Levels: The Host (24 page)

It struck Watly suddenly—almost physically—that the most wondrous thing about Second Level compared to First was a very simple thing. A basic thing: People had only one shadow here. Just one. Like Brooklyn. The solitary sun cast only one elegant shadow for each object. On First Level there was never only one shadow. Down below, as one walked from beneath one daylite to another, a fan of shadows danced about, fused and separated, faded and grew—always in motion and never alone. Here it was different. Here a person could have a sense of solidity. One person: one shadow. Elegant.

A sedan went by, one woman driving. It was an antique car—in perfect condition—retrofitted with a new engine at the back but without compromising the original lines. Watly’s stride faltered and he stared at it. Beautiful. Fuckable. It was a bright red Chevy from the nineties or maybe turn-of-the-century, in incredible shape. Following it a more modem vehicle zipped past—again a private sedan, clean and polished, only one driver, cylinders
blazing beautifully.

Watly looked down at the smooth, unbroken surface of the white streets. Unblemished whitetop. No potholes, no lumps, no primitive makeshift repair jobs—none of the patchwork, almost archaeological quality of down below. The streets and sidewalks up here looked virginal—boring in their lack of character. But they were beautiful. Everything
was beautiful.

Watly tried not to show his awe. More people passed by and he almost bumped into one. A few First Levelers in workervests and black jumpsuits trotted along with eyes lowered. Watly picked up the pace and turned east. Structures were set apart up here on Second. Watly had never realized how many buildings must have been five stories or lower down below. It seemed most of them never made it up this high. Those that did make it to this level bore little resemblance to their lower counterparts. There were beautiful slate roofs, tile walls and shingles, and golden and wooden entrance ways. Sprawling private homes with gingerbread-carved flying buttresses, ornate cupolas, brightly colored shutters, and striped awnings. Tall house-offices made from old high rises. Even the skyscrapers looked personalized. Some had crenellated parapets at the top and others were painted in vast bold graphics and abstract designs. Space and
more space.

Watly saw something up ahead, coming toward him. Something incredible. On his side of the sidewalk, nearing with every step, two people approached him. One was a thin, middle-aged man wearing a colorful cape. The other was clutching the man’s hand and running alongside him, trying to keep up. It was a child. A lovely little child. Four or five years old at the most. It had wide and curious eyes and perfect pale skin. Watly felt his
throat constrict.

The two neared and passed by, brushing close. A child. A baby, really.
Hardly more.

Up ahead was another—another child. This one with a woman. He was a little boy and had a shock of bright orange-red hair. Freckles. He was younger still, and seemed wobbly on his legs. Awkward. Watly felt dizzy. He felt an achy love kind of feeling for the
smallness
. For the youngness. For the beauty. This was a kid. A real live
kid
. A boy, talking with great animation
and energy.

Watly got closer and could make out a few words. The child’s voice was high and breathy and full of giggles. His little cheeks were red with exertion and he gestured broadly and unselfconsciously with the one free hand as he spoke. As they brushed past, ignoring him totally, Watly made out one word in particular. He heard it clearly, as if it were meant for him. Again his throat grew tight and Watly thought for a brief moment that he might cry. He might break down right there on the street—right there in a police uniform on the Second Level—and cry hysterically. He didn’t. He swallowed and controlled the urge, pressing it inward. He kept walking. But still that one word echoed over and over in his head. It wouldn’t stop. The word had been said casually by the child. It had been plunked down in the middle of a sentence with little thought. But Watly had still
heard it.

The word was
mommy
.

CHAPTER 27

W
atly hadn’t remembered the bay windows. Of course, the first time he stood here at the foot of these steps, he’d not been himself. Not himself at all. And now as
just
himself looking up at the front of the large building, he could take it all in. To either side of the front steps were deep bay windows made of a weathered wood. The building was imposing and powerful-looking and seemed—from Watly’s perspective, at least—just tall enough to graze the sky. There was no movement from behind any of the windows. The place was lifeless. It was waiting, daring him to take
a step.

Watly knew that even a man dressed as a policeman would draw attention if he stood gaping up at a private home for too long. It was time to move again. Time to get going. Time to trot up those same front steps he had climbed what seemed like years ago. Time to pay another call at the Alvedine residence. Watly shifted the heavy rifle’s strap and
started forward.

There was an eerie sense of déjà vu as Watly touched the front door and saw it was completely unsecured. A trap? The wooden door swung inward easily without a creak. Just like it had before. To the right Watly saw the plate with numbered keyboard. A security device, no doubt.
Let’s hope it’s off,
Watly thought.

He took a step into the foyer, closing the door behind him. Ahead was the sitting room, illuminated by all the natural sunlight streaming in. Watly took another step down the short foyer. There was no one around and no lenses visible. It seemed safe enough. If it was a trap it sure didn’t look like it yet. He edged forward slowly. As he advanced, hinkyness overcame him. His chest felt tighter and his pulse quickened. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should never have come up here. Never have come back to Second and
certainly
never have come back to this house. Not
this
house.

