Levels: The Host (13 page)

The donor turned on Sixty-third and headed east. Watly could guess their destination. It was obvious. They were headed for the nearest tube to Second. There was one on Third Avenue between Sixty-third and Sixty-
fourth streets.

The tube was lit up brightly and the donor approached it confidently, walking in the precise center of the street. A cruiser passed by without even slowing. The donor did not falter. They reached the tube. Watly watched his own hands as they flipped away the thin metal tube seal and pulled the hatch wide open. He saw his feet step in and felt the cool air inside. The hatch was closed and resealed behind. There was suddenly no outside sound. There was no echo—just a dead mechanical hum. After a brief pause a pleasant but emotionless female
voice spoke.

“Face forward, please,” the artificial
voice said.

Watly’s donor did
as told.

The tube interior was shiny black and Watly’s face and shoulders were surrounded by a blue-toned circular light. The donor was looking directly into a surveillance lens in the middle of the light. Watly felt naked. He felt so naked he thought for a moment that maybe the lens could see deep into his body. Maybe it could see clear through the high forehead, into the skull, to Watly Caiper himself. Maybe it could see past the donor all the way to Watly—who was, at the moment, well buried. If only it were true. If only Watly could wave a little mental hand and show himself.
I’m here! Don’t listen to
this bolehole!

The voice
spoke again.

“Place your Second Level travel pass and your identicard in the proper slots before you, please.”

The donor brought out Watly’s own identicard. This was slipped between a pair of metal lips marked
ident
. Out of one of the previously unopened red cases, the donor produced a card Watly had never seen before. It had Watly’s name and image on it, but it was unfamiliar. The donor placed it in a receptor slot marked
second
level pass.

“Please state your name and your business on Manhattan’s
Second Level.”

The donor cleared Watly’s throat and proceeded to do a somewhat transparent imitation of a First Level accent. “My name is Watly Caiper and I’ve been handed the great honor of being hired to work on Second for the night, on a
trial basis.”

“What is the work, Mr. Caiper?” the disembodied
voice asked.

“The cleaning of a toilet, ma’am.”

“What particular toilet is to
be cleaned?”

The donor fumbled with one of the red cases until it opened abruptly. Inside was nothing. The donor pretended to read from the nothing, shielding the lens’s view with a
cupped hand.

“At forty-seven East Seventy-second. On the.
..
” The donor squinted, “south side of the street. Second floor.
Dirty loo.”

“Do you have a temporary
working permit?”

“That I do, yes.” From the first red case the donor produced yet another card with Watly’s face imprinted on it. This one had a ridge-coded section. The donor slipped it into a central unmarked slot. There was a
brief humming.

“Is there an explanation,” the female voice asked, “as to why said toilet cannot
clean itself?”

The donor took a deep breath. “That I don’t know, ma’am. Some kind of breakdown, I suppose.” The donor brushed a hand clumsily through Watly’s hair. The gesture seemed uncharacteristic of both the donor
and Watly.

There was another short period of humming and then all three cards popped outward. The donor removed them and carefully placed them in the one red case. The emotionless
voice returned.

“Access permitted, Watly Caiper. Standard warning, standard caution, and
standard admonition.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said the donor, still
in character.

“You will be allotted one unmanned copper for escort and surveillance. Have a
pleasant evening.”

The voice clicked off permanently and the tube began to rise. The donor
exhaled slowly.

Watly was going to
Second Level.

CHAPTER 13

I
t was hard for Watly to see much. Most of what he observed was from the edges of his vision. The donor kept their head down and their feet moving. Watly could only get a sense of things—but the sense he got was extraordinary. Fuckable to
the extreme.

The first thing that hit him was the air. The air was different—not just fresher, but
richer
. It was fuller somehow. Cleaner even than he remembered Brooklyn air—but then that seemed so long ago. This air smelled like someone had scrubbed it, dried it, and fluffed it before allowing it to enter any nose. Then Watly noticed the unmanned copper. It was nothing like the coppers on First Level or in Brooklyn. Those coppers were all tarnished and old. They always seemed held together with wire and tape and were invariably dragging some part or other along the ground. This Second Level copper was beautiful. It was so well kept and polished it appeared to be some jewel—some ornate pendant for a giant. Watly had never realized that, under the soot, coppers really
were
copper-colored. This one hovered two feet off the ground and stayed a polite three or four yards away. When the donor moved, it followed behind perfectly, like a faithful pet. Its lenses and sensors were always facing its charge. So were its
gun turrets.

As the donor walked along Watly was overcome with Second Level. He could see so very little, but he could tell he was in another world. Everything was vertical. Vertical to the extreme. Everything was open and clean. There were trees on the sidewalk. Greenness. Watly’s heart felt suddenly full. He couldn’t help it. It was like some wonderland. There were no daylites—just a few streetlights every now and then. It was darker than First Level. Even in this darkness (or perhaps
because
of it) Watly could sense open space above. There was no ceiling to reflect the light back down. Something going up could go up forever. Light, air, sound. Up there was nothing but sky. It had been a long time since he’d seen the sky. Seemed like years and years since Brooklyn. Watly wanted to stop for a moment—just a short moment—so he could look around. And look upward. The donor continued walking briskly, head bent forward, focusing only on the creamy
white sidewalk.

