Levels: The Host Read online

  Watly’s donor went quickly past the crowds near the Rockefeller Center area and cut across Forty-eighth Street to Seventh Avenue. On the corner of Forty-seventh and Seventh was an enormous bar called The Prick. The door to the saloon was shaped like some generic thick-lipped human orifice. Vagina or sideways mouth—hard to say. Probably vagina. Every ten seconds or so a gigantic phallus the size of a bus came thrusting out of the opening onto the street. The donor stood staring at it for a moment, obviously taken with the display. Watly was equally impressed. It was an incredible effect. The phallus was very realistic. It must have been made of some kind of heavy-duty neoskin. The doorway was flexible and would bow outward slightly with each lengthy thrust.

  The donor watched for a while longer as a few customers went inside. They were not having an easy time of it. To enter the saloon, one had to wait for the phallus to withdraw and then, at just the right moment, dive through the hole. Watly supposed that if you missed you’d either be shoved outward or crushed against the side of the opening. Dicked to death.

  Watly’s donor stepped forward and approached the entrance. It was apparent he intended to go inside. I hope your reflexes have improved, Watly thought. The donor’s eyes tracked the huge thrusting organ for a few moments in what seemed like an attempt to gauge the timing. In-out. In-out. Standing that close to the gigantic display gave a strange impression. It felt to Watly as though they were all inside an enormous woman. Inside a vagina, looking out. The street, everyone here, Manhattan itself, were being screwed. And not very delicately. We are being raped, not fucked. This is not a niceness, this is a nastiness. That was probably the effect intended, Watly realized. And then Watly felt his body leaping into the almond-shaped doorway. It was an awkward, sideways dive—flying out of the womb—both arms outstretched, hands fisted. They landed with a thud on a hard metal floor and felt the blast of air as the penis sped behind them. Cleared it by a mile, Watly thought. That’s my donor!

  In the next few hours, Watly’s donor—and by association Watly—had three strong shots of booze, two women, and one man. Quite an afternoon.

  The same-sex sex had thrown Watly. When his donor had purchased a male’s services, he had mentally cringed. In principle it was fine with him, but he was troubled by the approaching reality of it. Watly had always been comfortable with his heterosexuality, but he wondered if what his body was about to do would somehow compromise that. Was this some kind of threat to his masculinity? His straightness?

  Apparently it was a very common thing for donors to try. Though not illegal, among the upperfolk homosexuality was considered bad form compared to straight sex. It was not officially sanctioned. It was accepted and ignored up there, as long as one did not engage in it openly or admit to it publicly. Very First Level kind of behavior, don’t you see. So naturally, anyone on Second Level who was so inclined would give it a shot while a donor, so as to keep his/her reputation intact. Watly had been prepared for this. On some level, he’d expected it. He’d felt a tad hinky about it, but he’d expected it. And, as it turned out, the experience was not as devastating as he’d imagined. It was actually quite mundane. Boring, even. Though not aroused by it, Watly certainly didn’t find it sickening. It was just another body and another empty sex act. The smell of sex, the heavy breathing. One more sweaty person and one more sweaty climax.

  The me is not the body....

  The straight sex was no better. Watly thought his donor’s technique was surprisingly unimaginative. He found himself mentally coaching. The donor’s style was rough and simple. There was no joy involved. Don’t be so serious. Have fun with it! Watly wanted to say. This isn’t supposed to be work. This is play. Slow down, fella.

  It was remarkable how differently the stranger used Watly’s body—especially at a time like this. There was an awkwardness to the movements, an extreme clumsiness, and an almost brutal aggressiveness involved in the whole act. Beginning to end. It was all about genitals and nothing more. Look at her face, my friend. She’s pretty. Look into her eyes. Kiss her. Inhale her. Make some kind of contact. You don’t do this to her, you do this with her. See her. Celebrate the sex. And look! Breasts! Aren’t breasts wonderful? But the donor kept his borrowed eyes closed and his face buried in the pillows. Eventually Watly gave up the cheerleading and let his mind drift away. He settled, finally, on an image of Dr. Tollnismer and her brilliant smile.

