Levels: The Host (21 page)

Suddenly everything shook briefly and there was a loud click sound. It got even darker. The daylites had gone
to night.

Including the one he was
sitting on.

It had never occurred to Watly that someone could actually fit above a daylite. From the street they had always looked flush with the ceiling. It would have been hard to imagine a crawlspace above each one. Yet here he was, Watly Caiper, sprawled out on top of a daylite having a picnic. There was very little space between the daylite and the ceiling, but it suited Watly fine. And now, at a night setting, even the heat was no problem. Already the metal felt cooler. And the strong wind was invigorating.
The small space must create a vacuum or something to increase the breeze like this,
Watly thought.
Most pleasant.

He flexed and relaxed his legs to ease the tension from them. Rape, what a climb. What a
climb indeed.

As he sat chewing bitter sunbeans and sipping the booze, slipping slowly into a comfortable haze, Watly pondered over the doctor. The wonderful doctor.
Perhaps.
..
he thought,
perhaps when all this is over and I’ve cleared my name and everything’s back to normal, perhaps Alysess would be my poovus. Perhaps, even, she would consider carrying my child. That would truly be wonderful. I can’t think of better genes. Yeah, right. Keep dreaming, Caiper. You’re slipping into a Jesusland-style fairy tale. When this is all over, you’ll be lucky to
be alive.

Watly took another big swallow of booze and closed his eyes, falling asleep. Falling asleep way up above everything he knew.

CHAPTER 22

“
A
kral?”

“That you, Littwore?”

“Take off, now. I’m your relief.
Any action?”

“It’s dead
out here.”

“Sounds like another boring-to-
extreme deal.”

“The doctor pornoed me off a while back, though. Maybe she’ll do the same
for you.”

“That’d be nice.
See you.”

“
So long.”

The changing of the guard. Watly glanced over the edge of the daylite to get a look at his new baby-sitter. He couldn’t see much. Just the dark top of a head and a set of broad shoulders. A female, it looked like. The figure sat on the stoop and glanced upward. Watly slithered back over to the center of the daylite. He couldn’t stay here forever. There would always be a cop down there. Sooner or later Watly would have to start moving on. He had noticed a thick beam ran from daylite to daylite. It should be possible to crawl from one to another without too much trouble. That way he could leave the area. But not now. Now he needed to rest. His body couldn’t
go on.

Watly took out the note Alysess had stuffed in his bag. It was too dark to read it. He moved closer to the edge of the platform but still couldn’t read it. He fumbled around in the dark for the pipe cutter. There it was. Still hanging from his neck. Watly found the readout switch by feel. He flicked it on. A tiny red light glowed on the cutter’s handle to show it was still well charged. Watly held the cutter up against Alysess’s note. There was just enough light from the readout to make out one or two words at a time. Fortunately the doctor’s handwriting was clear and neat. Watly began reading, moving the cutter across the page for
each line.

Watly:

Sorry about all this. Important—I will go every evening to a bar in Sexsentral from 7:00 to 8:00 P.M. Meet me there when you can. Should be safe. It is on 46th and 6th and is called the “Vagina Oblongata.” We’ll talk there.

Meanwhile, I found some things out today:

1. There was never any such thing as “night hosting.” I checked records and the only people in the building that night—or on any night—were the cuff-return cashier and his guard. According to the records, NO ONE was in any of the donor rooms. And those rooms are very secure. There is no indication of a break-in. Don’t know what this means but it doesn’t help your case.

2. Everyone says removing a cuff is impossible. If it WERE possible, word is the only one who could do it is—get this—a doctor named Aug MITTERLY. He’s apparently a real scientific wiz—invented the newest design of hosting machine. I couldn’t get an address on him or anything else. He may live on Second. This part checks out with your story, though.

3. As far as the world is concerned, the murdered person is Corber Alvedine. Everyone at work was mourning his loss, though no one knew him personally. There’s no mention of a woman at all. I even saw pictures of the victim—mutilated just as you described—but definitely a man. No explanation. This is weird. Is it possible you were mistaken as to the victim’s sex?

4. Everyone is sure you did it. Your file shows a reputation for fighting when you were young. Your first donor says the hosting was pretty traumatic. He thinks it pushed you over the edge—something about being threatened and kicked. Your final interviewer, Mr. Oldyer, says you seemed unstable. As for the forged I.D.s and the scalpel, people are saying you probably bought them from the black market with money from your first hosting. It doesn’t look good. Watly. I’ll try to find out more, but I have to go slow. I’ve already snooped a little too much. People will suspect. Good luck, Watly.

See you at the bar ASAP.

Love, A.T.

