Levels: The Host

by Peter Emshwiller

  “Just a moment. Just a moment. I am receiving a communication—”

  “Forget the raping communication! It’s supposed to be hard to get up here—not to leave!” Watly felt desperation rising in his belly.

  “I have a special bulletin and a positive face print. You are Watly Caiper. I have confirmation from unmanned copper Welter-One-One. You are a high-priority death-imperative criminal—”

  “You’ve got the wrong man, ma’am.”

  “I have orders to hold on Second until you can be removed from this structure.”

  Watly felt himself trembling. “You have got to lower this tube to First!”

  The bland female voice did not respond. The lens stared blankly at Watly, waiting with infinite patience.

  There was a pause in the pounding from outside. The copper was reloading and repositioning. Watly wondered if it was worth making a run for it. He was about to try it when the chip guns opened up again. At first there was only the loud thud coming from a different side, but then there was a popping sound and Watly felt something whiz by his right cheek. He crouched and rolled back on his rear as sparks flew and the central circular light exploded. A slug must have broken through the tube’s skin. Everything sounded louder now. Watly stayed down as the pounding continued. There was a sound like static from the front of the tube and sparks still danced off the ruptured slot board. Watly covered his head. He smelled burning plastic.

  “Face forward, please,” the female voice said again, only now it sounded distinctly sluggish. A piece of metal dangled and fell off the board.

  Watly stayed on the floor. Another slug got in and ricocheted crazily for a second before stopping. “I am facing forward,” Watly lied, shouting.

  “I’m sorry.” The female voice sounded almost drunk now. “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you going to take me down now?” Watly yelled over the din.

  “I’ll... I’ll need your cards first.”

  “You have my cards,” Watly said. “You’ve had them for ages!”

  “Oh, yes... my apologies. And what is... what is your reason for leaving Second Level?”

  Watly kept both arms crossed over his head for protection and curled himself into an almost fetal ball. “I’m being chased by Watly Caiper! Watly Caiper the criminal! You just confirmed it yourself!” he yelled.

  “Oh, yes... well, then, we must get you down there rapidly. Yes... we must. The man is a murderer.”

  Watly heard a loud creak and the scrape of metal on metal and then the floor shifted as the tube eased downward. He was going home.

  CHAPTER 16

  When Watly stepped out of the tube onto Third Avenue between Sixty-third and Sixty-fourth streets he knew he was in deep catshit. One quick look told him that. In either direction he looked—uptown or downtown—he could see cruisers, manned and unmanned coppers, and even foot patrol officers all converging on the tube from the distance. Word was out. First Level police must have just been contacted. The response was extraordinary. You’d think I killed the Chancellor or something, Watly thought.

  The minute they saw him they began moving in even more rapidly. Watly sprinted across the avenue. He knew they couldn’t shoot yet without fear of hitting each other. There wasn’t a single pedestrian or tenter in sight on the avenue. Nobody. Watly ran to the corner and dashed down Sixty-third toward Second Avenue, praying there wouldn’t be more cops waiting there. He heard the loud buzz as the cruisers and coppers sped after him. Tons of police. Tons of weapons. Tons of vehicles. It wouldn’t take them long to catch him at this rate. No contest. None. Watly neared the corner of Second Avenue, running as hard as he could, arms pumping. The crowd of cars and people chasing him began firing. The report of chip pistols echoed loudly. Lots of them. All at once. Watly ran. A hiding place? A hiding place? Slugs zinged against the street and Watly could see the bolts from the haver nerve guns out of the corner of his eye.

  Damn! Not the nerve guns. Anything but a nerve gun. If I have to die, Watly thought frantically, I’d rather die from a slug.

  He tried to run in an unpredictable pattern, dodging and weaving, varying his gait. Back and forth. He passed closed gates and sealed windows on either side. No cover. The clicks of a hundred cop shoes behind him—a raping sea of cops and coppers. Watly stumbled, almost falling. Another chip volley was fired and the slugs landed dangerously close. Thuds against the pitted road. Watly could feel the rush of air against his body that meant they’d missed by inches. Less than inches. Too close. Gimme a place. A place to go. Safe place. Where are the raping people?

