Levels: The Host Read Online Free PDF Page B

looked on enviously. The Firsters with their tattered, dirty clothing, unkempt hair, gaunt faces, and generally slumped shoulders stared at the special ones but kept a polite distance. These descending ones were the chosen few. Next best thing to Level Lottery winners, they lived below, yes, but they worked above. Every terradamn day they were up in the sun. Watly smiled to himself. He’d be perfectly happy staying on First Level all his life as long as he could get his dream. Make that his “calling.” Watly’s smile broadened. That was all he wanted. A baby. A little life to help along. This was the only important thing, the only thing worth caring about. Mothering.
    He was a few blocks from Uncle Narcolo’s place. He wondered if he should use his advance money to pick up some expensive tidbit for dinner. A surprise. Bird meat, even. No, Narcolo Caiper would already have a complete meal waiting. The man loved to cook. He could do culinary wonders on minimal retirement pay, plus whatever he had socked away in savers.
    Instead, Watly settled on picking up a good bottle of booze for forty bucks. As an afterthought, he returned to the store and bought another one. This was a night to celebrate.
    He tucked one bottle under each arm and strolled on, thinking of children. A police cruiser zipped by, cutting close to him, and Watly had to jump back to avoid its fender. He lost his grip on one of the bottles and it fell. Some passing woman dove and grabbed it just before it hit the street. Great reflexes. She handed it back to him smiling, her eyes dark and shiny beneath the hood of her threadbare cloak. Watly smiled back. “Thanks,” he said. She raised a fist in the air at him, as if in a secret signal or salute.
    “California,” she whispered, and walked off.

CHAPTER 3
    L ittle Uncle Narcolo was bustling about in the kitchen, chopping things into pieces and tossing them in pots on the stove. His wrinkled features were tight with concentration.
    “Oh, good, Watly. Oh, good. Perfect timing. Just perfect. Couldn’t’ve asked for better. Things’ll be ready in just—almost perfect timing, Watly. A few more minutes and we’ll sit down to a—be ready in a few minutes, Watly. You have a seat and put your feet up.”
    Watly smiled. Uncle Narcolo had tidied the one-room apartment since Watly had left early that morning. The six worn cushions were neatly lined up on the couch with careful symmetry. All the leafs and books were back on the shelves or stacked carefully in the coffee table. The music tubes were in their holders. All the clothes had been picked up and put away someplace—probably folded. The old cable-vidsatt and the keyboard looked freshly dusted. Narcolo Caiper was always keeping himself busy. Even when he didn’t have something to do, he’d find something to do. There was a certain charm to the old guy’s frenetic, obsessive cleanliness. The only place in the apartment that didn’t look freshly swabbed was the kitchen area—and that was currently in use. It too would be spotless eventually. In the living area, the faded chromells depicting glamorous Second Level Life were bright with polish. Even the windows looked like they’d been wiped down—which was silly because they were sealed up from the outside. Narcolo had a front apartment near street level (down four short steps), and so it was safer to seal the windows with placene sheeting than leave them exposed. Watly had commented on it when first arriving and Narcolo had snapped at him for being naive.
    “Besides,” the old man had said, “you tell me what I’ve got to look at out there. Someday, when I win the Level Lottery and I’m living in luxury on Second Level, then I’ll have windows. Windows are for nothing here, kiddo.” That was the end of that conversation.
    Watly set the two bottles on the coffee table and sank comfortably into the couch. He watched Uncle Narcolo dance around the kitchen, adding dashes of this and touches of