Level 2

by Lenore Appelhans

  He smiles ruefully, pulls a penciled-in score from the shelf, and sets it on the piano. “Could you play the first few measures for me?”

  I sit down on the bench, brushing my fingers over the keys as I scan over the notes Dad has written for the piano part. Like most of his music, it starts off pleasing and harmonic, utilizing safe major chord structure. But already by the end of the second line, the notes become dissonant and foreign. Dad always says it’s his way of waking up the listener. It works too.

  As I play, he stands right behind me, his foot tapping against the wooden leg of the bench. It’s his usual modus operandi, but today it annoys me. I lose my concentration and flub up a full measure, and am not able to pull it together again. I can’t do this anymore. Can’t go on pretending everything is normal when I feel like my head could explode any minute. “Damn, Dad. Back off, okay?”

  He shuffles backward, and the once light, playful atmosphere turns tense. I stomp my foot, slam down the cover of the piano, and retreat to the sofa to sulk.

  Dad makes a show of being busy at his desk, probably thinking his difficult teenage daughter just needs her space. But really I crave his reassurance. Too bad it’s something I’m too stubborn to admit out loud.

  I stare at him, willing him with all my being to put down his papers and ask me what’s wrong.

  Surprisingly, it works. “What’s wrong, sweet pea?” he asks finally, resting his chin on his knuckles and giving me the perfect concerned-father look.

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  He gets up, comes over to me. “Can I sit down?”

  “It’s your sofa,” I say, more sharply than intended. Why can’t I make it easy for myself to get what I want? What is wrong with me?

  “You seem on edge today,” he says, stating the obvious. “You haven’t been like this since . . .” His eyes flicker with realization. “Are your nightmares getting worse again? Is that it?”

  As an answer I hang my head and cover my eyes with my palms, using my fingers to rub my scalp.

  “I’m so sorry.” He puts his arm around me and pulls me close. I tense at first, but then let him draw me fully into his embrace. He kisses my forehead. “I really thought moving away from Kenya did the trick. You were doing better for so long.”

  “I feel like I’m falling apart,” I say. “To try to avoid the nightmares, I resist sleeping until I collapse. I’m sucking down ten cups of coffee to keep awake every day. I’m annoyed by everything Autumn says. And my grades . . .” I lift my head and look at him with pleading eyes. “Don’t tell Mother . . . but I got a C minus on my Our Town essay.”

  He sighs deeply. He’s not happy about my news, but he can take it. “You know, your mother wasn’t always such an ironfisted taskmaster.”

  “Oh, no. . . .” I groan and cover my ears with my hands. “This isn’t your speech about how Mother used to be such a free spirit, is it? And how I should cut her some slack?”

  He chuckles and starts rubbing my shoulders, humming the Irish lullaby that always soothed me as a child. I let him massage me, and after a few moments I drop my hands into my lap.

  “Okay,” I say grudgingly, blowing out my breath to show him how truly exasperating he is most of the time. “Tell me the story. I know you are dying to.”

  He shifts his position on the sofa so he’s looking at me. “Your mother and I got to know each other in the malaria ward in Dakar. But that’s not the first time I saw her.”

  “It wasn’t?” I sit up straighter. Of course I knew the story of how they met in Senegal. I’d heard a thousand times how they were the only foreign patients in the whole hospital. But I hadn’t heard about a prior sighting. Interesting.

  “Word came to the rural mission school where I taught that a white woman had arrived with the peace corps for an agriculture project a few villages over. And, of course, I was curious.” He grins ruefully. “But I had a lot of responsibilities at the mission, and no mode of transportation, so I sort of forgot about her.”

  He pauses for such a long time, I think he has decided not to tell me after all. “And then?” I prod.

  “About a month later we had a special delivery. Someone in Dakar decided to donate a bunch of used bicycles to the kids at the mission, and there was a lone adult-size bike in the shipment too. Since I was by far the youngest teacher on staff, they let me have it.

