Levels: The Host (26 page)

“Touché, Watly Caiper. Touché.” Sentiva sat back down. She still seemed totally relaxed—no fear, no worries. A tough Second Level Woman. Sublimely civilized. “You may be right. Living on Second Level does tend to give one a distorted view as well, I’m sure. Personally I’ve never been
down there.”

“You should try it,” Watly said coldly. “It might open your eyes.” He looked down to the plush carpet, mad at himself for letting go like that. This was not the time. This woman could be a much-needed ally if he played it right. In spite of her hot-and-cold attitude, underneath was something that almost read like warmth. Under the elitist snobbery was—what?—affection? She might
help him.

Sentiva turned from Watly and looked across to the large windows. Sunlight glared off their surface, obscuring the outside world. “Well, Mr. Caiper, unless you have more questions—or you want to haver me with the rifle, or take me hostage—barring all that, I’d appreciate being left
alone now.”

That was it. It was over. Watly realized the uselessness of their conversation. All it had done was mess up his sense of reality. All it did was confuse him. It had gone nowhere. He had no new clues—no leads. The whole damn trip was for nothing. And now he could look forward to trying to get back down the way he got up—or some other way entirely if inspiration struck. In any case, it was a hell of a lot of wasted energy for naught. He wasn’t even positive if he had another ally or not. Her conversion to his side, if it had happened at all, had not been obvious. At least it seemed she understood his innocence, whatever good
that
did.

Watly started toward the door. “Can you turn off the anxiety field for me?” he asked, sounding—to his own ears—too much like a sheepish
little boy.

She rose and crossed to the near end of the foyer. There was another numbered plate on this end. She punched in the code and the light went green. Watly turned to her once more. “There’s nothing you remember? There’s no one you suspect? No one in particular? Friend? Politician? Sex partner? No one with the code?” he pleaded one
last time.

Sentiva inhaled and Watly got a brief sense of the shape of her perfect body under the dark clothing. The memory of those delicious,
firm breasts
....

“No, Mr. Caiper. Unless.
..
” she squinted, “unless Corbell gave the combination to her private doctor—which I doubt. It’s
highly unlikely.”

Watly perked up. “Her doctor? Who was
her doctor?”

“Mitterly. Dr.
Aug Mitterly.”

Watly smiled. “Well, it’s something. I already knew he was involved, but at least this confirms it. Maybe he’s the mastermind. Maybe he
hired
the donor as a
hit man—”

“You’d better hurry or the field will come up again,” Sentiva
said quickly.

Watly walked down the foyer toward the front door. “An address? An address on the doctor?” he asked over
his shoulder.

“Four-oh-one Park Avenue South. Second Level,” Sentiva said after him. “Perhaps, then, Watly.
..
perhaps I was of some help
after all.”

He turned and saw she was smiling a genuine smile. No sarcasm, no condescension, just a genuine warm smile. She was spectacular. A fuck. Yes. And perhaps she was on his side now as well. If nothing else,
that
might come
in handy.

“Goodbye, Sentiva,”
he said.

“Goodbye, Watly.”

Watly turned and opened
the door.

On the top step, right before him, was Sergeant Fenlocki, flanked on either side by two officers with guns drawn. A few steps down four backup officers squatted with rifles poised. On the street below were three spotless unmanned coppers with each shiny gun turret trained on Watly. Around those were various cruisers and more police—all with guns aimed at Watly. The amount of dark barrels facing Watly seemed
almost infinite.

“Hello, Mr. Watly Caiper,” Sergeant Fenlocki said with a smile. His nasolabial folds deepened. “We discovered your.
..
calling card.
..
in a certain air tube and thought we might find you here.” His grin grew. “The jig—as they say—
is up.”

PART THREE

UNDERNEATH IT ALL

For the pull is a killer

and my day has just begun.

