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
Watly 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 alr
eady 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.
CHAPTER 31
A lot of things can go through a person’s mind in a fraction of a second. When the pressure’s on, a fraction of a second is an enormous length of time, mentally speaking. Life slows down under stress, and the brain goes into overdrive.
Watly’s brain shifted into just that mental high gear as the enormous vehicle approached with Narcolo’s face up behind its windshield. He thought at first his uncle had gone crazy. Stark raving mad. The old man wanted to kill Watly for some reason. Wanted to kill him before the state could—smash into him and crush his body with the huge machine. Why, uncle? Why? But there was no insanity in the determined eyes. There was complicity. The eyes said: Here I am, my friend. Here I am, kiddo! It was obvious Narcolo saw himself as the cavalry, coming dramatically to the rescue in the nick of time. But how? By mowing down the one he intended to rescue?
And then, a split second before the bus reached him, just as Ogiv Fenlocki dove to safety, Watly felt a familiar rhythm. A rhythm from his youth. A long-forgotten ritual. Narcolo had a plan after all. Narcolo knew Watly—the old man knew the young one’s past. Well enough, at least. He’d thought the problem through. Yes, the angle was wrong. And yes, the bus was going much too fast, and yes, the street was too crowded—but still... it could be done.
Uncle Narcolo had plans. Watly was expected to go shin-scrimming. Shin-scrimming like he was a daredevil kid again.
Shin-scrimming for his life.
The movement came back to him. Watly sidestepped the bus at the last minute, twirling out on one foot, and reached up a hand, waiting for the cylinder loop to take him. It did—incredibly quickly—one tremendous jerk and Watly thought his arm was being wrenched out of the socket. The bus had him—he was flying along, pinned to the side, one arm on the loop of the blazing cylinder and the other flailing. His legs were bent, toes pointed, as his knees and calves bounced and scraped along the rough road surface. I’m taller now, he thought to himself absurdly. My legs are long, so this is harder.
There was a loud burst of gunfire from behind. The bus swerved evasively but the sound of slugs rupturing metal still reached Watly’s ears. He could do nothing to hide his body. He felt naked and vulnerable. The bus was racing up the avenue, turning from side to side. Another round of tunk tunk tunk as the slugs hit nearby. And then a bad pain came to Watly. Not from the shin-scrimming. No—that would be scraped knees and shins. It was a slicing pain in his left arm—the loose one. A slug had got him, gone clear through his upper arm. His vision blurred. The pain echoed outward from his arm and rippled over his whole body. Burning pain. Ripping pain. More slugs clanked into the bus. Someone was in hot pursuit, probably racing along just yards behind. Tunk tunk tunk thud. Another pain. This one in his side. A slug in the side. How bad was it? Pain now and lots of it. The arm, the side, the shin-scrimming knees... his body was going. How bad? How bad was it? Maybe just a flesh wound in the side. Just surface. Could be just that. But the arm was bad.
The bus turned wildly and headed down another street. As Watly was jostled and bounced through the turn he caught a glimpse of what was following. No cops—just two unmanned coppers. Apparently it had all happened too fast for the police— they’d been left in the dust. But the coppers were right behind— right behind all the way, putting holes in the bus. And in Watly.
This side street was narrower so the coppers couldn’t come up alongside. They continued firing, though, and the slugs landed real close. You can’t lose these guys, Uncle, Watly thought. They’ll stick with us till we’re both dead.
Something wet was dripping down his arm and his side. He wanted to believe it was fuel from the cylinder. Or maybe drips from above. That’s all he let himself think. He felt dizzy and a little sick.
The coppers fired again and Watly could feel Narcolo strain the old bus’s frame by bringing the speed up even more. The shin-bouncing was almost too much to fight against.
I’m too old for this shit, Watly thought. This is ridiculous. I’ve had just about enough. After all the crap I’ve been through, and now they’ve got me shin-scrimming like some pre-pubescent with a death wish. Shot, no less. Arm and side. I’m a real mess. And the raping machines keep on shooting. Shoot shoot shoot. Give me a break.
Tunk tunk tunk—the metal ruptured with ragged slug holes near Watly’s head. Oh, good, he thought. Get me in the brain where it won’t do any damage. A fine idea. And Uncle, how about slowing down to the speed of sound? What do you think?
Uncle Narcolo did slow down. He did more than that. He slammed on the brakes. Slammed them so hard Watly’s body flew up totally horizontal, his arm still hooked in the ring. His side smashed painfully into the top of the cylinder and then he was jerked back the other way—this time by a tremendous double crash as the coppers plowed into the back of the bus. They both exploded on im
pact and pieces of metal went flying in all directions. Flames lashed out angrily from the rear of the bus.
Watly hung from the one arm, totally limp. The bus wasn’t moving anymore—it had thumped down to the road surface, dead. The nearby fire was warm, so very warm. Comfortable, really. Just close enough to toast the skin. Watly felt himself slipping into a pleasant daze.
His mother’s voice was there. “Caring for others,” she was saying, “is caring for yourself. If you don’t care for yourself, you can’t fight for others. That’s the trick, Watly. Be selfish. Be selfish and the love of self will spread to the love of others.”
Had she really said that? Watly didn’t know. It’s all catshit. All damn catshit. Watly was tired and warm. So warm. Burning and burning like in that baby-dream....
And then there were arms around him, helping him out of the loop. He was loose again. The same arms guided him away from the burning bus. Leave me. I like it here.
It was Narcolo. Weak little old Narcolo Caiper, practically carrying his nephew to safety. Uncle Narcolo: the strong one. And then there was a loud boom and an increased billow of warm air at their backs. A summer breeze. Narcolo led Watly to the side of the street and up on the sidewalk. Their shadows flickered from the fire behind them.
A nearby building—three or four limps away—had basement steps. As was customary, the basement was sealed but, crouching low, they could climb into the space under the front stairs and hide in the trash there. They did that, and Watly let himself collapse on a pile of smelly clothes there in the shadows. A few cats scampered off fearfully. Hey, kitties!
Narcolo knelt over him and ripped at Watly’s bloody jacket to see how bad he was hit.
“It looks here...” the old man whispered, “looks here like they got you. Shot at you, kiddo. Got you good. Side’s not too bad. Looks to me—to my eye—like it’s just on the edge. Slug skimmed right along by you, really. Gave you a kiss and went away. But that arm. That’s nasty, kiddo. A nasty wound there.”
Levels: The Host Page 25
