Blue Hearts of Mars (5 page)

“I thought we were in for it,” I said, laughing again.

“They take themselves too seriously,” he said, scrubbing his hands through his hair and taking a deep breath, though he hardly seemed like the run winded him.

I nodded. “Yeah. It must be fun, though, to be able to do whatever you want. Go out to dinner. Stay out all night, that sort of thing.”

“You can do whatever you want,” he said.

I gave him a sideways glance and scoffed. “No I can’t.”

“Who’s stopping you?” he asked, taking my hand. His fingers were slightly clammy, I noticed and wondered how that was even possible.
Was
he an android? I began to realize that there was more that I
didn’t
know about these supposed androids than I actually knew about them.

“My dad, for one. The police. The rules. The law, I mean, everyone. Everything.” It felt a bit oppressive thinking about it, honestly. I breathed deeply, and something tightened across my chest as I considered it.

“What would you do if there weren’t all the rules? The law? Your father?” he pulled me close.

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to think about it more, but I felt like I was fighting against a current, trying to swim upstream, like at the indoor water park with the lazy river. I went there a lot when I was a kid because there were only a few places where we could see that much water all at once. I learned to swim there, which was scary, because most of my experience with water was in a shower, and that only lasts two minutes.

Hemingway rested his hands on my hips. I could feel his fingers pressing against me through my shirt—they were hot.

“Is it the rules that make you do something? Or is it yourself?” he asked. His breath was warm on my face and it smelled like closeness. Like being inside someone. Like I could smell the scent of his heart. The walls of his lungs. It was intoxicating.

“I—I don’t know,” I whispered.

“Would you kiss an android? Or would the rules stop you?”

His eyes were alight. I felt like I was staring at the heart of a galaxy and I remembered the first time I stared into his eyes. I didn’t have an answer to what he asked. At least, I didn’t know how to speak. I closed my eyes and let myself fall into his lips.

Would a siren go off? Would a fire engine suddenly appear, full of men in uniforms who would pull us apart and arrest me?

I mean, were there even any precautions against this? Because I was kissing an android!

And it was amazing!

And you know what? I didn’t care what the rules were. I kept kissing him. And he touched my face and I touched his and I ran my fingers through his hair and it felt like hair. I pulled away and we simply hugged for a moment and I smelled his hair and it smelled . . . like hair, like good, delicious hair, and I could feel his heart racing beneath his ribs as we held onto one another.

We stayed that way for a moment. Then we parted, he took my hand in his, and I stared into his eyes. There was a light in there. A galaxy, yes, but it was more than that. It was the light of awareness. Of a genesis, a birth, a dawn. Or something.

We stared at each other silently for a second. I was surprised. Elated. Overwhelmed. “You feel real,” I found myself saying.

He laughed and his smile meant something completely new to me. It was an intimate smile. One shared between two people with a secret. A past. A history. He answered, “I am, yes. What did you expect?”

My hand was still enclosed in his, and he stood up straight, pushing off the wall and pulling on my hand at the same time.

“I don’t know,” I responded. “I have no idea.”

“Are you going to run away from me, now?” he asked, pulling me along. We began walking. He let me lead and I took us back toward my apartment.

“Why would I run away?”

“Fear?” He raised an eyebrow and I shook my head.

“I’m not like that,” I said.

“I didn’t think you were. So then, what now, Retta?” He sounded so sincere that I stopped and stared at him. He turned to face me. Around us people parted like a dusty wind as they went past, ignoring us, and some made noises of irritation that we were in the way. Streetlights illuminated the pavement of the narrow road. The buildings rising around us like ever-vigilant sentries glowed beneath their windows. I was hyper-aware of how I was able to see people in their apartments, seeing into slices of their private lives. A little boy—who should have been in bed, really, if you thought about what time it was—knelt on the back of a couch, gliding his finger across the Gate as though browsing for toys or a show to watch. 

I found myself saying, as all these things went on around us, as though everything in the universe—my universe—hinged on what I said next, “We keep going, I guess. Unless you change your mind.” A door slammed near us, voices rose above the street, a man walked down the stairs from an apartment building to the street, his small dog on a leash.

“You mean, just keep doing what we’re doing? Without a plan?” Hemingway asked, a hopeful tone entering his voice.

“That’s right. No plans. Just us.”

“And if someone challenges you?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

“They
will
challenge you, you know. And,” he sighed, “it might get really ugly. I’ve been dealing with it my entire life, but you, well, it will be totally new to you.”

“I’ve had my share of difficulties. I think I’ll be able to manage.”

He nodded. His face was serious, but a grin broke across his perfect cheeks. He rubbed his hands together and then offered me one. I took it and we headed back to my house.

My dad would be home. So, you know, let the challenges commence.

So. My dad. Let me explain a few things about him.

Well, first of all, my mom died when I was twelve and my dad has just kept going. I don’t know what else he would do, but sometimes I think it’s pretty rough for him. He works as a botanist, so he’s gone to the greenhouses all day and when he comes home at night, he smells like dirt and the perfume of the flowers he’s working on. Sometimes he deals with trees and other types of plants, but usually it’s flowers. There are others like him whose main work is finding edible plants that can survive in the colder temperatures and harsh soil of Mars. I suppose at some point the plan is to be able to terraform the planet, but for now we all live under the domes near the many geothermal vents as the atmosphere slowly thickens from the CO2 that escapes the semi-permeable membrane of the dome.

When my mom was alive, life felt smoother. She took care of Marta and me, and dad worked a lot more than he does now. Nowadays, I have a job to pay for my own things, and dad manages to work less so that he can be home more frequently with Marta. I don’t always get along with my dad, so it’s fine that I’m gone for a while after school because that way we don’t butt heads.

