Blue Hearts of Mars (26 page)

As we arrived at the end of the car with the windows, we found a seat at the side, where there was a bit of empty space. There were about ten others sitting around and milling about, drinking champagne and coffee. Hemingway put his arm across my shoulders and we settled in, trying to blend with our surroundings. One of the windows on the observation deck was a Gate and a guide was playing, narrating the history of New Sydney, displaying footage of the modern city and showing reenactments of the formation of the colony and of the early settlers from Australia back on Earth.

I kept thinking about that message.
It was nothing,
I told myself. It was the ramblings of a crazy person, probably. They were out there, although I’d never really known any. I’d heard of them.

The horizon soon filled with the uppermost reaches of the New Sydney dome. It was tinted blue like all the others—clear blue, like the skies back on Earth. My heart leapt to see it against the orange haze of the Martian atmosphere. Soon the tops of the dome-scrapers were silhouetted against the blue-orange sky and dome.

“It’s beautiful,” I muttered quietly, so only Hemingway could hear.

“Yeah. Life hangs on, even in the most extreme situations,” he said. There was a reverence in his voice that I appreciated. He was so different from all the guys I’d dated. Stig, for example, would never have cared to see the awesome view of this enormous settlement and the impossibly huge dome. If he
had
cared, it wouldn’t have been a thing of awe. It would have been a prideful thing. Pride at all the amazing feats humans had done, despite the fact that the domes were built by the blue hearts.

The far side of New Sydney was a mountain range. As we drew closer, the green foliage on the distant slopes became visible. The coffee farms. It took years and years to get the soil prepared to grow the coffee plants—without them, we’d still be in the clutches of Earth through their grip on that trade. It was the last vital thing we required of Earth. Most everything else had either been replicated on Mars or a work-around had developed. And once the coffee plants took off, it was only a matter of time before we could declare independence. That’s what the guide was saying, anyway, as the little program carried on over the side Gate.

Suddenly, a newscast interrupted the program. The conversations in the car ceased as a hush fell over everyone. “Reporting live from New Helsinki, we join a rally outside the Vantaa where one of the senior parliamentary members has just declared himself a blue heart,” a collective gasp filled the observation deck and couples began muttering to themselves.

“I don’t believe it,” a woman with dark hair said. I glanced at her, hiding my disgust at her prejudice. She had a pinched expression from the way her nose went from wide at the bottom, to narrow at the bridge. A gesture she made with her champagne glass sent the liquid sloshing out. She paused in the gesture too late, trying to catch the liquid with her other hand. “Damn!” It went all over her cream white blouse and black dress pants and onto the floor.

“He must be lying, must be,” someone else said, but I didn’t look for them. I didn’t want to resent someone else for being afraid of change.

Hemingway and I hunched into our seats, as the newscast went on. His arm tightened around me.

“The leader calling himself the Voice started the rally—yet another in a string of sometimes violent rallies and protests. At his encouragement, many are calling for revelations such as this. The Voice has pled with leaders who are well-concealed blue hearts to make a stand for blue hearts everywhere, claiming that it will lead to equal rights for the android community.”

They cut to footage of the Voice at the rally. He stood at a pulpit, his arms raised in a V, and the parliamentary member stood beside him, grinning. But it was an embarrassed and scared grin. I’d seen smiles like that on myself enough to recognize it. The audience at the rally was roaring its approval—or perhaps calling for blood. It was hard to tell.

The next thing I knew, the newscast was quoting from the message I’d posted on my website. Nausea swept over me like a hot wave. “. . . . that the Unified Martian Government is planning to send the blue hearts to a new colony, additionally, claiming that the blue hearts actually have red hearts. The post has gone viral, making the rounds on the political forums in a matter of hours.”

We’d already passed through the lock on the New Sydney dome and were coasting through the outskirts of the city. I hardly noticed. I could only think about the message that had made Hemingway blanch, the one I couldn’t stop thinking about.

In particular, the part that said, “The Voice is a blue heart. Men and women in governmental positions of power are blue hearts. There are more blue hearts than we know. They’ll reveal themselves. They’ll set us free. The blue hearts are the map to the stars.”

The center of New Sydney was a huge reservoir that gave the entire place a humid feel. At first I didn’t understand what I was experiencing—my palms felt sticky, my skin was softer, and breathing was easier. We walked to the edge of the water and stood there, staring at it.

“I didn’t know this was here,” I said. My eyes felt like salad plates in my head as I gaped at the reservoir. I hadn’t even seen it on the little documentary about New Sydney. The water was light blue and it lapped against the sand at my feet.

“They melted an enormous body of ice under the surface until the reservoir formed, and then they built the city around it.” Hemingway surveyed the area, watching people on the beach about a mile away playing in the sand and water. I glanced at him. He caught my eyes and shrugged. “I came here once with my mother.”

“Do they run out? I mean, how is it replenished?” I kicked a bunch of sand into the water. It made a shushing sound as the puff of dust scattered across the surface of the liquid and sank. I smiled.

“I think its fed by an underground spring. But I’m not sure,” he began walking toward the playful group up the beach. I joined him and took hold of his hand.

“You OK?” I asked. It was one of those dumb questions that you can’t help but ask because you need an answer or conversation or something to divert your attention from the turmoil within. Of course he wasn’t OK. Neither of us were. The only good thing at the moment was that we were together. Everything else was terrible. We were on the run, contemplating going back to New Helsinki, feeling pursued by IRS agents (even though we hadn’t seen them in a while), and all hell was loose. I mean, honestly. How much worse was it going to get? I knew better than to ask that out loud, though. So I kept quiet and asked him if he was OK.

