Chapter 14: Garlem

Our cause is greater than the moral standards by which the majority works. Eliminate all of those who threaten the organization's safety for we are the cradle of the future.

The first location on the map was a regular building south of the city, a street filled with wheeled cars instead of hovering ones. The sky seemed clearer, the people were older and the blue lights were less occurent. Birds had a tendency to perch on their rooftops than on the rest of the rooftops out there in the city. Roger had heard less noises than before in his head; it was as if the chip had no power when situated in a tech-free environment. Tamara had got to the site way before him; she had a ragged leather book in her hands. Its pages were marked with the letters of old typewriter. It was enveloped in chipped leather.

"Where did you get it?" Roger asked, jumping off a flying skateboard as he walked and sat beside Tamara. The skateboard took its flight back to its master; Roger embodied the aspect of borrowing. She only paid him enough attention after a second glance from his behalf. Somehow, holding that book brought him the sort of feelings he once felt as he saw her with the brush and dye, the portrait and the colors.

"I bought it from that store," she said, pointing at a small shop by the corner of a building. An old haggard, barely able to push through his mid eighties, saluted every passenger as he walked around the shop and blew to wipe the dust off his wares. Roger took a couple of steps towards the shop. The old man was not a typical one, most of those with old age in Garlem had mechanical canes, back supporters and even enhanced glasses. This one wore the old glasses made of ox, and his body was devoid of anything else. The shop mostly contained books, gifts, old shirts, soap-shaped phones, ropes, and animal bones. Even the old man's safe required a key rather than a code. That smile seemed to be implanted in his face, almost seeming stitched.

"Roger?" Tamara said, spotting how stiff and amazed he was at the sight of the old shop. The shop was not the only thing that seemed nostalgic, but the people as well. People actually talked to each other when they sat on benches without the blue light in between. They smiled, laughed at each other's jokes instead of memes and prank videos. Roger blinked, turning to Tamara who was tossing the book inside her bag. His eyes were fixed on her, that same brightening in his eyes returned.

"Yeah," he said, as if having forgotten.

"Let's go find the apartment you told me about," she said, taking the stairs before he followed her. It was the first building in years that neither had a hovering car parking lot, nor an elevator. There were no service bots, and patrol bots seemed to be programmed to be careless about this southern part of Garlem. The walls were chipped, some were charred, yet the people lived there. Roger's scanner kept showing errors; there was nothing he could interact with apart from the electrical circuit. Even the latter was out of his reach because he needed a platform to log into its course. Tamara had taken the last step, sitting on the threshold of a wooden door with broken knob. It was apparent the door only opened and closed through a key.

Tamara knocked on the door, gently hitting the wooden thing with her middle knuckle. Roger leaned on the wall, arms folded and eyes closed. The sound of the footsteps was stronger. A woman in her late forties opened the door, untying the chain and peeking from behind the door. She was dark skinned; her hair was brown and pulled to the back. She wore a green robe. She raised an eyebrow.

"We are looking for Bob Polion, a middle aged man," Roger said.

"I ain't got no idea who this fella is," the old lady said, her voice sharp and seemingly climbing to aggressiveness.

"He visited you this week. We only want to know the reason behind his visit," Roger said, his voice remaining between neutral and threatening.

"You must have had the wrong house," the lady said, closing the door.

"No!" Tamara intervened. "Ma'am, this man we are looking for is my father. He's been missing for two days and we don't know where he is. Please, my mother is really worried and I'm afraid something happened to him. It would break our hearts if something happens to him, please, let us talk." Her voice seemed tender and caring, she seemed as if she was about to let out a burst of tears any second. It was enough to melt the old lady's heart. Roger remained passive, uncaring which greatly irritated the old lady. The latter sighed before she unfastened the lock, letting the chain drop.

"Come in, dear," the old lady, allowing Tamara to step inside. As Roger put his feet on the threshold, the old lady closed the door again after she had tied back the chain.

"No, not you! I got a bad feeling about you, I'll only talk to the girl," the old lady said. Roger spotted Tamara winking behind the old lady, signaling him to leave. He stood for a few more seconds before he withdrew away from the threshold, turning to the stairs.

"I'll be around the corner," Roger said to Tamara, doubting if she could hear him because the lady shut the door before he could even finish. Tamara walked inside towards the living room, there were two couches. One of them had an extending cut, letting some of the cotton emerge from it. The walls, much like in the corridor, were chipped and even cracked. She had a small television from the nineties, but it was broken. Apart from that, no sign of blue light was in the house. Tamara tried not to be too comfortable while hearing the sound of crackling in the kitchen. She held that leather book in her hands, trying to glean more of what was inside, of the written material inside.