Watly caught visual snatches of buildings to the left and right. Everything he saw was spotless, well kept, and beautiful. There were no tenters, there was no dirt, there was no dripping. Occasionally a person would pass by on foot but the donor never looked up. Watly could see only shoes. Expensive shoes. Perhaps this was protocol: Never look at the face of the wearer of expensive shoes. Watly didn’t know. A sedan passed. With his peripheral vision Watly could see it was a private car. One person owned that car. Incredible.

It was sublimely quiet. Even at this hour First Level was always full of noises—people shouting, buses lumbering past, the hollow echoes following any sound. But here there was serenity. True serenity. Aside from the soft buzz of the copper and the click of the donor’s footsteps, there was
virtual silence.

Everywhere was space. Space up and space out. Watly felt as though the world had suddenly opened up. The sky felt broader than it ever had back home. It was as if he’d just been let out of a box he hadn’t even realized he had been in. He couldn’t help feeling good. He couldn’t help it. If only the donor would look upward as they walked. Watly desperately wanted to see. He wanted to see everything there was to see. Second Level was intoxicating
. I want to stay here,
Watly thought.
Forget everything else—this is what I want. I want the beauty and the solace. I want the peace and the space. Nothing on the CV ever prepared me for this. It’s incredible. Shit—there are
trees
. Healthy trees! And the buildings go
up forever!

“Enjoying our little trip so far, Watly Caiper?” It was the whispered voice again from Watly’s own mouth. “A few more blocks and we’ll be there. Then the
fun begins.”

Watly felt himself snap back from his Second Level reverie. He remembered he was not in the best of circumstances. This was not some tourist trip. “I’d speak louder, Watly,” the donor said, “but I fear our electronic friend has ears as well
as eyes.”

The donor turned down a different street and then turned once again. Watly had totally lost his sense of direction. He had no idea where they were and nothing he saw was familiar. All he could assume was that they were heading to the address mentioned in the tube. If not, Watly supposed, the copper would have given them trouble. The street they were on now was different from the broad avenue. It seemed more residential, more private. Every few steps the donor would sidestep an ornately decorated flying buttress. No two were alike, each pattern and design unique. Watly wondered if these buttresses had any practical function or were just decorative, fashionable. Either way, they were impressive. Either way the street was a fuck and
a half.

The donor stopped in front of a particularly large building, eyes
still downward.

“Here we are, Watly. Home at last.” There was humor in the cold whispered voice. Watly did not like the sound
of it.

The unmanned copper stayed waiting on the sidewalk as the donor mounted the steps to the front door. Watly was amazed to see that the front door was wood. The entire door. It was stained a dark color and polished to a shiny finish. He was impressed. The donor touched it and it opened. It was unlocked. Before entering, the donor gave a jolly wave to the copper. “I won’t be long,” the oily voice said, still with a tinge
of irony.

Just inside the door was a tiny wall keyboard. The donor punched in a series of numbers with one hand and then looked up for the first time since arriving on
Second Level.

There was a small alcove, a short walk down the foyer, and then.
..
wood. Dark brown boards and intricately carved panels gleamed with polish from every direction. Even the floor was wood. And the ceiling, segmented in rectangular patterns of thick wooden beams over crisscrossed light wood. They were now in a huge sitting room. There was a love seat, a full couch, a table, and two chairs—all in real wicker. And a bent-wood rocker. The walls were decorated with portraits of important-looking characters in dark suits. Serious-faced businesswomen and -men. Politicians. It was definitely a rich person’s home. There were heavy, purple floor-to-ceiling curtains covering what probably were enormous windows. At the rear was a huge curving wooden staircase with wooden banisters carved to look like a bird’s wings. Everywhere there was space and more space. Room to run. Room to dance and twirl endlessly. There was no sound at all in the building. Not even creaking from all the wood. The donor stood still for a moment, taking in the room. Or perhaps showing the room
to Watly.

“Not a bad little place, Watly. Don’t you think?” The affected accent was gone and the voice was loud again. Oily loud. Oozing with oily winter. Badness. The donor crossed the room and climbed the
wide staircase.

“I did a little research, Watly Caiper, and would you believe what the first five floors of this building are? What the ‘sewer level’ of this very building is? A crematorium, Watly! Isn’t that incredible? As we speak, bodies are being melted down below us. The fire of Hades. It’s enough to make one believe in hell and heaven, huh?” Watly felt his stomach constrict in a brief spasm of the donor’s laughter. “Don’t worry, Watly. No one can hear us. This is a private home. The only recording lenses here are on the
office levels.”

At the top of the stairs was a broad carpeted hallway. Every few feet there was another wood table with another antique on it. On one was a vase—maybe even from the outerworld, Europe or somewhere. On another table was an old electronic typewriter, then a small bronze sculpture, then a carrying case of some kind. It was like
a museum.

The donor walked down the hall quickly to the last door on the left. It too was solid wood. There was a brass knocker in its center shaped like an open hand. The donor lifted it and knocked once
before entering.