  Watly sensed each physical orgasm as if it were far away and belonged to someone else. After all, it was and it did.

  The donor had paid for sex with the man and the first woman. Watly had glimpsed a huge pile of bills in the shoulder bag as his own hands pulled out payments and tips. The second woman had not been a professional. No money changed hands. She and the donor had engaged in a Sexsentral “layperson’s lay.” With so many different types out seeking pleasure, this was not uncommon.

  After the drinking and the sex, Watly’s donor rode the big prick out of The Prick and began to wander the streets of Sexsentral. It was dripping heavier than it had been earlier. Had Watly been in charge, he would have pulled out a hat for protection, but he really didn’t mind going without. The donor didn’t even know Watly had a hat, having never checked the pockets. Oh, well. If the donor didn’t mind getting dripped on every few steps, then neither did Watly. Fine and bolehole dandy.

  The booze had left Watly slightly light-headed, but fortunately not drunk. When the drinking first began, Watly had had another panic attack. Don’t get us drunk, my friend. Please keep your head. Our head. But the three drinks spread over time (and a lot of bouncy-wouncy) had only loosened them up a bit. Watly had been deeply grateful the donor hadn’t gone farther. That could have been dangerous. The moderation probably hadn’t been out of any sense of responsibility. No, more likely the donor hadn’t wanted to jeopardize his sexual gymnastics. Three times in as many hours could sometimes be difficult enough sober. As they walked, Watly wondered if maybe this hosting would be wearing off soon. It must have been over four hours already. Maybe it would end shortly. Maybe he’d get out.

  The thought of being free soon—of being in control again—gave Watly another powerful spasm of claustrophobia. Think narrowly, Watly. He pulled his mental reins and started the chant.

  The me is not the body.

  The me is not the body.

  The me is neither hand nor face nor sex.

  The me is Watly Caiper, I.

  (A sense of self.)

  The body is an it.

  The body is a that.

  It could belong to another.

  For the me is a movable thing.

  The me is a movable thing.

  The donor was heading west to a more desolate area of Sexsentral. He seemed to be wandering aimlessly. Killing time. Looking for action.

  There were fewer daylites in this area, and those that did work were in bad disrepair. It was obvious no one—person or machine—had been around to clean in a while, if ever. The streets were filthy and there were piles of garbage in huge drifts against some of the buildings. Wild cats were everywhere. A few floaters careened wildly overhead, bouncing against buildings, girders, against the dark, corroded-looking ceiling, and against each other. There were hardly any other pedestrians in the area. Unattractive people of both sexes (and some in-between) stood in the shadows of doorways and whispered, “Sets! Good sets! You wanna have sets?” as the donor passed. When they were a few steps behind they’d yell up ahead to their associates, “Hosting comin’ up on ya! Cuffer comin’ up with a bag!”

  Watly was getting hinky. They were on Forty-fourth Street approaching Eleventh Avenue. This was not the best of neighborhoods. Don’t get any stupid ideas, donor. How about we turn back?

  Watly became aware that his body was sweating and his breathing was shallower. At first he thought it was his own fear showing. Then he realized it was the donor. The donor was scared. Or was it excitement? It was hard to tell. Th
e two emotions had similar manifestations. Watly saw the dark street zip back and forth as the donor began scanning rapidly. The eyes blurred some.

  “Cuffer comin’ up wit’ a bag!”

  “You wan’ sets, mister?”

  “Hey donor! Wan’ some sets cheap?”

  “Low-tech sets right here on the street? I make you happy good.”

  An unmanned copper whizzed by, going too fast to do anyone any good. Watly’s feet kept walking. Where are you heading, you sofdick beanhead? he thought. You want to get us killed? At least try to cover the cuff. And the bag.

  “Donor moving up on ya!”

  “Sets?”

