Levels: The Host Read online

  He headed downtown at First Avenue. By his estimation, Watly had at least two hours before the daylites would go to night. He walked slowly, enjoying the exercise. It’d been too long since he’d had a chance to move much at all. His muscles had cramped up from almost fourteen hours of bureaucratic shuffle. “Follow the orange arrows.... Follow the green arrows.... Name?... Age?... Turn and cough!...”

  There were fewer tenters in the forties but a lot of people walking. The occasional whine of a bus or police cruiser cleared them all toward the sidewalk. A few lowtrucks and bicycles passed slowly. The eateries, sunbean cafés, bodegas, music tube stores, and used clothing shops were full of browsers, if not customers. Someone was hawking hot birdhats from a cart. The dripping was pretty bad, so Watly took out his own plain hat, unfolded it, and put it on. At least it wasn’t raining up above on Second. Then the drips and falls and flooding here below would really start. This was mild. This was tolerable. Almost pleasant.

  On Thirty-eighth a strong breeze started as Watly neared one of the major exhausts. He clamped his hand over his hat to keep it from being sucked up into the huge fan. Those near him did the same. Everyone’s loose clothing whipped and danced around their bodies. A few people held their ears to protect them from the fan’s steady roar.

  Directly below the fan some old guy stood staring up, his white hair blowing wildly. Whatever it was—hat, bills, whatever—he hadn’t held on tight enough. Poor old guy would have a hard time recovering whatever he’d lost up there. That was next to impossible. As Watly understood it, the guy would have to fill out requests, affidavits, and a million other forms out the bolehole. Then, after all that, a few months later he’d probably see some policeman wearing whatever he’d lost. Can’t fight the system.

  The old guy was shouting something now, cursing up at the fan. Watly couldn’t hear the words, but it looked like he was saying something like, “The time is coming, you sofdicks! The time is coming!” And then there was more Watly couldn’t make out. Maybe the man hadn’t lost anything up there after all. Maybe he was just standing there yelling up toward Second Level. Maybe.

  Clamping his hat down even tighter, Watly passed quickly underneath the exhaust and moved on. The wind and noise lessened rapidly. Something about California. The old guy had said something about California....

  Watly made a pit stop at a corner W.C. Aside from the obligatory urine test, he’d been holding it in all day. Usually Watly avoided streetcorner water closets, but at this point he had little choice. The W.C. experience was survivable. They weren’t so bad if you breathed through your mouth.

  Back on the street the people were starting to thin out as night approached. Watly continued on leisurely, enjoying the lack of crowds. It had been a day full of crowds. The lines at Alvedine had been enormous. Bodies mashed against bodies. From one examination or medical to the next, one room to the next, one floor to the next, Watly had spent most of the time staring at the backs of different heads. It had been quite an ordeal. Questions, questions, questions. “Name?” Watly Caiper. “Mother’s name?” P-pajer Caiper. “Ever broken a law?” No. “What do you think of when I say the following words: Hot?” Cold. “Sex?” Good. “California?”... Beach. Questions and more dumb questions.

  And then, of course, came Oldyer. Ol-die-yer. What a nightmare. Watly almost lost the whole deal on that one. But it worked out after all. Somehow. The pencil idea had been desperate, but in the end Watly guessed it had served its purpose. Not as he’d expected, yet—strangely enough—everything had worked out in the end.

  The fat man was a real cipher. His reaction had been unexpected. Oldyer had frozen in what looked like shock after his initial outburst about the pencil’s cost. Then he seemed about to burst once again. Suddenly and with absolutely no warning the man began to shake with laughter. He clutched his enormous sides and howled, almost tipping his chair backward. His belly bounced with it. Tears poured down the puffy cheeks. His jowls flapped. The laughter was so loud a security guard stuck her head through the doorway to see if everything was okay. Oldyer just waved her away.