“Here we are, my darling! Honey, we’
re home!”

It was the largest bed Watly had ever seen. It must have been twelve feet square and the canopy rose a good fifteen feet above it. Everything was draped, lacy and white. The bed was the only furniture in the room. It was up against a clean white wall and across from a single window that had its thick shades
drawn tightly.

Lying spread-eagled in the exact center of the bed was a naked form.
A woman.

She was stunning. Breathtaking. She was one of the most physically beautiful women Watly had ever seen in his life. Her head was sunk deep into an enormous pile of pillows to the point where it was almost buried, but Watly could make out long, light brown hair. Her face was angelic, yet strong. She had exquisitely light skin that looked pure and unblemished. Almost too pale. Maybe even sickly pale, like that blond man’s skin
had been
....

Her body was taut and firm-looking. It was an active body. An athletic body. There was no excess anything. Even her feet were striking, delicate and smooth. Tiny blue veins running across them vulnerably. As for her breasts (the donor’s eyes scanned them slowly), they were perfect—full and firm as if she’d just grown them minutes before. As if they’d just swollen out over her ribs ripely. Gravity didn’t seem to have affected her. Even as she lay on her back the breasts pointed up strongly.
Achingly beautiful.

What is it about breasts,
Watly thought,
that’s so damn intoxicating? Why do I love them so? Perhaps that is their purpose. To be loved. Perhaps they are plumage. Meant to attract, to cause an ache. No other mammal has them like us. Mammaries needn’t stick out like that. It serves no function for them to bulge. Not at all. They each say. Touch me, I am beautiful. Cradle me and fondle me and pinch me, I am beautiful. And they are. And these
in particular.

This whole
body
said, Touch me, I am beautiful. She was strikingly touchable. Strikingly beautiful. Fuckable. Fuckable in the literal sense. There was an extreme youthfulness to her entire appearance, though Watly found himself thinking she was older than she looked.
Thirty? Thirty-five? Can’t say
....
The only physical flaw he could see was that her jawline was just a bit too strong. It overpowered her face—her perfect little flip of a nose, her slightly swollen-looking lips, the long lashes, the high cheekbones
....
The jaw was just too firm. Tough. It gave her a sharpness—an edge—she did not otherwise have. Aside from that, she was perfection. Watly wondered if perhaps someone like her
needed
one small flaw in order to reach perfection. Perhaps the definition of physical beauty was a person who had perfect little flaws to accentuate the beauty of the rest of
the body.

The woman’s eyes were closed and her body had not moved at all since the donor
had entered.

And then Watly thought she might be dead. The woman looked dead. There was no movement. And that paleness. Deathly paleness
....
It occurred to Watly that her head was sunken so far back into the mountain of pillows that she could be horribly mutilated without it showing. The back of her head could have been, for all he knew, hacked to bits. It was not a pleasant thought. He did not want to be proven right. Blood and bone and grayish-green pieces of brain. He did not want to see that. The evening had been bad
enough already.

“Nice piece of ass, huh, Watly?” The donor chuckled. “Don’t you worry, now, Watly Caiper. She’s not dead. Not at all. She’s just drugged. She’s out of it.” The donor walked to the bed’s edge and focused on the woman’s rib cage. Sure enough, Watly could see a very gentle rise and fall as she breathed shallowly. “She is not in any pain, I assure you, Watly. It’s all part of the game. You can trust me. The pile of pillows is her throne and she is a queen in repose.
Fear not.”

The donor began to slowly disrobe, eyes always on the woman. Watly was again taken aback momentarily as his body became aroused without him. His organ filled rapidly, rising with each heartbeat. It was weird, but this time it didn’t feel quite as removed as it had with the first donor. The woman was attractive. In some other circumstances—another time, another place—Watly could easily see himself being turned on, incredibly turned on, by just such a woman. Yes, indeed. Who was she? Why was she drugged? The drug must have been a powerful one. Aside from the breathing, she was lifeless. What a strange fantasy for the donor to be living out. A beautiful, lifeless woman. Very beautiful. The erection felt like it wasn’t just the donor’s now. Watly shared it, guiltily.

“Now, let’s have some fun, shall we, Watly Caiper? After this it’s
all downhill.’’

The donor climbed on the bed and—without any fanfare or preparation—began to have intercourse with the motionless woman. To Watly it was a very strange experience. The donor was surprisingly gentle and careful—almost loving—but the woman may as well have been dead. There was moisture down there, something slick and natural-feeling—perhaps a lubricant applied when she’d been drugged in preparation for this bizarre ritual. The wetness made it feel almost normal, as if she too was excited, was aroused. But she was a rag. She was limp, lifeless. There was not a flinch, not a twitch or grunt from her direction. The donor, however, seemed to be enjoying it all immensely. Her inaction did not affect the slow strokes, the loving kisses, or the gentle caresses. There was a tenderness to everything done. The only sound was a moist
slap slap slap
pause
slap slap slap
of the wet joining. It was not at all the way Watly could have expected this donor to have sex. For such a cruel and cold person, this was surprisingly passionate and surprisingly gentle. There was love here, or something close to it. Care.