Levels: The Host Read online

  He was hosting for the motherhood.

  CHAPTER 5

  The room was white and sterile-looking. One corner was full of equipment. A large hanging metal bundle that looked like a prehistoric monster or some medieval dragon was the most prominent piece. Cables dangled from it in a tangle of poisoned tendrils. Everything was brightly lit and very well polished.

  Watly Caiper felt out of place. He felt his own pitifully human body was grotesquely organic compared to his surroundings. He was... too living. He was lumpy and soft and unevenly colored and hairy and lined. He was porous and weak and dirty and constantly changing. He was not pure—not solid and shiny.

  If I were made of steel or plasticore or even placene, if I were hard and full of angles, he thought to himself, I’d feel much more comfortable here. This is not a place for people. Not a place for imperfection.

  Watly sat in the center of the room in an adjustable reclining chair with cushioned head and neck brace. It was a relaxing position, but he was anything but relaxed. He was in a small room on the fifth floor of the Alvedine building. It was a hosting room. Just a few minutes before, he’d been unconscious. Since it was his first day as host, they’d had to do the initial implants. Watly arrived early but the doctors whisked him along and put him under anesthesia to perform the simple operation. Afterward, he was reassured that all had gone smoothly. The two creosan implants had been inserted behind each ear and the area resealed without a hitch.

  Watly felt no pain or tenderness. The only physical hint that anything had been done at all was a slight tingling at the corners of his jaws. After the implantation, they’d sat him in this hosting room and told him he’d have a half hour of recovery time alone. Then the hosting would begin.

  To Watly this “recovery time” did nothing but give him a chance to reintroduce the butterflies into his belly. It was not a comfortable sensation. Every so often his stomach would get so bad he thought he might throw up. Fortunately he didn’t, especially because he saw no receptacle to aim his breakfast toward.

  The queasiness and fluttering had been going on since early morning. He woke at five a.m., feeling really hinky, and was unable to go back to sleep. Skimming through the Alvedine Hosting Brochure didn’t exactly help relax him. Uncle Narcolo was dead to the world. Small favors. Watly snuck out of the apartment silently and wandered around the Village until the daylites came on full. His mother had once told him the best thing for nerves was a long walk and a hearty meal. It might have been good advice once, but this time it didn’t work. After a terrible sunbean breakfast on Houston, he headed uptown, feeling sicker and more nervous than ever.

  Now, as he sat waiting in the firm recliner, his mind kept fixing on those two small implants. They did not affect him in any physical way, but the thought of them was still unsettling. The creosan wafers would only act as a receiver when activated—otherwise, the two were inert and undetectable. But Watly knew they were there. It bothered him. They were in his head and that wasn’t a pleasant idea. In his head. Inside.

  Maybe this whole thing wasn’t a good idea. Uncle Narcolo had soured Watly’s optimism some. The old guy had been so damn downbeat. He’d looked at nothing but the dark side. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be so damn queasy, Watly thought. Stage fright. Full-fledged stage fright.

  If he leaned forward and turned to the right, Watly could see a complete reverse-corrected mirror. It took up most of the side wall. There was Watly Caiper looking back. “Hello, Watly. Nervous? Damn right. Scared even? No kidding!” Watly was wearing his usual outfit. He had on his brown veneer pants (carefully folded by Narcolo the day before) and a clean pocket-jacket with no shirt underneath. He was a study in chic casualness—poverty style. Watly stuck out his tongue at the reflection.

  You’ re a fine-looking fellow, Watly. Tall, dark, and near to handsome. A close second. If it wasn’t for a slight crookedness to the nose and that damn high forehead, you’d be just about perfect. Well, a crooked nose showed character and a high forehead showed brains. You’re a prince, Watly. A prince among paupers—or something like that. Anyone would be dumb to hurt a body like that (and so damn well dressed!). It would be an act of stupid vandalism. Irresponsible destruction of private property. Now, come over here to the mirror, Watly Caiper, and kiss your sweet gorgeous face goodbye—this may be the last time you get a chance.