  When the laughter finally subsided Oldyer spoke again. “Okay, Caiper. Okay. You got me. You got me good, Caiper—so far as you’re concerned. You pulled what you thought was a fast one. You can be a host. Don’t ask me why, but you got it, Caiper. You got guts, little man. Little man. You got oves. Huevos. You got eggs, I’ll give you that. Didn’t think you’d go for it. I’ll make you a host, Caiper. And you know what, Mr. Watly Caiper? I hope you make it. A mother, huh? You haven’t a chance in hell, but I hope you get your little dream. I hope you do. I could almost feel sorry for you, considering what’s in store. But then, what do I know? Here’s a booklet for you. Follow the green arrows to registration.’’

  Oldyer started laughing once more when Watly turned to leave the office. Watly stopped at the doorway when the big man spoke one last time to him. “Oh, and Watly.... Watly, about that pencil,” Oldyer said between short, panting breaths. “That pencil—it’s a fake. Made out of placene and paint. Sells for five New York dollars down on Fourteenth. You think I’d keep something expensive in this office? In this raping shithole?” A fit of laughing once again overcame him. “You kill me, Caiper. You kill me.”

  Watly walked out of Oldyer’s office feeling dazed. He registered and picked up his advance. The woman in registration smiled mechanically and told him, “Congratulations and please report tomorrow at nine o’clock a.m.” Watly smiled back and left the building feeling like he was part of some enormous practical joke he knew nothing about. Life itself was a practical joke. But he’d won.

  How the subs did I pull that off? he wondered. Or did I pull that off?

  Either way he was glad to have the job. Either way he’d somehow done it. He was a host.

  As Watly continued down First Avenue, he realized there was only one thing about the whole day that really disturbed him. The pencil turning out fake didn’t really bother him. Perhaps it was just some kind of standard ingenuity test or something. “Is the applicant smart enough to break wood?”—that sort of stuff. No, the thing that bothered him—really bothered him—was Oldyer’s attitude at the end. Even the words he used were strange. He called Watly “little man.” “You’ve got guts, little man....” If anything, Watly Caiper was on the tall side. Tall and solid—that was Watly. “Little man.” Watly supposed anyone was little next to the bulk of that interviewer. But that’s not how he’d said it. He’d said it like Watly’s part in life was little. His role. It was said like Watly was a sunbean headed for the breakfast table.

  There was a tone in Oldyer’s voice—and even in his bone-rattling laughter—all through those last moments, that seemed to imply Watly had done exactly what was expected—that he was just an overgrown key on a jumbo-sized keyboard who’d been pressed as planned. A trace of something in Oldyer’s manner said, Watly Caiper, you just fell for it. When Watly had glanced back one last time and caught Oldyer’s eyes, he’d witnessed a frightening sight. Truly frightening. Worse than the condescension, the loathing, the superiority, there was pity in those buried, officious little pupils. It seemed to Watly that Oldyer thought he was staring at a dead man. In fact, Oldyer looked sure of it.

  Watly shuddered the thoughts off and tried to relax as he continued to walk. Things had gone well. He was in. He was a host and that’s all that mattered. Work started tomorrow. Money would start coming soon. More money than he’d ever had before. After a short while hosting he’d be able to save up enough to fulfill his dream. His calling.

  The word calling was common when referring to motherhood. Watly didn’t like the expression. To him it implied something mystical or spiritual or religious. You want religion, move to Jesusland, he thought.

  There was nothing supernatural about his ambition. Parenting was not exactly a new idea. Granted, it was next to impossible for a person of Watly’s station to achieve motherhood, but that didn’t mean he
was “blessed” to want it. Or cursed. Watly was more realistic than that. His desire since youth to be a mother was no different than someone else’s desire to be an office worker or technician. In some ways, Watly thought his goal was more reasonable than those of the Manhattan dreamers who lived on First Level but wanted to work on Second. Or worse, those who thought they’d work their way up to living permanently above. Talk about your bad odds. Winning the Level Lottery was probably more likely to happen.

  Watly always knew the chances were slim. But he couldn’t remember ever wanting anything else. As his mother used to say, “A life without dreams is not worth living.” And now Watly’s dream was closer to being a reality. If anything could get him what he wanted it was money, and—now that he was a host—that was no longer a fantasy. After five or ten hostings, Watly should have enough to buy antiprophies, and then it was a matter of finding and hiring a willing female—just to father the kid—and, of course, getting a license. The license part was the hardest. If hosting went well—and he could stay in good shape through it—then the biggest obstacle ahead would be fitting the requirements for his mothering license.

