The Leveller

  “Sorry,” he says, the sheepish grin back on his face. “They always get away from me, initiating their return frequencies before I can even talk to them. So I guess you could say I was trying a more . . . forceful technique.”

  “Yes, I could say.” I swat him again on the arm to let him know I’m kidding. Then I silently chastise myself for reverting to first grade. Why do I keep hitting him?

  “Did you ever consider that shooting me yesterday might simply have reset me back to the Landing?”

  Wyn nods. “It was a risk, but I had nothing to lose. I figured if I couldn’t shoot myself back home, maybe no one else could get back that way either. Besides, I wasn’t really going to aim at your head. I figured I’d just pop you in the leg and maim you if you got out of hand.”

  I bite my lip, but I know I’m smiling anyway. “So where do these non-Meeple people usually hang out?” I ask, tucking my hands under my arms to keep them from touching him.

  Wyn gives me a sideways look. “Usually they just follow me.”

  I stop then and whip my head around. If these rasshøls are the ones responsible for this mess, I’ve got a few choice words for them. After I knock their teeth out, of course.

  “How can we draw them out from the—?” I start, but just then something lurches beneath my feet and I nearly fall into Wyn. The stone seawall begins to buck and tremble like we’ve been hit by a magnitude seven earthquake. Wyn grabs my arms and tries to steady me, though it doesn’t do much good. We’re both flailing around like first-timers trying to couples skate at the roller rink.

  “Don’t be—” Wyn yells, but he’s cut off by a deafening roar.

  “BRRRAAAAAOOOKKKK!”

  A piercing squawk bellows from the sea. A huge, slimy, saucer-eyed head emerges from the water, its gaping beak lined with a thousand dagger-like teeth. The beast rises higher and higher, lifting four huge flailing tentacles out of the water. It doesn’t take a genius to know it’s got four more where those came from. A freaking kraken has just come to call on Havana.

  “BRRRAAAAAOOOKKKK!” it screams again, then charges the seawall.

  “Nixy—” Wyn yells, but before he can go on, the kraken extends a hoary purple tentacle and snatches Wyn right off the wall.

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God is all that goes through my head.

  Finally, I snap my gaping mouth shut and yell, “Inventory!” I have no idea what to use against a kraken. Laser gun? Crossbow? The monster’s skin looks to be made of hard scales, completely impenetrable.

  Wyn is still screaming at me, though I can’t make out the words. The kraken starts to bring Wyn toward its toothy beak. “Fy fæn,” I mutter, then load the crossbow and take aim. I try to zero in on one of its milky eyes, though the beast keeps moving, making it nearly impossible to target. “Steady,” I tell myself, finger on the trigger. My crosshatch finds a big liquid pupil, and I start to squeeze.

  “Nooooooo,” yells Wyn.

  No what? I’ve lost the shot now. What is he screaming about?

  “Nixy, don’t shoot,” he yells again.

  What? I lower the crossbow in disbelief. It looks like the kraken is . . . hugging Wyn to his cheek? Wyn strokes him and says something over and over again . . . something that sounds suspiciously like “Good boy. There’s a good boy.”

  Finally, the kraken paddles over to where I’m standing and gently replaces Wyn on the seawall. Wyn gives me a goofy grin.

  I am not amused.

  “What the hell is that?” I ask, pointing my loaded crossbow at the kraken. The beast is now bobbing in the water next to us, waving its tentacles around like it wants to play.

  “That’s Larry. Watch this,” he says, summoning a nearby fruit vendor with a whistle. Wyn quickly buys a bunch of bananas, then winds up and starts pitching them one by one at the kraken.

  I have to admit, Larry’s a pretty good outfielder. When he’s caught a banana in each tentacle, he does what can only be described as a little happy dance—a few giddy spins, a couple of head bobs—then waves to us in farewell before sinking back into the deep.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I say. “And here I’ve been admiring your devotion to historical accuracy, when all this time you’ve had a pet kraken floating around?”

  Wyn laughs. “Sorry I forgot to warn you about him. Every now and then I get a bit bored trying to re-create the real Havana, so I throw in a few extras to amuse myself.”