  Just when Watly thought the donor might reconsider the dangers of the neighborhood, they turned and headed down an alley that was even darker than the street. A few shadowy forms moved about up ahead. The donor squinted but kept on. To the left and right were more piles of garbage and pieces of scrap metal. Chunks of broken cemeld lay in powdery mounds. The shadowy figures moved closer. Soft mewings of a new litter came from some far corner.

  “What you got inna bag, cuffer?”

  “The bag for some sets?”

  “You a pain-freak, donor?”

  Watly felt trickles of sweat dribbling down his back. Still more drops came down his forehead and stung his eyes. Whatever the donor was feeling, the guy was feeling it strongly. For rape’s sake, don’t turn into a pain-freak on me, fella. I like excitement as much as the next person—dangerous neighborhoods, strange characters—but I’ve had my fill today, thank you.

  Watly was on the verge of another chant recital when his donor tripped over a pipe and fell head first into an oily puddle. There was a soggy splash. And thump. Watly was temporarily stunned. Nothing seemed to be seriously hurt. Then there was a frenzied sound of footsteps rushing forward and within seconds Watly could tell they were closely surrounded. Lots of them. A terradamn crowd. The shoulder bag was violently ripped from his arm.

  Watly’s donor turned and half sat up, leaning on one arm. Watly’s eyes slowly scanned the faces. All around were strange and frightening people. They wore tattered clothing in browns and blacks and grays, but all had extremely ornate makeup on. Bright splashes of abstract shapes in vivid colors covered each face. Masklike. Most of these creatures were of indeterminate gender. They looked dangerous—coiled. Behind the paint they had hatred in their eyes. They seemed to be waiting for Watly’s donor to make a move—any move at all. One of them was ripping open the shoulder bag and spilling out what remained of the donor’s money. It looked like a lot—thousands, maybe.

  “Well, look here, girls and boys. Mucho dinero. Look at all this, will you? Isn’t that nice.”

  The one speaking turned and looked directly into Watly’s eyes.

  “What’re we gonna do with you now, huh? You like this stuff? You a fade-out? You a pain-freak? You’ve got Second Level eyes, fella. I can tell. I hate them Second Level eyes. You want me to take those eyes out?” He/she opened a long blade that looked well worn and squatted in front of Watly’s splayed body. “You want me to take ‘em out?”

  Watly could feel the donor try to clear his throat and move his tongue. The mouth was bone dry. No sound emerged. The person with the knife leaned forward. The knife’s heavy plastic handle was stained a dark color and there were flecks of something brownish dried on the blade itself. The point was just a few inches from Watly’s face, hovering there, swaying gently back and forth. Watly’s donor seemed frozen in position, going cross-eyed staring at the chipped metal.

  A piercing female voice cried out back at the mouth of the alleyway.

  “The Ragman!” she yelled. “The Ragman’s coming!”

  The crowd surrounding Watly turned to look. The one with the knife backed off. Watly could hear mumbling and whispering.

  “The Ragman. Ragman comes here?”

  “Here he comes!”

  “Here comes the Ragman!”

  There was respect—almost reverence—in the way the group pulled apart to let the short, dark figure pass through. Watly’s donor kept his eyes glued to the man. The Ragman. He was bearded, stocky, and only about five feet tall. His eyes were dark and his skin smooth and free of makeup. He wore clothes similar to the others, but here and there—at a seam or torn edge or wrinkle or cuff—tiny points sparkled and glittered like gold or brass. His eyes held them. Held them all. There was a charisma to the man, an intensity you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He seemed brighter, somehow. Lit from within. The Ragman approached.

  “What’s going on here, Tavis?” The voice was deep and resonant. It was the voice of a superior—a commander.

  The one with the knife spoke up. “Nothing, Ragman. Just a cuffer with a wad.”

  The Ragman looked at Watly and then down at the pile of money. He turned back to the other. “You were gonna knife him, huh, Tavis? Gonna knife him up good?”

  “I was thinking that. Ragman.” He/she held up the blade. “Yes.” This Tavis creature appeared to have the shadow of facial stubble under the thick makeup, as well as an obvious swell of large breasts under the dirty rags. The voice sounded too deep for a woman, yet too high for a man.