  “Saturday came, and I rushed off on my new bike in search of adventure. Naturally I got lost.” He laughs. It’s a well-known fact that Dad has no sense of direction. “As dusk was falling, I happened upon a village. Her village, as it turns out.” He pops his knuckles. It makes me flinch.

  “I heard singing. She had this lilting, otherworldly voice, your mother. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I hid behind a hut and observed her.”

  I interrupt, “You mean you spied on her!”

  He slaps the top of my head affectionately. “You see why I’ve never told you this part before?”

  “Sorry. Please do go on, sir,” I say, in my best imitation of Porter’s haughty British accent.

  “So there I am crouching behind this hut, utterly hypnotized by her song. And then she began to dance. And she was so free. So unburdened. Like she could take flight any second. Yes, I was a goner.” He smiles at the memory.

  “That vision of her awoke something in me. Something restless and wild. And I knew when we ended up next to each other at the hospital in Dakar, fate had brought us together.”

  “I wish I could’ve known her like that,” I say wistfully. I’ve known her only as an uptight disciplinarian who constantly judges me.

  “Maybe you will someday, sweet pea. Maybe you will.” He has this faraway look in his eyes, as if he wishes she were still such a free spirit instead of the hardened career woman she’s become. He gets up, goes over to the piano, and lifts the lid up, his smile full of encouragement. “Do you want to give it another try?” He wants me to be a full-time concert pianist someday, but we both know Mother would never allow it. Despite my talent, and Dad’s place in the classical music world, she has made it clear that playing piano professionally is out of the question. Though her ambition for me to be like her chafes, and I truly love the instrument, I’ve never been all that jazzed about the rigorous practice a musical career would demand.

  “Is it okay if I don’t?” I stretch out my cramped limbs and lie down on the sofa, its buttery softness caressing my cheek. “I’d really, really like to take a nap.”

  “Of course!” He looks pleased as he sorts through his piles of records. He selects one, and soon enough I hear the dulcet strains of Brahms. “Sweet dreams, honey.”

  And for the first time in a long time, I drift off to sleep with a smile.

  When I awaken and see the hologram screen flickering above me, I squeeze my eyes shut again. It always feels so real, reliving these memories. Realer than this place. Normally I come out of my memories in a sort of daze, able to savor the sensations of my life on Earth for a few precious seconds. But no matter how hard I try to hold on to them, these moments slip away, leaving me hollowed out and hungry for more. In Level Two, time is a never-ending burden. In my memories time is weightless and there’s never enough.

  I sit up and pinch my arms, digging in my fingernails, hoping to draw some blood. Because maybe I’m not dead. Maybe I’m dreaming all of this. Maybe I am living my nightmares. But no blood comes.

  I shake off my disappointment and try reaching out to my father with my mind. I gather all my strength and pour it into one thought: Dad smiling at me proudly.

  As if I’ve developed radar, I sense hives and their occupants. But I don’t recognize anyone. And I know instinctively I haven’t been able to reach far enough.

  I shift in my chamber, and I am about to get out, when I hear a tapping followed by Mira’s voice. I freeze and close my eyes again, in case they look over at me.

  “Have you run phase two ops on any of our new high potentials?” Her heels tap against the floor.


  “I did a small sample. They overloaded too.” Phase two ops? Overloaded? I may not know what they’re talking about, but it’s clear it isn’t good. Maybe it’s related to their failure rate.

  “That’s disappointing. Did you try the friend?”

  “No, I’m saving her for last.”

  Are they talking about running ops on Virginia? But they can’t be. Mira said that we could try to pick her up.

  There’s another set of taps followed by Mira’s laughter. “Well, look who decided to join us again.”

  “Maybe we should just leave them alone,” says Julian. His voice is close.

  “And let the Morati keep using them as batteries? Somehow I doubt God will be handing out rewards for that,” Mira scoffs. “Especially not if the Morati succeed in breaking through.”

  “But they do look so peaceful like this.” He reaches out and touches my lips. I snap open my eyes.

  He draws back his hand as quickly as if he had touched a hot poker, and backs away. “Aaah, you’re awake.”