  “I see. Any other . . . extras I should know about before I kill them by mistake?”

  Wyn grins. “None as alarming as Larry. I’ll try to give you a heads-up next time.”

  “I would appreciate that. Now let’s figure out a way to ambush those intruders. I have a few tricks up my sleeve that may help.”

  “Tricks up your sleeve? Oh, don’t you sound like Nancy Drew,” Wyn teases, his eyes twinkling.

  I resist the urge to swat his arm again. “Just take me somewhere we can make a plan—someplace we won’t find any Meeple, or hideous sea monsters who think they’re golden retrievers.”

  “I know just the place. This way,” he says, and holds out his hand to me.

  The hand flusters me. I want to take it, but I’m also embarrassed by it. He’s already saved me from careening off the seawall during the Larry episode. I don’t want him to think I’m some little girl who can’t take care of herself.

  I fought sharks to get here, damn it. I’m the rescuer, not him.

  I pretend I don’t notice the hand. “Lead on,” I say.

  He quickly drops his hand and turns his head. He shoves his fists into his pockets and starts walking briskly away from me. Great. Maybe we should both go back to first grade.

  Neither of us talks as we head back down the busy Havana streets. There are Meeple everywhere. At first I try to scrutinize everyone within eyesight, but Wyn is walking too fast, and besides, I don’t know what I’m looking for.

  Finally, we turn down a residential street that looks familiar, only in the daytime it’s even prettier. I wish the houses back in Illinois were this colorful.

  “You’re taking me back to the wardrobe house?” I ask, when I finally catch up to Wyn at the doorway. I’m relieved to see it hasn’t been absorbed by the hideous Blob I released last night, though I’m still not sure we should go back in.

  “It’s the one place I know we’ll be alone,” he says. “Don’t worry, we won’t go upstairs,” he adds, guessing my thoughts. The warmth has gone out of his eyes and voice, but he is still kind, still polite as he enters the house first. “It’s the only building in Havana where Meeple aren’t allowed.”

  I think of the girl’s bedroom upstairs, the one I’ve destroyed. The one I thought belonged to some virtual girlfriend.

  Only Meeple aren’t allowed inside this house.

  “Oh,” I say, unable to suppress the surprise in my voice.

  He glances at me as we walk through the first floor of the house. “I thought you’d have it all figured out by now, Nancy Drew.”

  I try not to get riled by the sarcasm in his voice.

  We enter a walled patio at the back of the house. The whitewashed stone walls are covered with greenery and flowers, and a water fountain burbles in the middle of a small sitting area. Wyn gestures for me to have a seat on one of the iron benches.

  “This is a replica of my grandmother’s old house,” he says quietly, sitting on the next bench over.

  “Mama Beti’s?”

  Wyn nods. “She and her family left Havana just before the Revolution in ’59. Mama Beti was fifteen. They had to leave everything behind. And then they never got to go back.”

  Shame washes over me. “That was her bedroom,” I say. I don’t have to ask, I know I’m right.

  “Yes.”

  “Has she been here yet? Has she seen it?”

  Wyn shakes his head. ??
?Not yet. She hasn’t had the frequency procedure.”

  I look down at the ground, unable to look him in the eye. I am an idiot. “I’ll help you rebuild her room, Wyn, as soon as we get out of here. I promise.”

  “It’s okay, the repairs shouldn’t be too difficult once we’re out,” he says, looking down at his hands. “Besides, it’s not an exact replica. I don’t have much to work with other than Mama Beti’s memories and a few old photographs.”

  “Does she know you’re doing this?”

  “She knows I’m up to something because I ask her questions constantly. But I still think she’ll be surprised. I hope she likes it.”

  I stare into his eyes, hoping to relay the depth of my words. “It’s beautiful here, Wyn. How could she not be thrilled to see her childhood home again?” I stop then, remembering Mama Beti’s metal walker. “How will that work? I thought only healthy people could get the MEEP piercing . . . heck, there are kids at my school who aren’t allowed to get pierced because they’re on allergy medication.”