Watly kissed the paper and clicked off the cutter’s readout. She was remarkable. A major fuckface. Truly remarkable. Poovus material. Someday Watly would have to find a way to repay her. He folded the paper and stuffed it back in the bag. After fumbling some more, he found the bottle again and took one more sideways sip before closing it. What a day. It was all incredible.
I’ve got to put the pieces together,
he thought.
I’ve got to find
the answers
.

Why me? Why was I picked for this role? I’m not a murderer. Is it that streak of violence they wanted? And why not just kill whoever it was and escape? If you’re
that
smart you could certainly get away with murder without the help of a host. Maybe they wanted a scapegoat just to be sure? I don’t know. It’s crazy. I’ve got to find proof I’m innocent. No setup can be that perfect. If I never find proof I’ll never get out of it. If I don’t solve this, I’
m dead.

Watly rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. It was so dark he could hardly tell the difference. His brain hurt. He was thinking in circles.
Stop thinking
, Caiper, he thought.
If it’s not productive, turn
it off.

Watly turned
it off.

He stretched out with his legs across the warm metal surface. His right foot brushed against something. Something small. Watly recoiled, suddenly frightened in the blackness. He brought his foot out tentatively once again. There was definitely something there. A small object near the edge of the daylite. Watly turned the cutter on once again and swiveled his body around toward the object. In the dim red light of the cutter’s readout, he could see what looked like a ragged bowl. It was made of garbage—scraps of cloth and paper, metal spokes, and small broken pieces of placene. It had been painstakingly made to the rough shape of a small bowl. He brought the cutter closer to the object’s side.
No,
thought Watly,
it’s not a bowl at all. It’s a nest. It’s a bird’s nest. Subs—it’s a real bird’s nest up here on top of this daylite.
Imagine that.

Watly was amazed. He could hardly remember the last time he’d seen a bird. And yet, against all odds some diehard First Level bird had determinedly continued to exist and defiantly built a little home for its family. A testament to survival. Watly felt it was almost a sign. It seemed like a good omen, a small ray of hope. He raised the cutter and, scooting a little closer, pointed the red light down inside the nest to
see better.

Inside the nest was death. Three little skeletal remains of newborn birds curled together, all beak and bone, their empty eye sockets blank and accusing. The naked skeletons clung to one another, as if shrinking away from death itself. Watly clicked off the cutter swiftly and pulled himself across the daylite, as far away from the little tomb as possible. This was not a sign. This was not a sign at all.

CHAPTER 23

W
atly Caiper
was flying.

His arms were flapping gracefully and he was soaring gently over Brooklyn. Yes, that was Brooklyn below. And there was his old street—the old brownstones. Watly banked and swooped down between the buildings for a closer look. On the street below, a few young boys were shin-scrimming off a passing bus. It was a dangerous but exhilarating pastime—exciting to watch even from above. The boys were soon gone and Watly soared to the south. There was his apartment house. The place of Watly’s youth. On the front steps two women waved up at him, smiling broadly. They were proud. Proud of Little-Watt. One of the women was his mother, P-pajer Caiper, looking young and vibrant. Next to her was Alysess—thin, strong, and dark. She was wearing her all-white outfit and smiling with those perfect teeth. The two held each other and beckoned to Watly. They no longer seemed as joyful. Watly circled them, diving lower. They were calling now, waving
more frantically.

Come down, Watly. Come down. Beware the air. Beware
the air.

Watly circled once again and prepared to land. The sky was clouding over rapidly. The wind rose. Dark thunderclouds moved in. Watly looked up. Heavy black clouds rolled over above him like a
solid blanket.

P-pajer Caiper yelled from below,
Beware the air, Watly!

He was suddenly frightened. The sun was being covered— completely covered. He looked back down but there was no one there anymore. The street was empty. P-pajer and Alysess were gone. His building was gone. The streets were unfamiliar. The wind grew stronger, as if trying to blow Watly to the ground. He tried to climb, to gain altitude. The clouds covered now like a solid ceiling. The wind drove him down harder, whipping at him with a frenzy. He couldn’t rise. Watly felt himself lose control; he could no longer flap his arms. He couldn’t
fight anymore.

Beware
the air!

Watly was driven hard toward the ground. Only it wasn’t the ground. It had changed. It had transformed. It was now fire. Solid fire. The ground had turned to fire and he was plummeting into it. A
reverse Icarus.

He landed brutally on the flames. And he began to burn. Every part of him began to burn. Now there was a baby with him and the baby was burning as well. The baby’s flesh was on fire. It was a naked girl baby and as its skin seared off and the muscle beneath began to bubble, it gazed up at Watly. There was no fear or pain in its eyes. Its clear dark pupils were cold and calm. Watly stopped breathing and his heart stopped
pumping blood.

“Mea culpa,” the baby said, smiling an oily smile. “Mea culpa. Mommy.”