  Watly pinched up his face into a tight little grimace to shake off the notion. This was not the time to be a pessimist. Narcolo be damned. This was his chance to make something of himself. Be brave, Caiper. Be a person. Have some eggs, already.

  The door folded open and an extremely dark-skinned woman wearing all white walked briskly in. The contrast was incredible. The all-white jumpsuit in an all-white room under the intense lights canceled each other out. All that stood out was a deep brown face and two deep brown hands floating in the bright void. She smiled and Watly was newly blinded by a set of perfect teeth. He felt love. Lust.

  She held up the monitor she was carrying and clicked past several of its screens.

  “I see here you are Watly Caiper, first-timer. I’m Dr. Tollnismer, and I’m going to read you the List of Hosting Rights and Regulations.” Her voice was light and wispy. There was a singsong lilt to it that reminded Watly of a child reading nursery rhymes. She continued without checking to see if Watly was listening. “‘Number One,’” she read. “‘You are a Host now. You are a highly paid professional who has taken on a heavy responsibility. We welcome you to the Alvedine Hosting Family. Without you and others like you, there could be no hosting. We thank you for your commitment and loyalty to our fine company. We are confident you will live up to our reputation.’”

  She glanced up blankly for a moment and then went on. “‘Number Two. For each hosting you will be issued a coded wrist hosting cuff. This will identify your donor. It will also inform any general population member you contact that you are in the process of hosting. It can be removed by neither you (the host) nor the donor. If any crimes or infractions are committed during the wearing of this cuff, you (the host) will not be held accountable. If any serious injury or damage to your person occurs during the wearing of this cuff, there will be a formal inquiry and the then identified donor will be duly fined or punished if found negligent. It is the donor’s sole responsibility while the hosting cuff is in place to use good judgment and common sense regarding the protection of the host’s (your) body. Of course, true accidents and natural disasters are the exception.’”

  Dr. Tollnismer paused to wet her lips carefully. Watly felt another surge of love for her. Or maybe just lust. Or maybe just fear’s flip side.

  “‘Number Three. Hosting is a limited process. The average length runs five to seven hours. When your creosan wafers lose the donor signal, the transmitter in the creosan will electronically release the wrist cuff. You will not be able to relock it. Naturally, at that point the host becomes responsible for his own actions, both literally and legally. You must carry the wrist cuff and return to your original point of departure (the Alvedine Hosting Building). Failure to do so will result in withholding of payment and expulsion from the hosting program. You will be awarded full pay only upon completion of the successful hosting and return of the assigned hosting cuff.’”

  The doctor paused once more and Watly waited eagerly for a repeat performance of the lip-wetting. He was left disappointed.

  “‘Number Four. We at Alvedine Industries put every effort into making the hosting process comfortable and interesting to both donor and host. It is, however, the nature of the activity that we can offer no guarantees. All donors are carefully screened prior to our acceptance of them, but we promise nothing. You are hosting at your own risk. In accepting a job as host, you are also agreeing to take no action at any time, legal or otherwise, against Alvedine Industries or any of its subsidiaries. This includes any action regarding the host’s (your) demise.

  “�
�If by some fluke of nature the donor should pass away during the hosting procedure, Alvedine Industries shall use its best efforts to track you down and remove the creosan implants. Until that time the deceased donor’s projection would be unfortunately trapped in the wafers. This is however, an unlikely occurrence.’”

  Watly cringed. He’d never heard of it happening, and it was probably just a formality that they mentioned it at all, but it still wasn’t a pleasant thought. Too weird to even consider. A nightmare scenario: Donor gets overexcited during the hosting process and drops dead of a heart attack or something. Host is stuck with a dead guy’s personality in his head until somebody can track him down, identify the cuff, and remove the wafers surgically. A corpse’s personality projection embedded indefinitely in Watly’s brain. Yuck. Damn good thing the odds were against it. A pretty beanheaded thing to get hinky about, statistically speaking. In fact, odds were, if anyone was going to die during this catshit... Ah, rape.

  The doctor clicked to a second screen. She looked somewhat bored, but her voice remained bright and childlike. Watly noticed for the first time that the whites of her eyes were as dazzling as her teeth.