"There were no large skyscrapers, no hovering cars, no little light beaming machines that kept someone hooked it like a salivating dog when seeking a juicy piece of meat. Garlem was nothing but a little village, we used to gather around at night and dance until first light. We had cars sure, but they were simple and the richest of us wouldn't buy more than two both him and his children. Now, the laughs ain't the same, the talk ain't the same, now we need talking boxes to know when we're breaking the law instead of a feeling human being just like those who do break the law. Everything was like heaven until this Carl something came in with all his nonsense about the future, about the most advanced city in the history of God's America. Now look at Garlem, look at us, with all his intelligence he didn't realize what we have lost in our quest for what he believes is an advanced life..."

The lady came back with a plate of hot cookies, stuffed with small balls of chocolate. Tamara felt as if her heart beat in warmth for a food considered unhealthy yet truly tasty and made with passion. During the former years, homemade cookies were sucked into oblivion in face of the industrialized paste. Tamara took a bite as the lady sat on the couch, releasing herself and stretching her legs. She was panting; she weighed and moving around the house was harder than usual.

"So, watcha want, young lady?" the old lady asked.

Tamara put down the cookie, leaving a sting of darkish chocolate just on the right side of her lip. "First I'd like to thank you for letting me in, it's really nice of you to welcome me into your…"

"Nah, spare me the usual monologue from north of the city, we don't do this here. Tell me straight what is it you want to know," the old lady said, adjusting herself on the couch. It had always felt like a prickling cactus, yet it was a cactus she got used to sit on.

"Okay, I came looking for my father," Tamara said.

"Uhuh, your daddy. And how do I know he is actually your daddy?"

"Uh…"

"You don't have to worry, child. I feel your sayin' the truth. At least you're better than that schmuck that was with you. Your father did come to me, he came to ask me somethin' real quick before he went on his way," the old lady said, pulling her sprawling gray hair.

"I need to know what he really came to ask you about," Tamara said.

The old lady raised her hands, moving her palms as if waving goodbye at a distant traveler. "Look, he's involved with bad fellas, I don't want any trouble."

"No, no, lady please, this can be the only way we can find him. My friend out there is an expert in clearing tracks, no one will come to you, I promise. You know I am not lying, please lady—"

"Okay, okay, this is a bad idea but who am I to judge? Okay, you got a little time for a story, young gal?"

"Sure."

"Back in… say 2011, 2012 or somethin', The rich tech fella known as Carl Owinson came with the offer to buy our village, Garlem, and use the space to build a metropolitan city. At first we all hated the idea, we liked how we live and those who didn't we're free to leave, none got a problem with it. Still, the rising generation liked it a lot, you know the academics and futurists, the fools, and they managed to convince handful of our people. With that and politicians involved, our land was taken from us. Those who didn't support the idea were left with this shithole south of the city," the lady said, halting as she tried to catch her breath, taking a quick bite of the cookie.

Tamara remained silent. Before she could open her mouth, the lady went on the rest of the story. "You see, I was meant to marry someone from our old village, but his family supported Owinson's decision while mine didn't. We were apart until he got to office."

"Office? Who are you talking about... from the office I mean?" Tamara said.

"The mayor, the mayor was my lost lover. Your father came to me to ask if he had told me something before he was killed."

Tamara waited, assessing the situation.

"and did he?"

The teeth-lacking smile on the old lady's face was starting to disappear as her face seemed to be withering from a lively one to a deeper level of abeyance. "You should be careful, you and your father. Terry, the mayor I mean, told me that some bad people we're coming after him, were forcing him to do this and that. He said they'd kill him, even dump his body in sewers if he didn't comply with their orders. They were after him, he told me that, I swear he did. The Future Dictators he called them, I dunno if that was a metaphor or a literal name. During his latest days, he was truly broken, the threats kept coming as he refused to do certain things to maintain his legacy, the damn fool always cared about what people think of him after he's gone. Now he's under the ground and no one seems to care he even existed," the lady said, tears dropping from her weary eyes to the cookie jar. Tamara stood and tossed the old lady's head into her chest, embracing her while the lady sniveled and closed her eyes in tears.

"Shh, it's okay," Tamara said, placing her hand on the back of the old lady's head.