He took a
step forward.

This
was
an awful idea. He was going to die. He was going to die any second now. It was inevitable. It
was
a trap.

Watly was having trouble breathing. His chest felt tight and constrained and his skin was crawling. It was a horrible panic attack,
or something.

He took one more step forward, almost in the sitting room now. He was sweating in what felt like great sheets of liquid all down
his face.

Rape, I’m going to die,
he thought.
I’m going to die and it’s gonna hurt real bad. It’s the pain I don’t want—
the pain!

Watly couldn’t move forward anymore. He’d gone as far as possible. His legs
were trembling.

Maybe I’m dying right now! Maybe this is it! Maybe I’ll die right here all by myself. All alone. The worst kind of death you can have. A
lonely death.

He took a step backward and suddenly felt better. Another step and the fear subsided even more. He backed up all the way to the door. Now he felt okay. His confidence was back. He felt
himself again.

This was strange. What was the story here? Watly took another tentative, experimental step down the front hallway. Sure enough, his fear increased. The sense of dread and fright was an almost tangible thing coming on stronger with each step down the hall. This was not just Watly. No, something more was at
play here.

Watly retreated again and looked back at the wall keyboard. Etched in the lower right-hand corner of the metal plate was some
small writing:

anxiety field controls

An anxiety field.
That
was the security device. No wonder the door had been unlocked both times—the house was protected by an anxiety field in the front hallway. An old but effective method of stopping intruders. Supposedly illegal now. Watly glanced around. This entrance was the only way in—as far as he knew. The outer windows had looked solid and impenetrable. Anyway, he would attract attention trying to climb to one in broad daylight. No, this was the
only way.

Maybe he could push his way through an anxiety field with sheer willpower. It might be possible. Watly backed up against the door and gritted his teeth.
I can do this,
he thought.
All I need is strength.
He pushed off from the door and plowed forward toward the
sitting room.

Again his breathing quickened and his skin broke out in sweat.
This won’t work,
he thought.
It can’t. Something terrible will go wrong. Maybe I’ll burst a blood vessel in my head. Or maybe I’ll have a
heart attack.

Watly
continued onward.

Or maybe someone has already come in behind me and is about to shoot me in the back of the head—or in that little valley just between the shoulder blades. Or maybe they’re aiming for my neck. Right where my skull meets my spine. The slug will bite bone and shatter my brain. I’ll feel it busting my head open. I’ll feel
every moment.

He was moving slower now, each step torture. He was overcome with the same kind of powerless horror he’d experienced when his mother had died. Only worse. His vision blurred as he approached the area he had been stopped
at before.

My whole life has been a disaster. My whole life I’ve never gotten anything I want. My dreams are all dead. I’ll never be a mother. No child for me. None. I’ll be caught and killed. And.
..
and.
..

Watly thought he might wet himself. The feelings of impending doom and inevitable death were intolerable. He couldn’t move
forward anymore.

And if I ever do have a child, it will be deformed and insane and it will kill me when it’s strong enough. And.
..

It was no good. He was frozen in place—just at the end of
the hall.

And the next woman I have sex with will grow teeth down below and bite me off midstroke
....
And any minute now someone will stab me in the eyes
....
And then bugs and small animals will
envelope me
....

Watly backed up. It was useless. The fear grew so intense down near the end of the anxiety field that it was impossible to pass. He kept retreating until he was leaning back into the door, relieved the terror was abated. Now he was okay. But he was still not inside. He was still at
square one.

Watly wiped the sweat off his face with the sleeve of his “borrowed’’ blue uniform. He turned toward the wall and stared at the small bank of numbers. Nine little buttons, set up in rows of three. One row on top of the other. If only he could remember the combination. If only he could remember the numbers. But he’d never really known the numbers. The donor had known them. The donor had punched them in quickly as if well practiced. Naturally, Watly’s eyes had been on the board at the time—he’d had no choice—but the actual combination had gone by too fast. And there had been other things on Watly’
s mind.

Da, da, de-da
—the donor had hit the buttons.
Da, da, de-da. One, two, three-four.
Four of them. Four numbers and the field would be deactivated. Watly could hear the rhythm in his head—
da, da, de-da.
If only he could remember the digits. The donor had done it all in such an offhanded manner—barely looking at the board. It seemed like months ago now. Years.

Watly looked at his right hand and tried to hold it the same way the donor had—index finger pointed, the others curled slightly, thumb relaxed. He brought his hand near the keyboard, trying to replay the foggy memory of that evening.
Da, da, de-da.
Watly gave up on remembering the actual numbers—he just concentrated and tried to envision the movements his own hand had taken
back then.