  “‘Number Five. At this time, as we begin final preparation for your hosting, we ask you to listen carefully. Take stock for a moment. Become conscious of all your physical sensations. You are now to relate to the doctor present any discomfort you might feel. If you feel any pain at all anywhere, or anything that could be misinterpreted as pain, let the doctor know. This is very important. You will not be disqualified for pain as long as the situation is treatable, but you must inform the doctor so that he may attend to the discomfort. The hosting process can be initially traumatic for the donor, and therefore your body must be as comfortable as possible when the donor enters it. Be thorough. After seeing to this matter the doctor will administer a mild euphoric. This will impart a gentle feeling of well-being. It is only temporary and intended to ease the transition. When the doctor is through, barring any difficulties, your hosting session will commence. We wish you the best of luck and thank you once again. Happy travels.’”

  The doctor lay the monitor down on a white table Watly hadn’t even noticed before. She faced Watly dead-on and crossed her arms. “Well?” she said, the childlike voice gone.

  “Well, what?” Watly asked.

  “Any aches? Pains? You heard the deal.”

  Watly smiled as ingratiatingly as he knew how. “Do you have a first name. Dr. Tollnismer?” he asked.

  The doctor took a step forward and kept her expression deadpan. “You’re changing the subject.”

  “I like the new subject,” Watly said.

  “Let’s stay on the old one,” she said with just the beginnings of another devastating smile forming.

  “I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.”

  The doctor’s teeth began to show. “I’m not here to play games.”

  “I thought everyone was here to play games,” Watly countered.

  Dr. Tollnismer took a deep breath and let it out in a wispy sigh. “Okay, Watly Caiper. I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”

  Watly shifted in his seat to a more comfortable position. “Sounds good to me,” he said.

  “Promise?” she asked.

  “Promise.” Watly replied firmly.

  “All right,” the doctor said. “In answer to your question...” She stopped and her smile broadened. “Yes. Yes, I do have a first name.” She paused and waited for Watly’s response. He was busy making a sour smile. “So if that’s all, Mr. Watly Caiper, I’d like you to answer my question.”

  “You’re a pip, Doctor.” Watly grinned.

  She was back with her arms crossed and a look of satisfaction on her face. And what a face it was. It was almost as if it took this long for Watly’s eyes to grow accustomed to the lighting contrasts. Her features were exotic and strong. There was something regal about them, something elegant. The skin looked so smooth and velvety Watly wanted to reach over and touch her cheek to see if it was real. But she was all business now.

  “So. Any aches? Pains? Sore spots?”

  Watly tried to form a witty reply but the doctor gave him a look that said the party had ended. Play time’s over.

  “Think seriously, Mr. Caiper. It’s important,” she said.

  Watly pondered it a moment. No pain here, ma’am. Dr. Tollnismer stared him down. He closed his eyes and tried to become acutely aware of all the sensations he felt. There was nothing he could call a pain, but now that he thought about it, there was a slight twinge at the back of his right ankle. Also he felt a very, very slight soreness where Narcolo had squeezed his wrist. And of course his stomach still didn’t feel great. And his neck felt just a touch stiff and maybe even his lower back and...

  Watly listed everything he could think of for the doctor. As the process continued, he was amazed how many tiny points of discomfort a person could have and never really notice. To be alive, he supposed, meant to hurt. He continued on as specifically as possible until he ran out of discomforts. She seemed pleased with his honesty and carefully tended each complaint— temporarily numbing the individual nerves with what looked like a sonic device of some kind. Watly wasn’t familiar with it. All this high-tech medicine was new to him. As a boy, the most common treatment had been a hug from Mom and some gentle rocking, with a song or two thrown in. As he grew older, expensive treatments were still out of the question. This was the closest Watly had ever come to a real hospital—not counting seeing them on the cable-vidsatt.