  The Ragman knelt next to Watly. “You a donor, mister?”

  Watly heard his own voice respond. “Yes, I’m a donor.” The accent that came out was definitely Second Level.

  The Ragman looked Watly’s body up and down. “You realize we’re gonna take your money?”

  “I realize that.”

  The Ragman glanced at the hosting-cuff. “You a fade-out?”

  There was a pause. Watly thought he’d die. Answer the man! Tell the truth! “No, I’m not a fade-out.” Thank you for that response, my friend.

  “You a pain-freak?”

  Again a pause. Please, thought Watly.

  “Not really, no.”

  The Ragman turned to the others. And to the one he had called Tavis. “You were gonna hurt him. Kill him, maybe. Look at his shoes, children. Look at them. Never forget the host. Never forget. Somewhere in there”—Ragman gestured to Watly’s head—“is another person. Watching us right now. You’ve got to judge the host as well as the donor. This host is one of us. You can tell by the shoes. Those are class-one poor man’s shoes. The pocket-jacket’s used. The hands are working hands. You don’t hurt a cuffer till you judge the host. The host could be you. Look at the face, children. It’s the donor’s expression but the host’s face. The face is one of us.”

  Watly felt his donor prepare to speak again. “Then you’re not going to hurt me?”

  The Ragman stood and turned away. There was a pause and then he spun, reared back, and kicked Watly full force in the thigh. He threw his whole weight into it and it tumbled Watly’s body over on its side. The crowd roared with approval. There was laughter. Watly’s donor grabbed the leg and grimaced with a pain Watly shared. The whole leg felt like fire. Searing pain. The Ragman leaned in and the donor cringed with fear.

  “I’m sorry to the host,” the Ragman said, breath close. “I’m sorry to the one inside. It was for you, donor. It was a lesson to you. The pain is real. The pain hurts. Tomorrow the host will have a bruise and you will not, but you will still have the memory of the pain. Do not take the idea of pain so lightly. I see in your eyes you don’t like it. You’re no pain-freak. Next time don’t be foolish.”

  The Ragman straightened. Suddenly he seemed the tallest one there. “Again, my apologies to the host, but you are not beyond lessons yourself. There is a softness to your features that tells me you were not made for this. A good host is hard. Reconsider your occupation, child.” The Ragman reached down and touched Watly’s forehead with a warm palm. His voice grew soft and Watly was mesmerized by the beauty of it. There was compassion and lightness to it. “Some say I have the sight. I do. The sight is mine. It is how I’ve survived this long. The sight tells me things. Of
you, the host, it tells me pain. More pain than this. Much. A thousandfold. And death. Death all around. Blood will come. Be apprised, child.”

  The Ragman swiveled dramatically on one foot and left the alley. His strides were long and fluid. They seemed out of place on such a small figure. The money was gathered up by Tavis and the crowd quickly dispersed.

  Host and donor, Watly and the Stranger, slowly rose and limped out of the alley. Two blocks later there was a tingle in the jaw, a click of metal shifting, and a loud clatter as the hosting-cuff fell to the street.

  Watly was free.

  CHAPTER 9

  When Watly Caiper finally arrived home at Uncle Narcolo’s apartment that night he was more than a little tired. He was beat. He was weary. He was at the point of physical and mental collapse. He was badly bruised and very stiff. And he was shook up. Real shook up. But... he was Watly Caiper and Watly Caiper alone. And he was alive and without major injury. For those things he was truly grateful. (He was also grateful for the eight hundred in New York dollar bills and the balance of nine thousand in titled and untitled credit pieces stuffed deep in his pocket-jacket.)

  “That you, Watly? Good to see you. Good to see you. I’m making a pie for dinner tonight. A big pie. High in protein and full of good things. This and that. But that’s not all, Watly. Oh, no. There’s more than pie for us. More than pie. Lots of things, kiddo. But it’s a heavy pie, Watly, so we mustn’t spoil it with too many extras. Can’t fill up too much. It’s almost a stew pie—you might call it. But not really.”