  But Watly was getting ahead of himself. One step at a time, Caiper. One step at a time. First concentrate on earning the money, then worry about the other problems. You’ve got to take off the covers before you get out of bed, and all.

  The most difficult thing about this whole mothering idea was that Watly knew nobody who was one. He had no role models—at least not of his age. The only successful mother he’d ever known personally was his own (a female), and she’d had him before the population laws were enacted. He’d come in just under the wire. She’d had Watly two years before they implemented the controls: prophy-laced water, the mother licensing, high-priced antiprophies, and so on. There was no one Watly could emulate. No rule book to follow. Watly hadn’t seen a kid in person since he was a kid himself. But this just reinforced his desire. He was all the more determined. Back in the old neighborhood in Brooklyn, the other kids used to say, “If you want Watly Caiper to do something, just tell him it’s impossible.” In a way, they were right. Watly smiled at the memory. Perhaps he did have a calling. Anyone in his right mind would never try to be a mother. Maybe there was some deeper reason Watly needed a child. Watly laughed. Yeah, maybe. And maybe if I flap my arms hard enough I can fly.

  Watly looked up just in time to stop himself from walking into an upright. His mind had been wandering so much he hadn’t been watching his step. He’d drifted from the center of the street to the side, where the huge support girders stood every thirty feet or so. He glanced around, embarrassed. A few pullers passed by, pulling an empty lowtruck. No one was staring. That’s right, Caiper. Walk into a plasticore upright and break your raping face the day before you start hosting. Real smart.

  He was in the Stuyvesant area, coming up on another exhaust. He cut across Eighteenth Street and headed down to Second Avenue to avoid the fan this time. The wind didn’t bother him but he wasn’t in the mood for the noise.

  Second Avenue was more crowded than First had been. Lots of police cruisers passed by loudly, and even a few unmanned coppers. Bicycles clogged the sidewalks. There were many tenters here, and the street was full of workers heading home for the day, as well as bums hitting them all up for money. Watly ignored the beggars this time. I gave at the office. The thought made him smile.

  At Second and Fourteenth was one of the seven existing tubes to the Second Level. A few lucky workers came out of it. They were getting off for the day, returning down here to the real world. (Or perhaps what they left was the real world. Or maybe neither.) Passersby stopped to gawk at them. They were extremely well dressed by First Level standards. The men had crisp, clean-looking black jumpsuits with yellow workervests and the women wore the same with buzbelts and higher boots. Everyone looked on enviously. The Firsters with their tattered, dirty clothing, unkempt hair, gaunt faces, and generally slumped shoulders stared at the special ones but kept a polite distance. These descending ones were the chosen few. Next best thing to Level Lottery winners, they lived below, yes, but they worked above. Every terradamn day they were up in the sun. Watly smiled to himself. He’d be perfectly happy staying on First Level all his life as long as he could get his dream. Make that his “calling.” Watly’s smile broadened. That was all he wanted. A baby. A little life to help along. This was the only important thing, the only thing worth caring about. Mothering.

  He was a few blocks from Uncle Narcolo’s place. He wondered if he should use his advance money to pick up some expensive tidbit for dinner. A surprise. Bird meat, even. No, Narcolo Caiper would already have a complete meal waiting. The man loved to cook. He could do culinary wonders on minimal retirement pay, plus whatever he had socked away in savers.

  Instead, Watly settled on picking up a good bottle of booze for forty bucks. As an afterthought, he returned to the store and bought another one. This was a night to celebrate.

  He tucked one bottle under each arm and strolled on, thinking of children. A police cruiser zipped by, cutting close to him, and Watly had to jump back to avoid its fender. He lost his grip on one of the bottles and it fell. Some passing woman dove and grabbed it just before it hit the street. Great reflexes. She handed it back to him smiling, her eyes dark and shiny beneath the hood of her threadbare cloak. Watly smiled back. “Thanks,” he said. She raised a fist in the air at him, as if in a secret signal or salute.

  “California,” she whispered, and walked off.