  Dr. Tollnismer treated everything but the butterflies. She said the euphoric would take care of them. She followed the statement with another dazzling smile that made Watly weak. He wanted... he wanted... he wanted her to want him. And he wanted... to touch that soft-looking skin—just below the cheekbone. And he wanted—real bad—to see what was under that all-white uniform of hers. He was sure she’d look real neat without it. Real neat. Fear seemed to heighten his desire.

  “How about a quick one beforehand, Dr. Tollnismer?”

  She kept smiling. “Not allowed, Mr. Caiper. And neither are you—if you read the pamphlet.” She leaned close and Watly smelled a clean, powdery scent. “Besides, save some for the donor. That’s the idea.”

  She turned and began fiddling with the equipment in the corner. After a moment she brushed her hands together and, almost as an afterthought, pulled a small shoulder bag out from behind the equipment. She handed it to Watly and motioned for him to put it on. He sat up and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Don’t tell me,” Watly said. “The donor has some goodies he wants to have with him.”

  “That’s usually the case,” she said, looking preoccupied with the machinery. She nudged the hanging dragon-shaped thing and it glided easily forward. Removing two of its cables, she brought them to either side of Watly’s chair.

  “All set to go, Mr. Caiper. Now for the euphoric and your cuff.”

  Watly suddenly became aware that he was sweating in spite of the carefully regulated air. The back of his neck felt distinctly damp and his nausea was growing worse. Dr. Tollnismer ripped open the euphoric’s package and stuck the pad to his forearm. She pulled it off after only a few seconds.

  Watly wondered how long it would be before it took effect. He was still aware of his sweatiness, but it really wasn’t bad at all. Not bad at all. Not at all. His stomach, in fact, felt fine. Just fine. Pretty fuckable. This was all going to work out fine. Fine. Yes, the beautiful, spectacular, gorgeous doctor took a long cuff from its wall mount and began securing it to Watly’s wrist. Right wrist. The right right wrist. She was a real cutie. Potential poovus. And she was putting that cuff on just right. Not too loose, not too... uh...

  It was a spectacular cuff. Colorful and intricately designed. From the top of his wrist it extended out on a complicated hinge involving many tiny ball sockets to clasp the bases of Watly�
��s two middle fingers. The body of the cuff itself was almost as long as his whole forearm. Watly had, of course, seen them before, but only from a distance. You couldn’t go a day in Manhattan without seeing at least a few. He had never imagined they were so complex, though, and so carefully designed. It was a work of art. There was a fine layer of thin wires just below the surface forming curlicues, geometric designs, and other seemingly intentionally aesthetic shapes. If he stared at them, Watly could almost imagine pictures. A house. A flower? A sleeping cat. A foot? A breast. You could see anything you wanted in them. Lots of breasts. Brown breasts.

  And of course the most prominent feature of all was the large cuff number. 9703. Each numeral was about two inches long and bright yellow. 9703. This figure represented whoever his anonymous donor was. It was, most probably, the only thing Watly would ever know about his donor. Of course, that wasn’t counting any personality traits Watly picked up from watching the guy’s behavior from the inside.

  Oh, rape on a half shell.

  Suddenly Watly felt dizzy. Dr. Tollnismer had finished locking the cuff on and was now adjusting the two cables. They held whatever position she moved them into. Watly thought maybe he didn’t want to do this after all. Maybe he’d just like to go home and forget all about it. It struck him he really didn’t know enough about all this. Too hasty, he’d been. Much. He needed more data before he could make an informed... Maybe he could still be a mother if he raised the money by...

  At the end of each cable was a brass-colored rectangular plate. Dr. Tollnismer touched these plates to either side of his head—just behind his ears. They rested there gently, tickling a little right outside where the new implants were.

  “Are you ready, Watly Caiper?” she asked. Her voice had returned to that lilting, childlike tone. It was intoxicating.

  “I love you, Dr. Tollnismer,” Watly said quietly.

  The doctor let another gut-wrenching smile loose and patted Watly on his high forehead. “And I love you, Mr. Caiper. And now it’s time for your first hosting.” She let her voice go to almost a whisper. “Don’t worry, Watly. They always find a mild one for first times.” She patted his cheek. “You’ll be fine.”