Watly was on fire. This was no dream. He was burning. Shit! Burning up! He tried to jump but slammed his back into the ceiling. It was morning. The daylites had gone to full. The whole platform was heating up to an unbearable temperature. Steam rose from the evaporating moisture. The surface was scorchingly hot. His nightmare was nothing compared to this reality. Watly scrambled to stuff all his things back in the bag. His knees and elbows felt like they were being seared off.
Rape, rape, rape, rape!
He gathered everything and pulled the knapsack over his shoulders. As quickly as he was capable, he slithered to the far edge of the daylite and started out over the plasticore beam that connected the two platforms. That was better. The beam was cool to the touch. What
a relief.

The sweat and fear and claustrophobia left him gradually, easing out of him with each breath. Soon he was calm. Soon he was himself again. The dream was gone; the heat
was gone.

Watly stayed on the center of the beam. His eyes adjusted slowly to the bright morning. He could see down easily now. The street was full of people going off to work. He glanced backward. There was a new surveillance cop sitting on the steps, looking bored. All was as it had been. Alysess’s shade was drawn. Watly wondered if she’d left for work already.
Ah, well. Have a good day,
my love.

In the full daylite, Watly could see everything below him. It was amazing how far up he was. Five stories didn’t sound like much, but looking straight down from it on a one-foot-wide beam made it seem pretty damn far indeed. At least he didn’t have to worry much about being seen. Being up there where the daylites were was perfect cover. Watly figured it was like standing behind a searchlight; the brightness of the light would make it impossible to see things around and behind it. He felt invisible. If it wasn’t for the heat problem everything would be fine. Traveling from daylite to beam to daylite was going to be painful. Hot and cold, Hot and cold. Ah, well. Such is life. Either hot or cold.
You can’t have everything, right, Caiper?

Watly started to crawl across the beam. When he reached the next daylite he found himself making little grunting and squealing noises as he scrambled across the burning platform. This would never do. On the next beam Watly stopped and spent some time ripping off both of the cuffs on his anklepants. He wrapped the fabric around each palm to protect his hands. That should help. And on he crawled. The farther he traveled, the stronger the wind grew. Hot and cold. Hot and cold. Watly stopped on one of the beams to have a dried sunbean breakfast. He finished the packet but passed on the booze this time. No drinking now.
Not a good time to get dizzy.
..
or throw up,
he thought
to himself.

By taking one perpendicular crossbeam, Watly changed direction and headed down the avenue. The wind picked up even stronger and he could make out the roaring sound of an exhaust fan up ahead. On he went. Hot and cold. Hot and cold. The places it got him most were the knees, elbows, and palms. At one daylite, Watly tried to turn over and slide across on his rear end—but that was even worse and it took twice as long. So he continued on his front—painfully
but steadily.

The crowds below thickened. Tents with their cloth tops pointed toward him were scattered on sidewalks and curbs. Lowtruck pullers, bicyclers, and pedestrians filled the street. Manned and unmanned coppers as well as a few cruisers whizzed by, totally oblivious to Watly’s plodding journey up above. They looked small and insignificant from that height—harmless little toys.
Looking for me?
Watly thought. He smiled to himself. On he went. Elbow, palm, knee. Elbow, palm, knee. Hot and cold. Hot
and cold.

After a while he actually found himself humming. This surprised even Watly. It was a strange place to hum. But he had Alysess’s letter-writing tune in his head, he had the breeze at his back, and he had the rhythm of his own movements to give him a beat. It seemed fitting. He hummed on. The volume of the fan he was approaching became so loud he could barely hear himself.
Perhaps I should sing,
Watly thought.
Then I could hear
myself better.

Watly crawled onward and let loose his raw and scratchy
singing voice.

“When I’m down I write to my poo-hoo-vus,

I write to my poovus every day.

When I’m low I—”

Suddenly the fan stopped. Watly cut off his singing midword. There was silence. The huge roar of the exhaust had clicked off abruptly, leaving only a hollow echo. Watly’s ears rang. The wind died to nothing. He strained to see ahead. What had happened? Had he
been spotted?

Watly cautiously climbed along another daylite and
its beam.

Up ahead he could make out a man near his own level. Watly froze. The man was sitting in a wire basket way up on the end of a long jointed metal neck. He was covered with dirt and dust. It looked like he was reaching up and taking the bars off the front of the exhaust fan.
He must be cleaning it out,
Watly thought,
cleaning all the garbage the fan sucks up.
The man got the bars unlocked. He swung them down and lowered the basket back to the street. Watly crept closer. He was only a few yards from all this now. The fan cleaner was back on the ground, surrounded by paper and garbage, readying an enormous hose and strapping it to the side of his basket. He was probably going to use the hose to snake into the opening and empty out all the garbage. Watly had never seen this procedure before. He wondered how often it had to be done. He leaned closer. The fan’s huge gray blades were clearly visible behind the open bars. Up behind the blades was darkness. Up. Up there. Second Level. The air had to let out on Second Level. Somehow. It had to. Maybe there was a way to Second. Maybe this was the chink in Second Level’s armor. And Second Level was where it happened. Second Level held the clues—possibly the answers. Sentiva—the house—the scene of the crime
....
It was an open invitation.
You got a better idea, Caiper?