  CHAPTER 3

  Little Uncle Narcolo was bustling about in the kitchen, chopping things into pieces and tossing them in pots on the stove. His wrinkled features were tight with concentration.

  “Oh, good, Watly. Oh, good. Perfect timing. Just perfect. Couldn’t’ve asked for better. Things’ll be ready in just—almost perfect timing, Watly. A few more minutes and we’ll sit down to a—be ready in a few minutes, Watly. You have a seat and put your feet up.”

  Watly smiled. Uncle Narcolo had tidied the one-room apartment since Watly had left early that morning. The six worn cushions were neatly lined up on the couch with careful symmetry. All the leafs and books were back on the shelves or stacked carefully in the coffee table. The music tubes were in their holders. All the clothes had been picked up and put away someplace—probably folded. The old cable-vidsatt and the keyboard looked freshly dusted. Narcolo Caiper was always keeping himself busy. Even when he didn’t have something to do, he’d find something to do. There was a certain charm to the old guy’s frenetic, obsessive cleanliness. The only place in the apartment that didn’t look freshly swabbed was the kitchen area—and that was currently in use. It too would be spotless eventually. In the living area, the faded chromells depicting glamorous Second Level Life were bright with polish. Even the windows looked like they’d been wiped down—which was silly because they were sealed up from the outside. Narcolo had a front apartment near street level (down four short steps), and so it was safer to seal the windows with placene sheeting than leave them exposed. Watly had commented on it when first arriving and Narcolo had snapped at him for being naive.

  “Besides,” the old man had said, “you tell me what I’ve got to look at out there. Someday, when I win the Level Lottery and I’m living in luxury on Second Level, then I’ll have windows. Windows are for nothing here, kiddo.” That was the end of that conversation.

  Watly set the two bottles on the coffee table and sank comfortably into the couch. He watched Uncle Narcolo dance around the kitchen, adding dashes of this and touches of that. He really liked the old man. The guy was a fuck. If it weren’t for him, Watly never would have made it into Manhattan. Nowadays you not only needed a clean identicard, travel pass, and visa to get into Manhattan, you also needed a recommendation from a current resident and proof of some kind of legitimate housing waiting. Narcolo had vouched for Watly and promised to supply lodging for him. Watly still couldn’t thank him enough. It
was amazing how the old man had helped out to such an extreme. Watly barely remembered meeting him more than a few times as a kid.

  “Say hello to your Uncle Narcolo, Watly,” and, “Say goodbye to your Uncle Narcolo, Watly.” They hadn’t been in contact since. Yet here this old guy takes in a nephew he hardly knows, feeds him, shelters him, and gives up his solitude. Of course, Watly suspected the guy had been more than a little lonely all by himself. It was pretty obvious Uncle Narcolo enjoyed the company. On Watly’s arrival, the old man had hugged him tightly and his eyes had watered some. “Ain’t hardly such thing as family anymore, Watly Caiper,” he’d said quietly.

  But, whatever the reason, Watly still felt he owed Uncle Narcolo Caiper a lot for his help. As soon as the money started coming in, some of it was going to the old man.

  “It’s a stew I’m making, Watly.” Narcolo carefully stirred as he spoke. “And we’ve got a hardloaf and some sunbeans and stuff. Be ready in just a—be done soon here. What’ya got on the coffee table, Watly? Bottles?” The old man strained to see. Narcolo had neither the money nor the patience to keep his eye care up to date. His sight was probably a good deal worse than he let on, and he tended to squint at anything more than a few yards away.

  Watly raised the two bottles and held them out over his head in a rough imitation of a police victory salute.

  “Booze, Uncle Narcolo. I bear booze.”

  The old man’s stirring hand faltered. “Booze?”

  “Not just any booze... expensive booze. Forty New York dollars a bottle!”

  “Where’d you get— How did you get that kinda...” Narcolo stared at Watly. His right hand continued stirring as if it had a mind of its own. To Watly’s surprise, the old guy looked suddenly sad. Maybe even disappointed. The strong creases in Narcolo’s wrinkled face all sagged downward, pointing toward the placene floor tiles. “You went to Alvedine today?” he asked.