– Pull Song

CHAPTER 29

W
alking through the tunnel from Brooklyn to Manhattan was not as easy as it sounded. From end to end the tunnel was well over two kilometers long. The air was stale and stagnant. At times it seemed almost impossible to breathe. But Watly was in good shape back then. He’d just had that two-day walk from his childhood home and he was ready to take on Manhattan for the first time. One long, empty claustrophobic tunnel was not about to slow him down. No. He was in the big time now. Doing good. Besides, he’d only have to do it once. He was on a one-way trip, headed toward his glorious future. Yeah.

At the end of the tunnel, his papers were double-checked carefully by a Manhattan customs officer. The officer accepted his immigration reluctantly. She looked vaguely disgusted that yet another person was being added to this already crowded place. The questions
were routine.

“Is this your first time
in Manhattan?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How much money do you bring
with you?”

“One hundred forty-five New
York dollars.”

“Are you diseased in
any way?”

“No ma’am.”

“Got
any drugs?”

“No, ma’am.”
(Like the scanners wouldn’t have picked it up if
I did.)

“Are you carrying any wood
on you?”

“No, ma’am.” (
And if I was and had declared it,
Watly thought to himself,
you’d take it from me and sell it, right?)

“Any friends or relatives live
in California?”

“No, ma’am.”

On the officer went, one question after another. When she was done, Watly’s visa was branded and he was on his own. All alone in First Level Manhattan. Free to tackle the
glamorous life.

The first thing he noticed was the dripping. The air was thick with moisture and large drops dribbled from the daylites and the ceiling above. The whole place reeked of mold and mildew. The streets were slick and greasy-looking. Watly’s hair was getting damp. It was sort of like rain but oilier and it descended unevenly in big pendulous drops.
I
must get a hat first thing,
Watly thought.

“Hat, boss?” A voice came from behind. “Hat for your wet head? I’ve a cheap one for you. You got anything other’n New York money, boss? You got foreign money? Penn money or maybe Jersey?
Great
drip hat for
Jersey dollars..
..
”

Watly walked by rapidly, ignoring the sales pitch. He was smart enough to realize he wasn’t very smart. He was just out of the tunnel and an easy mark. It would be wise to go straight to Uncle Narcolo’s without delay. People down by the tunnel probably waited there just to take advantage of those like him. The “
new ones.”

Two workers pulling a heavily loaded lowtruck crossed in front of him. They were concentrating on their labors but still singing a jolly pull song. The song was energizing—a work song, a “let’s get the job done” song. Watly listened and picked up the tune as they passed. It was an easy tune, the melody strong and motivational to get your heart going. He sang it while he walked the long blocks toward his uncle’s place, checking his direction sheet every now
and then.

I’ve got
aaaa
rms for the pull.

I’ve got
aaaa
rms to do my work.

For the pull is a long one

and the way is dark.

I’ve got
llll
egs for the pull.

I’ve got
llll
egs to keep me firm.

For the pull is a killer

and my day has just begun.

More workers pulling lowtrucks passed. This area was full of them. Goods needed transporting, and this was the way. Pull songs overlapped and mingled and soon Watly had lost
his entirely.

“You’re fresh, aren’t you, Jacko?”

Watly was startled by the voice so
close by.

“Don’t be frightened. Just noticing your freshness. You new today?” The short woman was walking right alongside Watly. She was in her eighties easily—maybe nineties but had no trouble keeping up. Her face was heavily shadowed by the wide brim of
her hat.

“I’m just in, yes,” Watly said reluctantly. He picked up his speed a little, trying to leave the old
woman behind.

“You think I want to rob you, huh? You think you’re gonna get taken ‘cause you’re
just in?”

Watly kept silent, walking
faster still.

“Jacko! Jacko, not all here is evil. There’s such a thing as
good here
....
”

She touched his jacket but Watly tore it out of her grasp. “Whatever you want, I’m not interested,” he
said loudly.

“I want you to make a right, that’s what
I want.”

“What?”

“Take my advice. One more block straight and you’ll be robbed and beat up bad enough to be dead. That’s all, Jacko. That’s my help. I had to do it. We all ain’
t bad.”