He’s fairly strict. I love him, I suppose, but I really suspect that he’d run my life for me if he could. A morbidly curious and rebellious part of me was hoping that bringing Hemingway home would shake things up. I hoped Hemingway could deal with a shake up. If not, there’s no future for us anyway.

When we got to my apartment, dad and Marta had just finished watching a show on the Gram in the great room and he was sending her to bed. She complained about it being too early, and he pointed toward her bedroom with a firm look on his face. Marta cast a rueful glance at me as though she was imploring me to step in for her. I shook my head and shrugged. Her eyes flickered over Hemingway and I felt him stiffen in recognition of being sized up. We were still holding hands because I wasn’t about to pretend for their benefit. With a flick of her hair, Marta turned and marched off to her room, stomping along the way in protest. I knew she wanted to talk to us and meet Hemingway, but she would just have to do that later.

“Now then,” my dad said, turning to me and Hemingway, standing in front of us, sort of blocking us from going further into the apartment. He crossed his arms and weighed us both with his gaze.

“Hey Dad,” I said. “So, this is Hemingway. I know him from school. Hemingway, Dad.” Hemingway nodded and moved forward to offer his hand. Dad didn’t acknowledge him and Hemingway stepped back to my side and I took hold of his hand again.

“You’re late,” my dad said, keeping his gaze leveled on me.

“Only a little,” I said, glancing at the time hovering over the Gram. Ten-thirty. Dad likes me home before ten. “We went for a walk when I got done.”

“You’re holding hands,” Dad observed astutely.

“Yep,” I said, keeping hold of Hemingway’s hand. I knew my dad wanted us to let go.

“So what, does that mean you’re
together
?” he emphasized together like he wanted to laugh at that thought. He hadn’t relaxed his stance. It was an all-out power-struggle. My mom always used to say that if it was a power-struggle I wanted, she would win. And she did, usually. But Dad isn’t mom, and besides, mom would understand. Dad hadn’t liked Stig either; I tend to agree with him now. But Hemingway is different. And not just different in that he’s an android. I wondered if Dad was going to notice that. Well, if he didn’t, I wasn’t about to tell him.

“Yes,” I answered, my eyes flashing to Hemingway’s face and back to dad. There was a challenging set to Hemingway’s jaw, as though he was about to charge at my dad and lock horns with him.

“How did you meet?” Dad asked. “How long has this been going on?” He raised his chin and I noticed a twitch of his eye, like he was irritated that he’d been left out of my life.

“School,” I said. He obviously wasn’t listening before. Not surprising. “A while,” I lied. For some reason. I guess I
wanted
him to feel left out.

Hemingway still hadn’t said anything, but Dad hadn’t given him a chance.

“How old is he?” Dad asked me, not Hemingway. Awkward.

“My age,” I answered, not knowing the precise answer to that. As if it mattered.

“Who are his parents?”

Er. I didn’t know the answer to that. I turned to Hemingway and gave him a look that meant, “You answer.”

Hemingway stepped forward, letting go of me and offered his hand to Dad again. “Good to meet you. My mother is a former engineer. If you’d like to meet her, I can arrange that.” Dad accepted Hemingway’s hand slowly, scrutinizing him as he did so.

A wave of anxiety weakened my knees. I held my breath. Would dad see the tiny lights in Hemingway’s eyes? What would he say if he did? Hemingway held up nicely, but I felt sure I was about to faint from the pressure.

“Former? What does she do now?” Dad asked, continuing to stare at Hemingway.

“Consulting. She still engineers, but mostly on her own projects.” After the handshake, Hemingway stood casually in front of my dad, meeting his gaze, conversing. I wanted to pull him back to my side, to avoid the confrontation and revelation that would surely come if he continued to stare so confidently into my dad’s eyes.

What was happening to me? As soon as the stakes got higher, I became a complete weakling. All that wanting to shake things up and now I was eager to back out. Hemingway continued, “She had different views and her superiors didn’t appreciate it. They call her in from time to time, but mostly she does her work from her personal offices and laboratory.”

Dad rubbed his chin, studying Hemingway and mulling over what he’d said. Dad nodded, and said, “Mind if I ask what those views were?”

Hemingway shrugged. “You could ask her. I don’t feel comfortable speaking on her behalf.”

“That controversial, huh?” Dad prodded.

Hemingway smiled. “You could say that.”

“What’s your intent with my daughter?” Dad was never one to mince words. Still, I gasped. What sort of question was that? He’d only just met Hemingway. I'd only just begun a relationship with him! Not that my dad knew as much because I’d already lied about how long we’d been together. But anyway. Heat rushed into my face.

“Dad! Really, come on. Totally unnecessary,” I interjected, stepping forward. Was I really just now leaving the entry foyer of the apartment? I took Hemingway by the arm and pulled him to the big sofa in the great room.

“It’s OK, Retta,” Hemingway said, touching my hand. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do,” I said. “His intent is to spend some time with me, Dad. And have fun. That’s it.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Dad laughed, and followed us toward the couch. Oh great. Now he was going to babysit us.

“Come to think of it, Hemingway, I
would
like to meet your mother. When can you arrange it?” Dad sat down across from us. I coughed. This was going all wrong. First of all, I really thought my dad would be able to tell that Hemingway was an android. The kids my age were doing it all the time. Sometimes it’s harder to tell and other times it’s easy. It really just depends on the individual and the circumstances, or so I’ve heard.

First of all, the androids were made to settle Mars before real humans did. The story goes that they weren’t as beautiful then. I’ve seen pictures—it’s true. They were a bit more rudimentary, with their skeletons all exposed—dull metal bones, hydraulic joints, tendons, and ligaments shining in the harsh orange atmosphere of Mars before the domes were up.