  Wyn smiles, and I’m glad to see his face look happy again. “That’s the truly amazing part. My father has some medical scientists in Belgium working on a special frequency for her. If all goes well, she’ll be one of the first disabled people to ‘walk’ in the MEEP. And it’s not just Mama Beti . . . these researchers are working on technologies that would eventually allow people with all sorts of physical limitations to experience a healthy body in the MEEP. Not only will the lame be able to walk, but the blind will be able to see. Old people can feel young again.”

  “Wow,” I say, sitting back onto the bench. “I had no idea your dad was involved in that kind of research.”

  “He keeps it all pretty top secret . . . doesn’t want to let the cat out of the bag until all the tests have been done, all the questions answered.”

  I’m stunned. Maybe Diego Salvador isn’t such a bad guy after all. “And here I thought the MEEP was just one big money grab . . . no offense.”

  “Actually, my father spends a lot of his profits from the gaming side of the MEEP on private medical research. When you think about all the diseases and disabilities out there . . . virtual reality could relieve the suffering of millions, maybe billions of people on this planet.”

  Wyn is more animated than I’ve ever seen him, now that he’s warmed to his topic. And I have to admit, I’m pretty blown away by this news—the idea that the MEEP can be more than just a virtual rec center for bored teens.

  “I mean, think of all the educational opportunities out there, especially once the multiplayer capabilities are released to the public,” he continues. “Imagine the virtual museums that historians could create. Teachers could take their students on field trips to ancient Egypt or Machu Picchu during the height of the Incan empire . . . professors could lecture inside the Parthenon in Athens or the Colosseum in Rome.”

  “English majors could drink daiquiris with Ernest Hemingway in Havana,” I chime in, remembering my new friends at the Floridita.

  “Exactly,” he says, laughing. “MeaParadisus can be so much more than a gaming platform. It could change the world as we know it, use our brains in ways that will enhance life and broaden our knowledge.”

  I get up from my bench and go sit next to him. “That’s truly incredible, Wyn,” I say, taking his hand, and I mean it.

  I hold my breath for a minute, hoping he doesn’t pull away. I can’t blame him if he does; I’ve had my claws out ever since I got here.

  He looks down at my hand and squeezes it, then smiles at me. “You’re pretty incredible yourself, Nixy Bauer.”

  I can’t help it.

  I melt into those chocolate eyes like marshmallows in cocoa.

  I know, I know.

  I need to get out of here.

  THIRTEEN

  THE TROPICANA IS HOPPING. HUNDREDS OF MEEPLE ARE DINING, dancing, gambling, and mingling in the various rooms of the enormous nightclub. Wyn is giving me the full tour, and I’m truly amazed at how much work he’s put into this place. The men are all in trim suits and tuxedos, hair slicked back and shoes just as shiny, but it’s the women who truly stand out in their glamorous evening gowns, jewels, and beauty shop updos. I’ve put on my wench dress for the occasion. I stick out like a sore thumb, but the Meeple don’t notice, and Wyn seems to like it because he keeps, shall we say, not meeting my eyes.

  The meadow-green aproned dress is cut pretty low and the laced bodice makes me look curvier than usual.

  “Stop it!” I say, laughing as he pretends to sneak a peek at my cleavage. “For all you know, these are just enhancements.”

  That startles him.

  “I . . . I’ve never thought about your avatar being enhanced. Is it?”

  He looks more than a little perplexed by the notion that the real me might look different. “Does it matter?” I say, teasing him, but only a little.

  “No, of course not,” he says, his voice earnest. “In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, if I met you in real life, I probably couldn’t handle it. I’d faint or hyperventilate. Because I’m suave like that. Truly, I hope you are enhanced, for the sake of all humanity.”

  “Good answer,” I say, grinning like a fool. I can’t help it. He’s kind of perfect right now. Except for the sexy cigarette girl coming toward us, her eyes glued to Wyn, her big red lips smiling seductively.

  She’s wearing little more than a gold-sequined, strapless bathing suit, matching high heels that make her bronzed legs look a mile long, and some heavy-duty cleavage that takes mine right out of the race.

  “Wyn, amorcito!” she says, turning her tray of cigarettes to the side so she can lean over and kiss Wyn on both cheeks.