Watly slowed and squinted. “And this
is true?”

“Every fresh one who goes up there gets ripped an’ rolled bad. They see
you comin’.”

The old woman started
walking away.

“Why the warning?”
Watly asked.

She turned. “We aren’t all bad, Jacko. Like I said, there’s good here if you look for it. Look around you, fresh one, no one else is afraid like you. Your fear makes you stick out—makes things happen to you. Bad things happen to the afraid. You got no eggs showing. It’s a deep and drippy drip-day and you have no hat. This is
also funny.”

“Where should I get
a hat?”

The old woman tilted her head and stared at Watly with her shadowy eyes. “I’ll give you mine as a lesson, Jacko. Not all is
bad here.”

“I can’t
take it.”

“Take it.” She undid
the strap.

“
How much?”

“A gift to the fresh one.” A toothless smile opened up and her
eyes glimmered.

“I’ll give you five New York dollars for it,” Watly said, and he took out his money sack from
the satchel.

“No, no,” the old woman said, and she thrust out a withered hand. Before Watly had even realized it, that same hand snatched up his money sack and the tiny woman zipped down the street and disappeared around a corner with amazing speed. Watly was left standing there. Open-mouthed and broke. This was the country of Manhattan. The
island country.

Welcome to the new world, Jacko.

Watly walked on toward Narcolo’s place, stunned. Totally stunned. He avoided the direction the old woman had warned him about, on the off chance that it might actually be the truth. This was all quite
an education.

Another lowtruck rolled past. The tarp over its cargo flicked up briefly as it hit a bump. If Watly had not been so distracted, he would have looked. But he was preoccupied. He had just been robbed—expertly and cleanly. By an old pro. A
very
old pro.

If he
had
looked—glanced over to see what the truck contained—he would have been killed instantly. Right then and there. Killed by the pullers. For the truck contained weapons. Hundreds of stolen weapons headed for a secret place. Headed for the subs. Grenades, pistols, rifles. And the two singing pullers wouldn’t have chanced that the bewildered-looking man with no hat on could keep a secret. They would have blown his head off. Some secrets were that important to keep. Secrets about Revy.

CHAPTER 30

W
atly looked closely at the wrinkles in Ogiv Fenlocki’s face. The ridges and valleys were long and etched well into his features. Behind each nasolabial fold an echoing furrow mimicked the deepening that occurred with every mouth movement. The thick eyebrows were flecked with gray. The hair—not unlike Watly’s—was receding a bit. Just enough to make the face seem bigger—enlarged upward. The eyes were sharp and observant but filled with a humor—a philosophical smile.
It is indeed a kind face,
Watly thought.
A good and thoughtful face. The sergeant is a good man. In point of fact, the sergeant is one of the “good guys.” They all are. Good guys. They are not the enemy. Not a true enemy anyway.
Even that cop on the rooftop whose clothes Watly still tried to fill out—even he had been a good guy. He was a fat, ugly spitter and a cruel—even sadistic—man, but he was on the right side. He died a hero. He’d spent his days risking life and limb battling the “bad guys” for the sake of his community. And he died doing just that: fighting someone who, as far as he knew, was a bad guy. And those two police who’d died in the copper crash: both “good guys” sacrificing their lives while trying to kill a dangerous fugitive. All these were not bad people. Those chasing Watly all this time, tracking him down, they were not the enemy. These were people who were—if it weren’t for the small matter of Watly’s innocence—on the side one should root for. These people slept at night with clean consciences. Good guys. First
Level fucks.

“Caiper, Caiper, Caiper. You’re a hard man to catch,” the sergeant said with a smile of admiration. “For a while there I thought we’d never get you. But here you are”—the man looked almost disappointed—“returning to the scene of the crime. Tut, tut, tut. I’m surprised. I thought you’d make it a
little tougher.”

Watly took a step back but Sentiva’s door had closed behind him. The police moved
in closer.