  The slugs were thudding loudly into the pavement next to him well before the actual sounds of the guns firing those same shots reached him. First, thud, then crack from the weapons. Thud... crack. Thud... crack.

  I’m not going to hear the shot that kills me, Watly thought as he dodged, until after I’m hit with it. There’s something unfair in that.

  Just as he began to round the corner he was confronted by another manned copper coming from the other direction. Face-to-shocked-face. They almost collided with each other. The surprised officer reached off the moving copper and grabbed at Watly’s vest. He held a chip pistol in the other hand and Watly struggled to keep it pointed away. They fought for it. The only thing keeping the copper in place was Watly’s own body. The machine strained to continue forward but Watly’s feet were planted and his body leaned inward. The copper’s engine ground loudly in protest as Watly wrestled with the man on top. The machine rocked and whined. Watly could hear the squeal of the other vehicles approaching rapidly from behind him. As if in surrender, he let the officer’s gun hand go free, but in the same instant—with a burst of energy—pulled the man right out of the seat by the shirt collar. They both fell clear and Watly heard the gun clatter on the sidewalk somewhere nearby. The newly freed copper bolted forward like an out-of-control rocket. Watly just had time to see the surprised faces on the pursuing officers as the copper plowed into them. There was a loud crash followed by a tremendous explosion of fuel. Watly rose quickly and glanced around for the gun. The officer he’d dethroned was out of it altogether now, groaning like he was having a nightmare. Watly saw the gun behind an upright and grabbed it up quick, running off down Second Avenue.

  The confusion and fire would only hold them off a moment. Watly had to make it count. He continued down the avenue, his lungs straining for more air than they could hold, the gun feeling strange and foreign in his hand. Any second and the cops would resume the chase. Backups would be called. Traps would be positioned. There were people on this avenue. Thank terra for people. Watly navigated his way around a few tents and practically stepped on a bum.

  “Hey, watch it, boss!”

  His legs were sore from exertion and on the verge of cramping up. Watly wasn’t used to running like this. He was going all-out, running for his life. His calves began to throb painfully. His knees ached. There were a lot of tenters and bums all along the street, mostly asleep—or pretending to be. Watly stumbled again, stepping sideways to keep from falling. He knew he couldn’t keep up this pace. He’d drop soon. Everything was weakening. The body was giving up. He slowed down and finally stopped altogether and leaned into a girder, heaving and bent over. It was good to stop. Good to breathe again. Looking back at the avenue from behind the upright, Watly could see the distant lights of the approaching police. They were back in the hunt. Regrouped and recovered.

  Watly didn’t have many options. He looked down at the pistol in his hand. It was a heavy weapon. The grip was plasticore but the rest was metal. He could try to fight them off, but that would be foolish. The odds were way against him, and anyway, he had no experience with shooting. Even if he had it would be of little use. They’d keep coming. They’d always keep coming. He had no chance with the gun.

  Watly could see the police lights reflecting brilliantly off the slick surface of the First Level ceiling. Th
ey were not arriving very fast. The cops were moving slowly now. They’d temporarily lost their prey. Watly guessed that since there was no movement up ahead, they were making sure they missed nothing. Odds were that they were rousting every sleeper and searching every tent in their path, while keeping their eyes open for a fleeing Watly Caiper ahead.

  Watly looked around him. From a nearby tent there was a soft glow. A few bums lay sleeping next to it. Watly stuck the gun in his back vest loop where it would be hidden. He took a second to make up his mind and then went over to the nearest bum, crouching low. He gripped the man’s wrinkled jacket at the shoulder and shook.

  “Mister... mister. Wake up.”

  “Uh,” the man said. His face was filthy. Underneath the dirt, the features were aged and leathery.

  “Mister, do you want to make one hundred New York dollars?”

  Suddenly the man was wide awake. “One hundred? One hundred?” His cheeks expanded. “What’s the catch?”

