward. Even after a month of living on First Level Manhattan, Watly still wasn’t used to the absence of sky above. It remained uncomfortably disorienting—even claustrophobic—to step out of a building and still be under cover. The stagnant oily air, the thick upright girders, the oblong daylites, constant drips, hollow echoes—all took some time getting accustomed to. Not to mention that constant mildew stench....

  And where is the sky? Where has the sky gone?

  “Spare a dollar, boss?”

  Watly turned to look at the bum. There were ten or fifteen others right behind him, looking like a gauntlet of derelicts. This was a prime area for begging—right outside Alvedine’s Hosting Building. The guy who had asked first looked relatively well kept for a bum. More likely he was a tenter out for extra cash. His clothes seemed pretty new and his face looked washed. Watly gave him a buck anyway and moved away quickly, walking down the center of the street.

  Fifty-seventh Street was full of tenters down both sidewalks and in the gutter. Some of them looked packed so close they seemed edge to edge. Street cats ran between rows of tents, looking for food. Watly heard a police cruiser, so he stepped aside and let it pass. He gave out three more bucks before hitting Second Avenue. It was all right to be extravagant, Watly thought, considering they’d given him a two hundred New York dollar advance toward his first hosting. Quite a fuckable amount. He patted his right pocket where the wad of bills sat comfortably. It felt good. He felt good. Tired, but good.