  I slide out of my chamber and salute them. “Drugged-up battery reporting for duty.”

  Julian looks at me sympathetically. “You’re beating it, you know. Soon the Morati won’t be able to use you anymore.”

  “Maybe, but everyone else is still addicted.”

  “That’s why we’re hacking the system, blasting people with scenes from their deaths. Forcing them out of their drowsy numbness,” Eli says.

  I must not have heard him correctly, because what I think Eli just said can’t be possible. “Wait . . . you don’t mean the rebels are responsible for the chambers malfunctioning?”

  Mira raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Of course. What did you think?”

  I’m stunned for a single instant, and then my long simmering anger boils over. “I thought . . . ,” I choke, trying to get the words out, “all these bad things—the malfunctions, Beckah disappearing—were happening because of the Morati. But I was wrong, wasn’t I? You don’t care who you hurt! You’re no better than terrorists!”

  I get up and back away, needing to gain as much distance as I can. It’s imperative that I find Virginia before they do. If they hurt Beckah, they’ll have no problem hurting Virginia, too. Or Neil. Or anyone I care about. Or even me.

  I don’t know who scares me more—the Morati or my supposed allies.

  CHAPTER 12

  I TURN ON MY HEEL and make a break for the door. Praying it works for me, I pound out Neil’s code to open the hive door. Long, long, long. Short, short, long. And I’m out.

  I’m so disoriented by the sudden view of the looming white hives, I forget which way we arrived. But right now I need to run. All I know is that Virginia needs me. And I don’t let my friends down.

  I haven’t gotten far when something slams into me from behind. As I tumble, I’m twisted upward, and I land on top of a human form. The tingling sensation tells me it must be Julian, and I try to fight my way out of his grasp. But he’s too strong.

  “Felicia! Calm down!”

  I let my body go slack, and he loosens his grip. I roll off him and jump to my feet, pulling successfully away.

  “Don’t bother running again,” Julian warns as he gets up, his eyes flashing. “What were you thinking? You’re too weak yet to get far on your own. You can’t even evade me!”

  I throw my arms up. “I knew you were up to no good! How could I be stupid enough to trust you again?”

  “Okay, so maybe I left some of the details out—”

  “Some?” I hiss. “Like you don’t care who gets hurt as long as you get your way?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  I step forward, closer to him than is comfortable, but I want him to feel the full force of my rage. “I am done with you.” I only barely restrain myself from spitting in his face. And then I walk away.

  “You can’t do this.” Julian changes tactics now, a pleading note in his voice. “Going out on your own—against the Morati—it’s suicide! If they catch you, you’ll find out there are worse things than death.”

  I turn and face him. He looks wild. Desperate. “Is that what Beckah found out? Please, just give it up.” I run.

  “I won’t.” He runs beside me. “I can’t.”

  I stop, and he stops too. His expression is so wrecked, a sliver of doubt creeps in. Is it possible he does have my best interests at heart?

  “Why did you get involved with the rebels?”

  He shakes his head wearily. “Look, I know some of the rebels’ methods may seem questionable.”

  “Questionable?” I sputter. “That’s an understatement.”

  “But honestly there are only two sides here: the rebels and the Morati. I know what side I’d rather be on. Do you?”

  “How can you even ask that?” I curl my lips with disgust and start running again.

  He catches up to me in a flash and spins me around. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  There’s a cracking sound. A few white pebbles trickle down the nearest hive and scatter in front of my feet.

  Julian scoops them up and squeezes them to dust in his fist. “Ahh . . . you see? This is another sign that the Morati are weakening. Eli’s ops must be more successful than he thinks.”

  “Better beam him that message,” I say angrily.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you can communicate telepathically with them. Eli told me about him and Mira.”

  He shushes me. “We have to keep quiet. We’re lucky we haven’t attracted any drones.”

  “Then I’d better get going.”

  “Listen, yes we communicate telepathically. We have to. It’s not like there’s wireless reception here.” He extends his hands to me, palms up. “I’m sorry about your friend. You could make a difference, you know. If you stick around, maybe no one else needs to get hurt.”