  “Here’s the money.” Watly fished in the pocket of the workervest for his money. There was a moment of panic as he thought perhaps the donor never transferred it. But no. It had been with the identicard all along. Watly drew out the bill.

  “What’s the catch, boss?” The bloodshot eyes narrowed. “This about California? ‘Cause if it’s about California—”

  “Forget California. Nothing to do with it. All you got to do is run. Can you run?”

  “I can run like a demon. That it? Just run?”

  “When I say so, I want you to run as fast as you can down the avenue. That direction. If I’m right, some cops’ll chase you. Stay at the side of the street. Stay near people. No one will hurt you if you stay where it’s crowded. You understand? When you get tired, stop and turn around. Let them see your face and you’ll be okay.” Watly handed the man the bill. “If they catch you before you get tired, turn around anyway. Let them see you. Make sure they see your face and you’ll be fine.”

  “You in trouble, boss?”

  “You might say that, yes.”

  The bum sniffed. “Maybe it’s worth more.”

  Watly snatched the bill back. “Maybe I’ll find someone else to do it.”

  The bum’s lips twitched and then he grabbed the money back with a greasy hand. “Just asking, just asking. I’ll do your running for you. Wanna swap clothes?”

  Watly glanced at the man’s outfit. “Let’s not go overboard,” he said. “There’s no time anyway. The running alone will have to do it.”

  “Sure this ain’t about California, boss?”

  “I said it wasn’t, terradammit!” Watly looked up the street. Time was wasting.

  “Okay, okay!” The bum stood up. “ ‘Cause if it had been—” he brushed clouds of dirt off his pants, “if it had been, I’d’a done it for free.”

  By now the cops were only about twenty yards away. Watly could see their faces clearly. They were angry. The explosion and Watly’s subsequent escape had not pleased them. This did not disturb Watly. It encouraged him. He was hoping their anger would make them sloppy. Watly patted the bum on the rump. “You’re on, fella!” he said, and then he scrambled back into the shadow of the girder as the bum lumbered down the road.

  Watly could hear the cruisers and coppers rev up as they caught sight of the running figure. The old bum was doing his best at running—staggering along at a slow pace near the curb, his tattered smock billowing out behind him. Watly made out the sound of clipped orders being exchanged as the police moved out rapidly. As Watly had suspected, they were drawn to the movement. He hoped they would all assume the man was a disguised Watly Caiper fleeing. Watly shrunk down against the damp girder, becoming as small and insignificant as he could.

  The parade of police neared and started passing. A few of the cruisers were badly charred and dented from the explosion. Undoubtedly some had been put out of commission entirely. Watly could clearly make out the front-running officers riding their coppers with guns raised. One was even standing up. It was time for Watly to take off now. But he didn’t. Not yet. Not yet.

  Up ahead the bum was stumbling now, losing his balance and careening back and forth. Every lump and pothole tripped him up. Okay, enough, Watly thought. Time to turn around, old fellow. You’ve done fine.

  But the bum was still trying valiantly to keep his pace up. His legs looked wobbly and about to give way under him. Watly knew he should take this moment to run the opposite way. The police were misdirected. Their attentions were elsewhere. It was perfect. But he couldn’t flee. The bum thing was not working right. Something was wrong. Really wrong. Watly sensed something horrible was about to happen. Don’t push it, friend, Watly thought. You’ve earned your money. Turn around and let them see you’re not me.

  The leading coppers had almost caught up with the bum. The old guy stumbled once again and regained his balance by cross-stepping sideways toward the center of the street. He looked ready to drop. Get to the side, Watly thought. Get out of the center. Turn around.