  Wyn looks over at me with a grin and I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Nixy, meet Guadalupe,” he says, looking more amused than he should be.

  “Call me Lupe,” she says, smiling at me. “Nice to meet you, princesa. Care for a cigarillo? On the house for a pretty girl like you.”

  “No thanks, Loopy,” I say, looking pointedly at Wyn. He rewards me with a small laugh.

  “How about a nice Cuban fatty then,” Lupe says, picking up a huge cigar, “to put a little hair on your chest, princesa.”

  My mouth drops open and Wyn cracks up.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, placing a hand over my chest, as if to protect it from Lupe’s cigar voodoo.

  “I know, I give you a Romeo y Julieta,” says Lupe, handing me a smaller, single wrapped cigar and a box of matches. “You young lovers can take turns puffing on it,” she says with a sly look at me and a wink at Wyn.

  “Gracias, Lupe,” Wyn says, “we’ll do that.”

  “Hasta la vista, babydolls!” Lupe calls out with another flirty wink, then turns on her heel and walks away, her hips moving back and forth like a metronome.

  “Wowza,” I say, holding the cigar up. “Do you program all your Meeple ladies to be huge flirts, or just Loopy?”

  Wyn laughs. “Just Lupe. She’s Chucho’s girlfriend . . . or she was Chucho’s girlfriend, back in the real Havana.”

  “Chucho is . . . was Mama Beti’s older brother, I’m guessing?”

  “Yep. She’s told me lots of great stories about him . . . he knew everybody who was anybody in Havana from working the bar at Floridita. So did Lupe. She used to sneak Mama Beti into the shows here at the Tropicana. Mama Beti told me that the real Lupe had kind of a, um . . . naughty sense of humor, I guess you could say.”

  “She’d make a sailor blush!”

  “Latin Vixen IV script, courtesy of Jill Bauer,” Wyn says, enjoying the look of horror that crosses my face.

  “My mom wrote those lines?”

  “For the most part. I just customized them a bit.”

  I shake my head. I need to have a little talk with Jill when I get home. Nice Cuban fatty? Hair on your chest? Honest
ly.

  Wyn offers me his elbow. “Shall we dance now, princesa?”

  I make a face. “If you’re sure about this.” I tuck the cigar and matches into the pocket of my wench apron and reluctantly take his arm.

  “Trust me,” he says, then leads me through the busy casino and through a set of glass doors.

  We’re in an outdoor ballroom now that Wyn tells me is called Bajo las Estrellas cabaret, which means “Under the Stars.” And the place lives up to its name. The vast enclosure has been draped with a thousand strands of twinkly lights, making me feel like I’m in a fairy garden, only a tropical fairy garden with towering palm trees and a cigar-smoke haze. All the Meeple here look like movie stars at their candlelit tables, while a bevy of waiters and busboys and more scantily clad cigarette girls circulate among them.

  Wyn had decided earlier that our best chance of finding any human players in the MEEP would be to go to the most crowded spot in Havana. It seemed counterintuitive to me at first, but he had insisted it would be the only way to lure them out. The only times he’d ever seen them, they’d been “hiding” in a crowd of Meeple.

  An enormous stage at the end of the outdoor ballroom features a ten-piece band and a female singer who reminds me of Lupe: brassy, voluptuous, and . . . what word did Wyn use? Oh yeah. Naughty. But wow, can she sing. Her voice weaves in and out of the instruments playing behind her, the trumpets, piano, maracas, and bongo drums all just a showcase for her resonant voice and fiery presence.

  “AZUCAR!” she yells, and some of the Meeple hoot and whistle in response.

  Wyn pulls me onto the platform dance floor. I’m still not sure I want to do this.

  “Can’t we just sit at one of the tables and smoke our cigar?” I say, looking around at the other dancers. They’re all moving in perfect time to the fast-paced music. I know they’re programmed to do so, but still I feel intimidated.

  “Smoking is bad for you. Just follow my lead,” says Wyn, putting his right hand on my waist and taking my hand in his left. I feel slightly better now that he’s holding on to me. Maybe he can just push me around the dance floor like a vacuum cleaner.