  And for once he really does sound sorry. “Can I go pick up Virginia? Make sure she’s safe?”

  “It’s not up to me . . .”

  I push him and set off again.

  He catches my wrist. “But we’ll talk to Eli.”

  He’s right about the rebels being the lesser of the two evils. At this point, while I’m still so weak, I need allies, even if I don’t agree with their tactics. Once I’m stronger, if it seems like Virginia is in imminent danger or if I get a good opportunity to slip out, I can always leave. I yearn to break away and never look back, but instead I nod at him grudgingly, and we walk back to the rebels’ hideout.

  Creatures of habit, Eli sits at his workstation and Mira lounges on the sofa in a body-hugging pink leather catsuit that matches her hair. They both greet my return with stony-faced silence, as if they can’t quite believe I’m not 100 percent supportive of their plans.

  Guess it’s up to me to break the ice. “Tell me this. How do you live with yourselves? How can you justify torturing innocent people with memories of their deaths?”

  Mira pats the space next to her on the sofa, an invitation to sit down, which I ignore. “You know the story of the fall? When Lucifer was thrown out of heaven?”

  “Yes, because Lucifer wanted to be more powerful than God.”

  She smirks. “Is that what they’re teaching kids these days?” She reaches behind her for a pillow and then curls herself around it. “When God created Adam in his own image, some angels felt threatened. Though Lucifer and his minions vehemently refused to serve Adam, most angels, including the archangels, voiced their unwavering support for God. But then there were still others who hesitated and said nothing. So what happened?”

  She looks over as if waiting for me to answer.

  When I don’t respond, she continues. “God cast out his dissenters and assigned his supporters the best jobs. The lukewarm ones? He sent them to be thankless caretakers of the afterlife’s waiting room, to serve humanity as a penance for their indecision. He called this third group the Morati, those who delayed.”

  Julian speaks up. “And that’s why the M
orati hate humans enough to trap them and use them to get back at God.”

  “And it is why we have to fight them at all costs,” says Eli.

  “So where do the rebels fit into all of this?” I ask, still not even remotely ready to let my guard down with them yet.

  “The Morati used their collective materialization power to put the net architecture in place. And of course the power they siphon from humans in hives allows them to maintain the net. But some of the Morati were opposed to this abuse,” Mira explains. “As time went on, the dissenters grew more vocal and a group finally splintered off, with the hope of returning Level Two to God’s original purpose.”

  “And that’s where I came in,” says Eli. “I came up with a three-phase plan for defeating the Morati.”

  “Wait.” I shake my head, not quite understanding. “Why you? Why didn’t the rebels who are former Morati come up with the plans?”

  Eli smiles serenely. “They did. Their plan was to find humans who could help them. And that plan was extremely successful, wasn’t it?”

  Ugh. Eli’s so full of himself.

  “So, as I was saying, phase one was a simple system-wide breach program. When I had Julian upload it to the mainframe on a mission to the Morati’s palace, it imprinted whatever memories were being viewed with scenes from the viewers’ deaths. We thought it might push people to confront their bad memories too, get them on the path toward moving on.”

  That explains why my Neil memory on the church camping trip ended in glass shards and pain instead of the real way it ended. And why Beckah’s animal shelter memory suddenly switched over to the one of her death. That jolt we all felt when we thought the system malfunctioned was part of the rebels’ plan. A horrible thought occurs to me.

  “But wait, those memories aren’t permanently damaged, are they?”

  “They better be. Whenever the viewer tries to access the imprinted memory, he should be confronted again with his death. It is the purpose of the program.” Eli’s answer is like an ice pick straight through my heart.

  I shake my head in denial. I can’t bear to think that one of my favorite Neil memories will be lost to me. Sure, it’s still in my head now—that’s how I even know it’s ruined—but without my ability to retrieve it and relive it anytime I want to, sooner or later it will fade into oblivion. “How could you?” I punch the pillow Mira’s holding in front of her, and she recoils in surprise. “You all are the worst allies in the whole . . . universe.”