“Maybe you’d better give me your weapons, Watly.” The sergeant gestured to his entourage. “These guys’ll kill you for breathing funny. It’s over, kid. The only reason no one here has taken you out yet is that the share of reward is a little bigger if we let the state kill you. A few dollars difference. So, unless you want to die a couple days early, let’s keep it all smooth and easy. You’ll live a few more days and my cops’ll get a week’s
bus fare.”

Watly handed over the nerve rifle limply. Then he gave Fenlocki the
chip pistol.

“The bag too. Please.”

Watly handed the bag over, and it wasn’t until it was out of his grip—just beyond his fingertips—that he remembered the note inside. Alysess’s note. “Love, A.T.,” it said at the bottom. And the name of the bar. And the times she’d
be there.

He had just killed his love. With the transfer of a knapsack he had doomed her. Why hadn’t he destroyed the note? Why? It would be easy for the sergeant to tell it was from her. Now Watly hadn’t just been captured. Now the worst had happened. He had dragged Alysess down with him. Out of stupidity. The note. He should have ripped it up long ago.
Raping damn!

Sergeant Fenlocki slung the rifle and the bag over his shoulder. “Let’s all go for a walk, Watly Caiper. Let’s go below where we both belong—where we both feel more comfortable.” They started slowly down the steps, all of them together. All eyes and guns trained on the unarmed man in the oversized cop’
s outfit.

Watly was desperately trying to come up with a way to get the note back. Or to destroy it. But this sergeant was smart. Any attempt to retrieve it—or even a small indication of discomfort over it—would surely be picked up on. No, the sergeant would see the note no matter what. Sooner or later it would happen. Grabbing it back at this point would do no good. A quick movement like that and they’d all open fire. He’d be dead on the spot.
..
and they’d
still
have the note. If Watly was convinced he could destroy the note in some way by sacrificing his life then and there, he might have done it. But there is no way. Ogiv Fenlocki would read it and he’d
get her.

They reached the middle of the street and started down it, surrounded on all sides by weapons, cops, and machinery. The officers in front walked backward to keep their captive in view. Fenlocki walked slowly, almost casually, beside Watly. When he spoke he spoke softly, so only Watly
could hear.

“You’ve done remarkably well, Mr. Caiper. Remarkably—”

“There’s a note,” Watly said abruptly. “In the bag there’s a note. It incriminates another for aiding me.” He searched the sergeant’s eyes for a glint of sympathy. There was none. “When you read it, pay attention to what it says. It is not the note of an accomplice. It is a note of a friend trying to clear an innocent man. I am, sergeant.
..
I
am
innocent.”

Fenlocki smiled. “I’m not a judge, Mr. Caiper. I’m a
police officer.”

“You’re a good guy,” Watly said. “And your job is to get the
bad ones.”

“True.”

“I’m not a bad one. I’m not. But that’s okay. That’s okay. I wouldn’t believe me either. Let the state kill me, if that’s what has to happen. But don’t let the state make two mistakes. When you read the note, remember what I said and
destroy it.”

The
sergeant smiled.

“Please,” Watly said, his
eyes lowered.

“I will do my job, Mr. Caiper. And if the note incriminates someone, I’ll get him and I’ll take him in. The state will handle it
from there.”

A tubestop gleamed up ahead. It was the same one, in fact, where Watly had had his run-in with the copper. None of the damage showed. Now it was newly repaired and sparkling in the rapidly setting sun. Its long shadow stretched across the avenue and touched a nearby doorway. Things were getting orange now. Orange all around. All the coppers’ turrets and bumpers glowed as if lit from within. Fenlocki’s hair was rim-lit from behind, bringing out silvery highlights and the hint of his scalp underneath. Sunset. The sad, simple color of sunset. It was almost the same golden-orange that Watly always thought of when he recalled his youth.
Brooklyn orange.

