Blue Hearts of Mars (6 page)

Mars had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of rare minerals and metals that increased human capacity to fine tune the androids. It was the androids who first came to Mars and prepared the planet for real humans to come settle. They set up the first domes and colonies, the space elevators, and some of the mining operations. I guess those androids didn’t require the same amounts of oxygen and pressure as the newer androids like Hemingway. Because I don’t think Hemingway could just pop out onto the surface without a pressure suit like his ancestors had done.

So here I am, on the brink of dating one, and the androids look like individuals. I mean, like unique. I don’t know why they keep making them, because Mars is settled now, but they do and the blue hearts are part of us. Sometimes you look at someone and just know: android. Other times, like with Dr. Craspo, you look at him and think: could go either way.

I knew Hemingway was one because I could see those galaxies of lights deep in his eyes, his
tell
. I don’t know what
tells
are half the time. Hemingway didn’t try to deny it. I’m not sure if that’s because he was made that way, or if it’s how all blue hearts are. But people hear the rumors—like Stig—and they believe them, and they make the android’s life hell. And Hemingway lets them. Maybe because he’s afraid to confront a human?

Hemingway leaned back into the couch and crossed his legs. Dad had his forearms balanced on the tops of his knees and was rubbing his hands together.

“I’ll talk to her, and then let you know,” Hemingway said politely to Dad’s request to meet Hemingway’s mother.

“I’m a botanist,” Dad said, touching his chest. “It could be interesting to have a conversation with her.”

Hemingway nodded. “Sure. Of course.”

“You didn’t say what kind of engineer,” Dad pointed out, sounding genuinely interested.

“No, I didn’t,” Hemingway shifted, as though uncomfortable. “Synthetic-life.”

The words hung in the air between us, a leaden bubble that suddenly crashed down into fragments of silence.

“So wait,” Dad said, his finger paused mid-air, about to point accusingly at Hemingway. Dad leaned forward, his eyes squinted, straining to see Hemingway clearly, “Does that mean—no, no, impossible.” He shook his head as his gaze swiveled to me. “Unless—”

“What?” I asked, my voice becoming cold and defensive.

“Retta,” Dad said. I’d heard my name in those tones a million times.
Retta, you’re not going to work five days a week. Your job is school right now.
Or
Retta, you had better explain to me where you were until two in the morning.
And
Retta, this is not up for discussion. You’re my responsibility until you turn eighteen. After that, you can go to Earth all you want.
Dad went on. “Is there something you two aren’t telling me?” His lips were pursed together into a thin line of holding-back-judgment. But he knew where this was going.

“No,” I said, shaking my head emphatically.

“Actually,” Hemingway said at the same time. We exchanged a glance.

“I know where this is going,” Dad said with a long sigh. He fell back into the striped, red cushions of the sofa.

“Nowhere, Dad, it’s no big deal,” I said, my voice going an octave higher into a borderline hysterical pitch.

Dad didn’t seem to be buying it. Hemingway was quiet. His eyes were focused on the floor beneath the glass coffee table. A waterfall scene played across it. It was peaceful. The exact opposite of the general mood in the room.

Dad rubbed his eyes. “Retta, you know this is wrong. And illegal.”

“But why? There’s no reason for it.”

“Hemingway?” Dad turned to him, as though Hemingway would have to back Dad up out of sheer decency.

Hemingway looked up. His eyes smoldered with rage. “What? Did you want me to side with you? Because I won’t. Sir.”

Woo! I smiled at Hemingway. He took my hand and squeezed it tightly. His palm was wet with perspiration. Nervousness. That boosted my courage.

“So you’d really let my daughter compromise her future? That’s not love, kids,” Dad gave Hemingway an accusing look, his eyes flicking back to me.

“Love?” I laughed. “Dad, we’ve only
just
started hanging out. But even if we hadn’t, what’s that supposed to mean? Hemingway doesn’t decide my future, I decide it. And I want to be with him.”

“You marry the people you date, Retta,” Dad said, his nostrils flaring in frustration.

“So? So what if I did want to marry Hemingway?”

“You can’t,” Dad’s face darkened. He swept his blond hair back with both hands. “They won’t allow it.”

“But why? Look at him, Dad. He looks just like us. He’s kind and beautiful. And they never say why we can’t be with them.” I suddenly felt like a jerk for saying
them
like Hemingway wasn’t a part of humanity. He was outside it. Grouped with the blue hearts.

“He’s an android!” Dad yelled, leaping to his feet, waving an angry hand at Hemingway.

I jumped in my seat involuntarily. My dad usually didn’t raise his voice. When he did, I knew it was bad. Hemingway put a protective arm around my shoulders, pulling me close into his side. I could smell the musk of sweat near his neck. “Maybe I should go,” he whispered in my ear. “You and your father have some things to work out. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head weakly, but I knew he was right. I didn’t want him to leave. When would I see him again? We exchanged a look. He stood up and said goodbye to my dad, who had turned away from us and was staring out the far window. There was a small balcony out that window that my father had turned into a greenhouse. Some people used them for basking in the filtered sunlight, enjoying the pretense of being outside, maybe watching the sunset or the moons rising. Dad put his to use. Through the condensation on the window I could see the profiles of some ornamental breed, orchids or lilies of the Nile. I reluctantly let go of Hemingway’s hand as he headed for the door.

My dad murmured a barely audible goodbye.

The front door closed behind Hemingway and I felt a piece of flesh being torn from my heart on a tenterhook. I could almost see it trailing after him.

If I had wanted a conversation with my dad about why we couldn’t have relationships with androids, I got one.