  As if he could read Watly’s thoughts, the old bum slowed and began to turn, his face in a broad grin. Watly could see the standing officer in the front copper leveling his weapon. The man never paused. There was a blinding flash as the cop released the bolt from his nerve gun. Its tail streaked down the street and stuck the bum in the center of the chest. There was a shriek. The old man lit up—brightening the whole scene—and in a split second his body was lifted clear off the ground spread-eagled. Watly could see the surprise and agony in the man’s face as he landed hard on his back with a loud thud. The charge burned into the man’s chest, climbing up his spinal cord toward the brain. Beneath the rags, his torso was glowing. The screaming grew louder. His hands scrabbled uselessly on the pitted street next to him. For another moment his face became a mask of pain—unbelieving, astonished, intolerable pain. Spittle flew from his mouth as his head flopped side to side. The screams grew louder still. Impossibly loud. And then... and then he died. No more screams. No more pain. The whole thing had taken hardly ten seconds, but it was an excruciatingly long ten seconds. It was the longest ten seconds there ever was. Watly watched it all in horror. They’d killed the bum. Brutally and violently. Without bothering to see if it was really Watly or not. Watly was responsible. He might as well have fired the gun himself. I didn’t figure they would, he thought. I thought they’d see. Just some misdirection. Just some extra time. Oh, rape, maybe I did figure. Maybe... maybe I knew....

  The officer who’d shot the old man made the police victory salute and jumped off the copper to inspect the now smoldering body. They’ll see it isn’t me, Watly thought. They already know.

  People were stirring. Many tenters and bums had been awoken by the noise. Those who had been roused already moved in closer. The whole street woke up. Watly saw lights go on inside tents near him and heard the rustling as people moved about. A few yawning figures emerged from the tents and strained to get a view of the body. A crowd of tenters and bums and even a few apartment people began to gather around the police.

  Watly didn’t know what to do. He’d lost his chance to flee. The old man’s running had, after all, not even served its purpose. The misdirection was lost. Watly had frozen up. The man had died for nothing and now Watly was back where he started. But with a death on his conscience. I honestly didn’t want that, Watly thought. I honestly thought they wouldn’t hurt him. That they wouldn’t take the chance. Oh, shit.

  The gathering crowd was large now and people were whispering questions about what might have happened. “California?” “Is it California?” “Is it starting?”

  Watly slowly stood up. A nearby tenter crawled out of her tent to join the excitement. Watly slid in beside her and they walked together toward the circle of people. He knew running would do no good now. He’d stick out like a blue bean and it would just be a matter of time before they caught up to him. He had no running left in him, anyway. He ha
d just killed someone, really.

  As Watly surreptitiously joined the crowd, the cops began to try to break it up.

  “Okay, folks,” one female officer said. “Move along, now. Back to bed. Nothing happened here.” She was standing high on a cruiser’s roof, motioning everyone away. People mumbled, but few moved. “Move it, folks,” she said now, her voice harsher.

  Watly could see the officer’s trained eyes scanning the crowd carefully as she spoke. The cops were looking for him still. All of them. Staring at each face in the throng of people. Watly squatted down some and looked up between shoulders and heads.

  “Come on, people. Just a dead bum. That’s all.”

  She and the others waved the people away with their weapons. It was half gentle wave, half threat. Some of the crowd began to move on. Most just shuffled and mumbled louder. Watly got an idea. He got a crazy idea.

  “Back to bed now,” the cop said, pointing with her gun toward the nearby tents and apartments. A few voices were raised. “What happened?” “What’d the bum do?” “What’s going on?”

  Watly watched how the officer was using the weapon to gesticulate with more and more. He kept his eyes focused on her gun as he reached around back and slipped the chip pistol from his vest. It was cold and dry in his hands. He held it close to his body and pointed it upward—toward the First Level ceiling. The damn thing sure was heavy. Heavy and cool. He gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger. The explosion rocked him backward with its force. His ears rang. The crowd was stunned into silence, looking for the source of the gunshot. Watly held his head down and shouted at the top of his lungs. “They mean to kill us all! It’s a massacre!” Watly squeezed the trigger again and the slug struck the daylite overhead. It exploded in a shower of sparks. The crowd was thrown into darkness. Lucky shot, Watly thought. There were panicked screams and shouts and the whole group began to run frantically in all directions. Bodies banged into one another. It was a crazy, aimless stampede.