“Now, Watly, there’s a certain awkwardness approaching here. Obviously we can’t all go down the tube together. Only you, myself, and two other officers can fit. In case you were thinking this would be a good time to try to escape, I must warn you—I’ve taken precautions. Another vast.
..
herd
of police awaits us
down below.”

Watly shrugged, feeling weary and lost. He was almost glad no opportunity for resistance showed itself. The sunset calmed him. It made everything seem unreal. Unreal
and unimportant.

“My running days are over, Sergeant,” he
said quietly.

“Good, good. Shall we?” Fenlocki motioned toward the tube’s open hatch. “Hands clasped over your head please, Watly.”

Watly did as he was told. They left the golden-orange behind. Watly, Ogiv Fenlocki, and two officers rode the tube to First Level. All the while the barrel of the sergeant’s pistol was gently touching the base of Watly’s skull.
This man takes no chances,
Watly thought.
He needn’
t worry.

As promised, the street below had as many—if not more—cops as on Second Level. The uniforms were perhaps not as well kept and the coppers were a bit more tarnished and dented, but their weapons were just as lethal and all pointed steadily and confidently at Watly. He was well covered. The daylites had already gone to evening, so the lighting was soft and subtle—not exactly a sunset, but moody nonetheless. It is almost romantic in a dim, wet,
reflective way.

“Now we walk downtown.” Fenlocki lowered his own weapon. “A nice easy stroll, Mr. Caiper, and then I will leave you in the capable hands of our Crimcourts. Let’s make this as easy
as possible.”

Again they started a slow walk surrounded by police, cruisers, and coppers—only this time it was First Level. Better. At least it felt like home. Dirty, smelly, ugly, wet—yes. But home. Better to die at home. One’s home was always a fuckable place, no matter
how ugly.

The streets cleared in their path. Tenters quickly dragged their tents aside. Watly felt a part of some surreal parade. People gathered on the sidewalks to watch the group pass.
I am famous and these are my fans,
Watly thought, looking at the faces.
Maybe Sentiva was right. Plurites, huh?
People
did
look different down here. They didn’t look as extreme, they didn’t have that caricature quality those above had. There was no extreme paleness, no inklike darkness, no harshly slanted eyes, no tiny noses, no flat, broad noses
....
Everyone here was soft-looking. A mix. Everyone here looked a little like everyone else, while still being different—still having individuality. Variations on a theme. Could she have been right about this “race” business?

Up ahead, the avenue was almost empty except for a few bums and a far-off bus. Somewhere a meal was being cooked and the smell of sunbean wafted over Watly. Girl, he was hungry. When had he eaten last? Morning?
Food would be most welcome right now,
thank you.

The cops up front directed bums off to the sides. Some seemed reluctant but they all went eventually. That distant bus neared, picked up speed. Watly caught a snatch of conversation coming from off to
the left.

“That him?” “That the guy?” “He the one did the
big kill?”

The circle of police around Watly and the sergeant continued steadily down the avenue as if connected together by invisible ropes.
We are a comical group,
Watly thought.
All this fuss
for me?

“I’m almost sorry the chase has ended, Watly,” the sergeant said with
a smile.

Watly gazed off ahead, feeling numb inside. The oncoming bus was moving faster and swerving slightly from side
to side.

“What the—” Fenlocki stopped walking
and stared.

The bus was barreling into them—into them all—at top speed. Watly froze. He tried to see into the swerving windshield as it approached. The driver was hunched over the controls,
eyes determined.

The bus plowed into the front coppers, sending them flying to the sides with an enormous
crack
. They crashed into a nearby building—one of them exploding on impact. An officer flew across the street, flung aside by the bus like some scrap of cloth. Then another. And another. Through the now cracked windshield the driver winced but continued staring straight outward. The bus was aimed directly at Watly. At Watly and
the sergeant.

And as the huge machine bore down on him, Watly finally recognized the squinting face at its controls. It was a familiar face. It was Uncle Narcolo.
Narcolo Caiper.

Their eyes met.