He sat down with me and we had a long talk. At one point, Marta was discovered lurking in the hallway, her face looking gaunt and tired, but vibrantly curious. How long had she been there? Just a few minutes, she answered sheepishly. That meant she’d been there since before Hemingway left. She wasn’t even in her pajamas. Dad sent her marching back to her room and this time he checked to make sure she got in her pajamas and into bed.

Overall, Dad didn’t have any answers—at least, not about the restrictions. I was beginning to discover that no one did. I hadn’t even found a solid explanation on the Webs, Earth’s or Mars’.

I got Dad to see it from my perspective, slightly. At first I thought he was going to simply lay down the law and forbid it, telling me that if I was going to live under his roof, I’d be forced to do it his way. Instead, he agreed to meet with Hemingway’s mom and they’d have a conversation. Maybe she had some answers for me about the restrictions.

I explained that I hadn’t known she was a synthetic-life engineer until Hemingway told Dad. That must mean she was truly Hemingway’s mother, in a sort of non-traditional sense. I could just imagine her, creating him like some kind of guy named Gepetto out of some old fairy tale. I wondered if she had ever been married and if she wasn't able to have real babies or something.

I bet if I asked her that, she would tell me that Hemingway
was
a real boy. Just a hunch.

During our little talk, Dad chided me a bit. He reiterated that you marry who you date. “We’re not dating,” I said. “We’re spending time together.”

“Dating, spending time together, same thing,” he said. He took my hand and got an even more serious look on his face, “Retta, I know we don’t always get along. I know you miss your mom. I miss her too. But you have to trust me. Nothing’s going to come of this but heartache.”

“It’s
my
heart, Dad. And it would get broken by a human boy just the same as by an android. Come to think of it, I don’t even see him as an android. His heart is the same as mine: a heart. That’s all I care about.”

“That much is obvious,” he nodded, pursing his lips into an expression that told me he was tired of fighting with me. “It’s your life. You’re almost eighteen anyway. But if and when this turns into a fight beyond you and me, remember that I warned you.”

“What are you talking about? A fight bigger than this?”

“I mean, I don’t know what will happen if you proceed on this path. I don’t think Hemingway does either. If he did, I’m sure he’d respect the boundaries placed by society between androids and humans.”

“If
they
wanted us to stay away from each other, why make them like humans? Why are they so beautiful? Why are they so kind? Why do they let them live among us? It doesn’t make any sense, Dad.”

“I wish I knew,” he answered, with a frustrated sigh. He shook his head. “But I don’t. I’m just a flower-breeder.”

The conversation ended there. I went to my room, feeling cold inside and Dad stayed in the front room and kitchen, making himself a midnight snack rather noisily. He was upset. I could tell. But I’d spent my whole life upsetting him, so it wasn’t a new thing.

I felt extremely alone in my room. I mean, more alone than normal. Dad’s warning—delivered as ominously as possible—had gotten to me and sent me into a gloom spiral. I laid on my bed, wondering what could possibly happen if someone took issue with me spending time with Hemingway. And what if I married him? Or worse, what could happen if I consummated my relationship with him?

I wanted to. There was no question about that. It was an appealing thought. I mean, I hardly knew what it meant, since I’d never done
it
. Not even with Stig. No. Sick. I couldn’t even recall wanting to.

Hemingway made me feel differently about it.

I began to wonder if a human had ever had sex with an android. Knowing what I knew about the world—which wasn’t much, beyond the cliché expression “if you could imagine it, someone had done it”—I figured they had. When they did, did they explode into a thousand tiny pieces of flesh? Did the android melt into a puddle of metals and skin? Did a squad of law enforcers suddenly appear and arrest both parties?

The creepy thing was that I could imagine all three scenarios being real possibilities. Everyone knew about the IRS—Information Recovery Services—but how they worked and . . . well, why, was obscured by an ironical lack of information on the subjects. 

A soft tinkling of bells rose through the quiet music I’d put on in my room, which was small, but comfortable. The bed was pushed up against the far wall. There was a glass desk in the corner, a narrow closet for my clothes, and a dresser next to it. Two walls had art on them—flowers, actually, special breeds my dad had done and he hired a photographer to compose three dimensional images of them along with cross-sections and scientific notations. The images rotated. It was pretty cool, in fact, but sometimes I wished I could hang what I wanted to display. It wasn’t worth the fight. The wall above my bed was mostly Gate. The very Gate that was ringing at me.

I sat up on my bed. Someone was phoning me. I touched the Gate. It was Hemingway. My heart leapt and I began to smile.

“Hi,” I said, answering the call.

“You alright?” he asked. His head was tilted down, brow knit together in a look of concern.

“Well enough. You?” I touched my hair. It was completely messy, what with wearing a hat at the coffee bar and everything that had happened since.

He nodded. “Honestly? A bit upset. Your dad made me think about things I somehow overlooked.”

Fear gripped me. “And?”

“Maybe we’re being hasty.” He didn’t even hesitate in making that comment about being hasty.

“We’re not,” I said, leaning toward the Gate and nearly falling off the side of my bed. “Who cares what my dad says? He’s a father. Fathers are always insanely protective of their daughters. He would find a reason to disapprove. If it wasn’t that you’re an android, it would be that you’re male. That you have testosterone. You know this. Fathers hate letting their daughters grow up and be around other men.” I knew I was sounding desperate, but the time for caring about that ended when I first realized I wanted him. It was like he pulled the desperation out of me with his intense eyes and stupidly perfect smile. If I wasn’t so smitten with him, I would have simply hated him for being a model of physical perfection.

He nodded at how much sense I was making, looking thoughtful. “You’re right. True points. But I don’t want to hurt you, Retta. Being with me can hurt you in ways I can’t even imagine.”

“My dad wants to meet with your mother,” I said quickly, hoping to steer the conversation away from a possible decision to end things. “I think he wants to know more about you.”

Hemingway smiled. “Really?”