He seemed more pensive than normal. His eyes were on the red sand of the beach as we strolled toward the jubilant group of people. Off to our left was an enormous amphitheater. The New Sydney opera house, I guess it was called—there was only one other like it in the solar system, back on Earth, which I
had
seen in that program on the train. It was something they couldn’t part with, a big amphitheater on the edge of the water.

Crazy people.

That got me thinking about what I wouldn’t part with. Hemingway? What else was there that mattered to me? Home? How do I take home with me?

It struck me powerfully: that’s what the opera house was. And the rice paddies and the fish of New Tokyo. In fact, it was what all the names of the settlements were—links to home. Earth. That swirling white and blue ball, careening around the sun. Home.

Bringing all that stuff with us, bringing the names of that kinder, gentler planet with us (even though we all hated the government of Earth), was the best way to make this fierce red planet seem more hospitable.

And it worked. Sort of. As long as we brought enough with us to dress it up in friendly attire.

“I’m worried,” Hemingway said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“About what?” I asked. I mean, he had his pick of about fifty different things.

“Will all the blue hearts coming forward make a difference, or will it just make them targets? What’s the point?”

“Seems to me, if enough powerful people are blue hearts, then we’ll have to listen to them. And the government won’t be able to just send them off without caring about what they want.”

He stopped in his tracks and stood there, staring into the distance. Shaking his head vehemently, he said, “No it won’t. They won’t care about that. It will just make it easier for the agents to round us up. ‘They’re blue hearts,’ they’ll say. ‘We don’t want them in Parliament anyway.’” He threw a black rock over the water that he’d been skillfully rolling around his fingers. It skipped across the surface of the water and then sank.

“At least things are moving forward. At this rate the agents will have to try to wipe the minds of the entire population. They can hardly do that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said bitterly.

I laughed. “Really? You think it would be possible for them to do a mass-wipeout session or something? Because that sounds highly unlikely to me.”

“We don’t even know how they do it.” He shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets and stared at the fading rings in the water.

“Right, but they can’t be like, zapping us from a distance or anything like that. That sounds all, I don’t know, science-fictiony. Impossible. Futuristic.” I squinted. The sunbathers had started a fire and were gathered around it, roasting marshmallows. The flames looked weird in the daylight, transparent and wispy like a hallucination.

“You don’t think two hundred years ago people were thinking, ‘Artificial intelligence having souls? Impossible!’? Look at me, Retta. I was created by humans and not in the womb. And I have a soul. How possible was that a long time ago? How
conceivable
was it?” He dusted his hands off, took my hand carefully, gave me one of those seriously contemplative looks and began walking up toward the opera house. “I don’t ever let myself think something’s impossible. What someone can think up is as good as predicting the future.”

I shrugged, picking my way over a boulder-strewn hill, leaning on his arm for help. “I guess if you think of it like that, perhaps it’s possible. But why would they do that? It seems contrary to their goals of sending away new colonists.”

“If that’s their real plan at all.”

*****

I wanted to stay in New Sydney, but I didn’t want to fight with Hemingway and he was only looking out for me. He was right, after all. If something bad happened to Marta and I wasn’t there, I’d always regret it.

My mom had died. I knew what loss and regret felt like, and they were terrible and hollow.

Before we left New Tokyo, Hemingway had withdrawn several thousand markkas so the IRS couldn’t track us—if they even knew who we were. With it, we got a room on the top floor of a hotel that was one of the tallest dome-scrapers in the New Sydney settlement. There, we showered and dressed in new clothes we bought at a shop in the hotel lobby. Hemingway was feeling adventurous and bought a suit—a black one with a white dress shirt and a bow tie. When I asked him if he was comfortable, he said it was best to not get too comfortable at that point. Besides, he said he never had occasion to dress up. I laughed and put on my new black, red-accented FreeMars jeans—my first pair ever—draped myself in a white body wrap shirt, and pulled on a new pair of knee high boots. I was comfortable. And it was good to be in clean clothes. Till then, we’d worn the same clothes we left New Helsinki in.

We stood on our railed balcony and gazed out across the reservoir, past the amphitheater to the edge of the settlement where the farms lay in rows. Because I had now experienced the sensation of being hunted, watched, hemmed in, for the first time in my life, I understood what freedom felt like. Is this how it is to be a blue heart? I wondered, suddenly grasping a completely different subjectivity than I’d ever known. My eyes had seen things Mei’s had never seen. When we met again, could we even still be friends? I sighed. Hemingway hugged me closer. Afternoon passed slowly and evening closed in on us.

Cleaned up and changed, we paid the bill and left the hotel. The concierge eyed us as we departed, his eyes full of surprise and suspicion. We laughed as we pushed our way through the glass doors and passed the valet on our way to the train station.

At the station, we bought tickets on the soonest departure for New Helsinki, and then, as an afterthought, Hemingway bought two more tickets on a train leaving for New Hyderabad.

“Why?” I asked as we walked back to a little restaurant near the station. The train didn’t leave for an hour or so.

“I just had a feeling. A premonition.” He smiled and put the passes in his pocket.

A premonition? I laughed. He’d never struck me as clairvoyant, but I was willing to adapt to these things as they came my way.

The restaurant served modern Indian cuisine, which suited me because a lot of it was vegetarian to begin with. I ordered a curry and sat back to watch the Gram in the center of the room. I was feeling wary about what I’d see there. What dominoes would fall now? Already events seemed to be tumbling in a certain direction. The problem was that I couldn’t see to what end everything was flowing—toward Hemingway being on the next ship out into the unknown stars? To the colonization plans being disrupted and blue hearts being set free, so to speak? I didn’t dare let my hopes get too high. I never bought that old line that you ought to shoot for the moon, if you miss, you’ll land among the stars. Bull. That was one hundred percent untrue.