"I told him! I told him not to stay in that cursed office, I told him to get me and leave this place for good. He wouldn't listen! He sure wouldn't listen! He'd say this would drag me into his world, that I'd be threatened if I do it. Now, he's dead, a dead corpse six feet under the ground," the lady shrilled, her hand on Tamara's back as she dug her face in her shirt, soaking it with salty tears. About a few seconds later, she withdrew, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Tamara went low and put her right hand on the lady's cheek.

"Why don't you go to the police?"

"The police, the bots or Owinson's pawns? The police doesn't care about us southerns, they wouldn't talk to us or provide us with anything. The world doesn't know even want to know how these fanatics racked our way of life," the lady said, walking to the bathroom. She turned the switch, waiting for water to fall out of the copper funnel before a drop drizzled all the way to the sink. Tamara was looking at her in pity while she raised her head to the ceiling and let out a scream.

"We don't even get water!" the woman yelled, almost having the urge to break the window.

Tamara remained silent. Her tongue was dried out of words as her body went stiff in shock. A rebellious tear fell down her reddish cheek as something prickled her chest; she wiped the tear. Tamara picked her bag, heading for the door. "Ma'am, what else did he say to you?"

The lady gasped, closing her eyes as she jumbled to the couch. "He… he said he was afraid of some mobster from Florida, something like that. I don't remember."

Theodor Brinkins!

Tamara gripped both of the woman's arms, so tight that the old lady felt Tamara's nails gently digging into her. "I promise you, ma'am, that what happened to Terry will not go unpunished. This is not all, the world will know what is happening in this district."

The lady nodded while Tamara resumed her way to the door.

"I gotta ask though," the old lady said, turning the key before pulling the wooden door. "Why are you hanging out with that fool anyway? You seem like a nice girl, but he ain't anywhere near nice."

Tamara smiled back at her. "He's a fool like you said. He's a fool just like the mayor. They're all fools. But people like you and I, ma'am, they need us to help them not make fools out of themselves."

The lady let out a short laughter, intervened with sharp coughs, as she said her goodbyes to the departing Tamara. Roger was sitting under the shade of a tree, one of the few left in the city. It was absurd that the slums of Garden were the only place where people were developed enough to adopt urban gardening. His chip was dead silent, nothing but the sound of the wind and the far laughter of old folk. Tamara's footsteps joined the melody. She sat beside him under the shade of the tree, atop a wooden chair from the shop. The latter was empty.

"The old man gave me his own chair," Roger said, not even turning to look at his partner. "He went back to his house to bring something and asked me to watch over it."

Tamara looked back at the shop, then reflecting on Roger's eyes. He seemed in a state of bliss, a state of missed merriness that one would grove for at the cost of anything.

"Anyway, what did you find?" Roger asked.

"It turns out the lady's an old lover of the murdered mayor. The Future Dictators are behind his murder, I'd make a strong guess they used Theodor Brinkins to kill him. It makes sense because our next location in the map is Theodor's Mansion. We'll go there and see how it goes," Tamara said.

"Sure, we'll do that. But can we stay here a bit longer?" Roger said. There was tenderness in his voice, something of a long absence. Tamara smiled, looking up at the shop same as him.

"That book, what was it about?"

"Well, those were memoirs. There wasn't any author, I guess the writer didn't care about his name more than he did about the city. He misses how the area was before Owinson came and changed everything. Roger, I'm telling you, we gotta help these people. The outside world should know that they're suffering. No service bots, no patrols, not even the damn water! We can't just participate in this crime," Tamara explained. Roger blinked, almost as if someone had awoken him.

"No, no, we can't do that, Tamara. Our mission was to find your father, not get involved in this," Roger said, crossing his hands to signify the end of discussion.

"What? You can't walk away from this. How does it matter if all you use your powers for is personal benefit? The man we're trying to find is my father, yet I care for these people. I empathize with them, empathize with them, Roger! You get to make this choice, Roger, you get to choose either to step up for it or walk away," Tamara said, determinant in her words. Before he could reply, the old shop owner brought a large plate with two bowls, each with its own spoon. The meal's scent took them by surprise. The old man grinned, lowering the plate for Roger to pick.

"Thanks for watching out for my shop, amigo. I noticed you're new here, so I figured you may wanna taste mi esposa's lentil soup. Take your time and leave the plate by my shop as you leave," the old man said, not even waiting for a sign of gratefulness. They watched him as he walked back to his shop, saluting a passenger he did not seem to know.