What had the sensations been like? How stretched was his arm? How much of the board was visible between his fingers when they’d hit the first number? What had the negative space between his hand and the doorjamb been shaped like? Had the wrist twisted from one number to the next? Watly tried to digest all this, put it together in his mind, and come up with some viable answer.
Da, da, de-da. Remember
the rhythm
....

It was time to give it a try. Watly punched in four numbers on the keyboard, trying to mimic the same rhythm and sensation as in his memory.
Da, da, de-da.

There was a mechanical hum. A small green light flashed on the board.
Yes.

He’d done it. Watly strode forward rapidly down the hallway—he didn’t know how long he had before the field came up again, but he wasn’t about to get caught in the middle. This time any anxiety he felt as he passed down to the all-wood sitting room was real anxiety. None of this stimulation-to-the-fear-centers-of-the-brain business—just some honest-to-goodness straightforward shit-willies. Shit-willies that came from being on Second, from breaking and entering, from being in the house where it all had occurred.
..
and from everything else that had happened and that might happen yet. It still could be a trap. This anxiety was surprisingly comfortable compared to the all-encompassing synthetic fear the field had induced. It was almost pleasant. Almost.

Watly had crossed through the sitting room and was halfway up the large curved staircase before he noticed someone was coming down it. Straight
at him.

He almost bumped into the graceful form before him. Like a dancer she moved, and like a dancer she stopped in
her tracks.

In the split second that he became aware of her presence—even before she became aware of his—Watly surprised himself. There was a flicker of something within him—less than love but more than lust. Not like Alysess. Alysess was something else entirely. With Alysess, in spite of their short acquaintance, he felt something strong—something important. If what he felt for Alysess wasn’t love, it was certainly a close second.
But this.
..

But this was different. A look at the vision before him brought out a hint of something disturbing—something primitive.
Why is it,
Watly wondered,
that we are all so pulled toward the aesthetic—for its own sake? Why do we have this drive to be with, to touch, to make love to that which pleases the eye? Do we think that the beauty will somehow rub off on us? Why is our libido, our lust, our passion so intertwined with our concept of beauty? Why do I, Watly Caiper, want so much to poke myself into loveliness? To enter it, to affect it, to be wanted by it, to be a part of it? Beauty. Beauty like this person before me. I can almost understand why one would kill for such a one
as this.

There she was. Sentiva Alvedine in all her glory. The incredible face, those intense green eyes that had been hidden from Watly’s view, the strong—almost overpowering—jawline, the flowing dark hair, that statuesque body
....
She was wearing a dark business suit—not unlike the one worn by the murder victim that night that seemed so long ago. Even under the sexless outfit, her physical beauty was not hidden. The rise of the breasts, the slender waist, the hips
....
This is a goddess,
Watly thought. He was overcome with the desire to apologize for the actions of his donor. His first instinct was to say:
I’m sorry my body took advantage of yours. Yours is not a body to be taken advantage of. No body, of course, is a body to take advantage of. But somehow, the rape of your body is a perfect example of why rape is a curse, but fuck is not. Fuck is a beautiful thing, rape is an obscenity. The ultimate obscenity. And, incidentally, Sentiva, about that murder.
..
But Watly said nothing. He gazed blankly up
at her.

Sentiva looked stunned for a moment. “Officer?” she said. “How did
you get—”

Then Watly saw recognition pass over her face.
She must know me from my news-file photos,
he thought.
She recognizes me. She sees before her the man who murdered her mate. Her mate? Whoever the hell
it was.

“You’re.
..
” She drew back up a step and Watly—with some reluctance—shouldered the haver
nerve rifle.

“Yes, I am,” he
said quietly.

“Yes, I see that,” Sentiva said, rapidly composed again, no hinkyness in her expression at all now. “Yes,
you are.”

She had a beautiful voice. Like Alysess’s but less youthful, more mature. Her Second Level accent was thick and obvious but somehow sounded softened, no harshness in its tone. Watly gestured with the rifle for her to continue down the steps. “I’d like to talk
to you.”

“What makes you think that I’d like to talk to the man who murdered my poovus?” she said, stepping slowly down past Watly with her hands in front of her, palms out and fingers spread. The gesture was not so much one of supplication as it was of temporary truce.
I will refrain from hurting you at the moment,
her hands seemed to say—even though it was he who held the weapon. There was no fear in her face, only anger. Watly wondered if maybe she knew some advanced form of self-defense or if there was additional security he hadn’t caught. Or maybe this is just what it meant to be a Second Leveler: brave, tough,
and fearless.

He kept the rifle trained on her as she stepped to the sitting room. She still moved like a dancer, gliding effortlessly and gracefully around the furniture. She was a
class act.

“Because I didn’t do it,” he said with as much conviction as he
could muster.