Watly looked down. The fan cleaner was preoccupied with attaching the hose. He was leaning over, concentrating on his actions. Watly scrambled forward as fast as he could.
I can’t believe I’m doing this,
he thought.
I can’t believe I’m going back there. Back there where I don’t belong. I’m a beanheaded, first-
faced catfucker.

He reached the edge of the last daylite, took off his makeshift hand pads, and shoved them in the bag. They’d just get in the way. The cleaner was still busy. Watly gauged the distance carefully and braced himself. He pushed hard with his feet and caught hold of one of the door’s bars. Immediately he swung his legs up and—despite his tortured stomach muscles and the broken blisters on his hands—pulled himself up into the hole below the blades. He landed hard, sprawled across the metal bars. One quick glance told him that the man below was almost done and about to rise back up in his basket. Watly rolled to the side and saw there was a ledge all around the inside “cage.” He flipped himself up on it and pressed into
the wall.

The place smelled. It smelled like everything mixed together. Eau de First Level. The wall next to Watly was moist and greasy. There was a thin screen right above him and, beyond that, the enormous blades. They looked like some huge propeller from an ancient upended boat. Watley touched the screen. He had to get to the other side. Fast. Next to him the cleaner’s hose stuck through the hole and began snaking all around, sucking down the remaining garbage. Watly kept himself pressed firmly into the wall. He remained motionless, allowing the filthy hose’s mouth to suck at him up and down before moving on. It was not a pleasant sensation—like having a mindless worm pull at
his body.

So far the cleaner hadn’t seen him. The hose worked its way around the other side. Watly saw it sucking up wrappers, paper, hats, scarves, money, and all kinds of assorted clothing and garbage. He glanced up again. If he couldn’t get up to the other side of the fan before it was turned on again, all would be lost.
This was a great idea. Caiper. A
great idea.

The damn screen. Watly tried to rip at it with his right hand. No good. It wasn’t very strong but it was strong enough to stop him. Maybe the pipe cutter? There was nothing for its mouth to grip on to. The hose receded from the opening. The cleaner began lowering his basket. Watly turned onto his back and lifted his knees up to his chest. One, two, three,
kick
! He slammed both feet violently into the screen. It gave some. Watly noticed it had buckled near the edge. He glanced down. The cleaner was returning without the hose. He rose up in his basket and swung the bars back up, locking the door with a loud clink.
No going back now,
Watly thought.
I’m locked in. Even the pipe cutter won’t go through bars
that thick.

The cleaner guided his little basket back to
the street.

Watly kicked up at the screen again.
Please, don’t turn the fan on yet!
Again he kicked. Now the screen was bent and beginning to rip at the edge. That’s the way. One more violent kick and he was through. The hole was just big enough. Watly rose to his knees and pushed his way through the screen. It was a tight fit. The knapsack got caught but Watly wrenched it through angrily.
Don’t activate that fan, mister!
Not yet!

He was in the fan chamber now. It smelled dark and burnt. It smelled of machinery and oil. He rose up to grip the edge of one of the huge horizontal blades. There was some space between each one—just enough for a person to climb through. Watly heard a
rumbling sound.

“Don’t do this to me!” he said aloud. He didn’t say it out of fear—it was a threat.
“Don’t you do this
to me!”

The solid gray metal was slippery. Watly pulled himself halfway up onto the huge fan blade just as there was a loud clank and the sound of heavy machinery revving up. Watly slipped off and fell back into the screen. There was the grinding of gears. The walls vibrated. Watly jumped up and grabbed the blade again. It started
to move.

Oh, shit.
The fan was on. It moved slowly. Just slowly at first. He pulled himself up waist high onto the blade as it began to spin.
Give me a second, please, he thought. Just
one second….

And then he was up, sitting balanced on the thick, slanted metal as the chamber seemed to move by around him. The speed picked up. Everything was rotating. The chamber was becoming a blur around him.
I’ll be shredded
, he thought.
I’ll fall and be shredded. Cat food.
He slid to the edge and dove off just as the blades began to twirl faster. For a moment he was in the air and then one leg landed on the rim around the outside. The other hit nothing but empty space. There was a thin ledge just like the one in the cage below. Watly wavered on its edge, one leg out, his arms seesawing for balance. Then he was okay. He found his center. Both legs were planted firmly and he was leaning forward. He
was fine.