Chapter 4: A Way Out... Maybe

The soju still burned John’s throat. The first shot burned, as did the tenth. The sea of yellow, the service caste, commuting back down home after their day’s work was done, parted for the wavering artist. They paid him no mind when he pressed the Eighty to Eighty-nine button. He was just another casteman slumming for illicit pleasures among the casteless.

The yellow jumpsuits soon departed and left John on his lonesome on the trip down. He flexed his hand inside the restrictive cast. The docbot had gotten intrusive with its questioning, but it seemed satisfied with the line John gave it. He broke the bone in his hand during ballet practice. As far as the docbot understood, the possibility existed.

While John made the transfer from the express elevator to the local, he slipped a disposable breather over his ears. He acquired it, no problem, so the divorce still hadn’t become official. His credit was still good. Perhaps there was still time to do something before Paul finalized the divorce. It was Tuesday night. Paul’s Tuesday night trips to Level 81 were an open secret among the rest of the Easterbrooks. Whatever he did in the casteless neighborhood, no one dared to ask. Seniority afforded secrecy.

If the welcome area ever had an infobot, it had been a long while since the residents took it out. A lone, old woman, her back hunched, brushed an empty plastic bag into a dust collector. Without the aid of a breather, she took in the stale air, thick with green haze, and shuffled about. She wore a handmade shirt and a long dress. Casteless wore what they like. There was dignity in that.

The self-appointed cleaner glanced his way and then continued to concentrate on the floor in front of her. Perhaps she caught sight of the jumpsuit and didn’t want to look too hard. She had deep lines on her face, more evidence of a hard life.

The walls exhibited a few gang signs, but John had expected graffiti to cover them. Seemed the older casteless like this one spent their twilight years keeping the chaos to a minimum.

John walked up to her and leaned in to get her attention. “Excuse me. I’m looking for a fixer.”

She turned away. “I clean. Don’t do nothing else.”

The cleaner didn’t intend offense. More like she was afraid of him and tried to keep contact to a minimum.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

He let her be and took the first passage available. The passage was narrow, and the ceiling showed jury-rigged electrics, air ducts, and whatever else the casteless needed to route into their homes. The patchwork walls bent the passage with every addition. There wouldn’t have been a straight line of sight even if the halls had enough light, even if the air had no pollution haze.

Men and women—sometimes teenagers—tucked themselves into the doorways. They watched him stroll by with suspicious eyes. John didn’t search for anything in mind. He figured he’d know when he saw it. When a of a pair of teenage boys, their eyes hidden by sunglasses despite the dark, their shirts open to show off their youthful chest, waved him over, he chose them.

The older boy gave him a flirtatious smirk. “You looking for something, mister?”

“Just a local fixer. You can set me up with one?”

Those smirks disappeared. The boy’s posture straightened. “And why should we help you?”

“I was born into Leadership.” John indicated upward with his chin. “Still have a lot of contacts in the caste.”

It was a half-truth. He had decided to burn his bridges with the Leovards. None of them would dare look in his direction, let alone talk to him. Not even his birth mother. Especially his birth mother.

The younger kid opened his mouth to speak. No words left his mouth after the older one gave him a glare. The younger one looked down at his feet. The other kid turned his attention back to John. “Go into that booth down there,” he looked further along the hallway, “and tell her Caf sent you.”

John thanked them and continued down the hall where he said the booth would be.  The wall had a space carved out enough for the booth’s door. The rest of the booth might have stuck out into some unfortunate’s living room, but John couldn’t tell. Uncountable layers of tags covered the glass of the side, evidence of all the nobodies trying to be a something more. A phone hid underneath the mess.

He picked up the receiver, balancing it on his immobilized thumb. John put the receiver to his ear.

A woman in a well-practiced baritone said, “Yeah?”

“Uh, Caf sent me.”

“Okay. Who are you?”

John looked into the receiver as if he could see the woman he was talking to in it. “Who are you?”

“Not how this works. You want info, yeah? Gotta tell me who you are.”

He picked at a hangnail on his thumb. Once he gave his name, he opened himself to all manner of bad, but it was that or accept he was a divorcee. “John Easterbrook.”

The sound of typing on keyboard clacking came through the receiver. “Okay, Mr. Easterbrook. What’s your birth name?”

“Leovard.”

There was a moment before she spoke again. “Ah, really? Maybe we can do business.” She had put emphasis on the ‘can.’ “Let me check here.” There was more typing. “Yeah. A Leovard, even a former one, would be useful. What you want to know?”

“Wait. What am I getting into?”

“I might ask a favor of you. I might not. Should I ask of you, you’re going to do it, no matter what it is.”

“I ain’t comfortable with that.”

“Then hang up. Walk away.”

The fixer was right. He wouldn’t find Paul without her. John grit his teeth. “Fine. I agree. Whatever.”

“Lovely. Ask your question. What is it you need of me?”