At one point I actually vomited in our little private bathroom. When I came out, there was a look in Hemingway’s eyes that told me he knew what I was going through. He wrapped his arms around me, one hand cupped the back of my skull, entangled in my hair, and I breathed his warmth.
“It’s OK, Retta,” he whispered. “He was going to hurt you. It was done in self-defense. And I’m proud of you—you did what was necessary. Nothing more.”
I avoided his gaze. “Yeah,” I said, pulling away.
He released me reluctantly. “What’s bothering you?”
We sat down. The suite had a small two-seater couch rather than chairs. I turned sideways and faced him, but still had trouble meeting his gaze. “Just. I don’t know. I guess—I guess I’ve never hurt anyone before, really. He has a body, like mine, and it feels pain. I know how pain feels. And all I can think of is how I’m the one who helped him to that pain. It makes me sick inside to think of it.”
His eyes got a distant expression in them. “Yeah.”
“You know what I mean?” I asked, with a short, awkward laugh. I picked at my thumbnail.
“It’s like you know that if you don’t do something drastic, they’ll keep coming for you. So you take it up a notch. It sickens you, but you do it because you don’t know what else to do. Then, when they come back, you take it up another notch. You know what they’re feeling when you kick them in the face or break their arms. But it doesn’t stop them. They come back, like they enjoy it.”
“Uh, what?” I asked, stunned. “That was a little detailed.”
His eyes focused on me. The gauze of reliving a memory vanished. “Sorry.”
“You’ve broken arms before?”
He studied the carpet, which was this plush, deep shag. “A few. I never forget it either. Every fight is in my head somewhere, orbiting my conscious like the moons. I told you before: my mom and I really get how dangerous Synlife is,” he sighed, finally looking into my eyes. Sparks flew in the widening irises. His expression was so matter-of-fact, a part of me wondered if I was in the clutches of an angel or a demon. Not that I was in his clutches. But, well, was I? Or was I there of my own accord? The thing is, if you’re with a demon, they’ve made you want to be there.
I remained silent, trying to comprehend what Synlife had done.
“It’s nothing I relish, Retta. Violence is more of a necessary evil. But that’s all every fight is—defend yourself or be destroyed. Kill or be killed. That it bothers you so much does you credit. If you’d enjoyed hurting that agent, even though he was going to do something terrible to you, we’d have something to worry about.”
“So,” I said, pausing to collect my thoughts. “What’s happened with Synlife?” I finally asked.
“You’ve seen the facility. How did it look to you?”
I shrugged, remembering the night Mei and I broke in. “Creepy. I remember the huge vats of blood. That was the most disturbing thing I saw.”
“Have you wondered where the blood comes from?”
“I can’t decide if it’s synthetic blood or . . . something else.”
“Let me help: it’s something else.”
I gasped, a hand flying to my mouth in shock.
“The employees give their blood once a month. One could argue if it’s voluntary or forced. My mother began to struggle with it. But they need it. They have the amounts calculated down to the liters, how much each employee has to give to keep up their production. If a person doesn’t do it, there’s no space for them in the facility.”
“Sick,” I said, shaking my head.
“Is it?” He gave me a curious look. He was sincere. “I can’t decide what I think about it. I wouldn’t be alive if some people weren’t willing to sacrifice their blood. I feel this strange, I don’t know, thankfulness for that, as though I owe each of them. But I’m also revolted at the way Synlife forces it on their employees. That’s one of the reasons my mother finally left, along with the other stuff.”
“But you made it sound like you’ve fought with them,” I said, biting my fingernails nervously.
He ran both hands over his face. “I have. Synlife has this clause in their contracts that if you leave, they have the right to reclaim their property.”
I furrowed my brow and shook my head. “What property? Her equipment? You said she has a lab at your apartment. Is that it?”
The meaningful look he shot me made my stomach flip.
“No,” I said, my voice totally incredulous.
“Yeah. I mean me. She created me there, after all. Parts of me, anyway.”
“So they’ve been trying to get you back like you’re some sort of indentured servant? But that would be kidnapping!”
“Kidnapping? A blue heart?” He gave a clipped, bitter laugh. “If you can somehow manage to remain unknown as an android, then perhaps you could convince someone that certain laws apply to you. But if your tell is very obvious, you’re met with derision and nasty jokes about how you deserve to be mistreated.”
I shook my head in wonderment. How could it have all come to this? The blue hearts made life on Mars possible. The narrow, clear tunnel covering the train tracks outside the window of our suite was there because of the engineering team of blue hearts—they were the ones who came up with the material composition that allowed it to survive the extreme winds, the solar radiation, the space debris that rained down on the planet weekly. And the domes that covered the settlements—same thing. And there were other ways that we owed our lives on Mars to the blue hearts. And all these facts were forgotten in the mess of fear and social stratification.
“You’ve fought them, then?”
“A few times. Sometimes they’ve come for me at home. Other times as I walk home from school. A couple of their repo men came to the school to get me once. That was the most recent attempt and it was a while ago. Maybe they’ve been busy with other things.” He smirked.
I couldn’t believe it. I wondered if that was the time I saw him in the cafeteria, months ago, walking out with someone from the office.
All this talk and we still hadn’t addressed the most important issue: what would we do back in New Helsinki if they came for Hemingway for the colonizing expedition. I voiced my question. We sat there in silence, an ominous tone settling over us.
“Run?” I asked at last.
“Running didn’t help much this time,” he said.
“That’s because of Marta. If we tell our parents and explain everything, maybe we can run and it’ll work. Maybe Marta will get better and we won’t have to worry about her getting sick again.”
He glanced out the window. It was dark by now, twilight had come and gone like a quiet house guest. Sighing, he finally said, “Let’s just wait and see. We have each other. We’ll be together in New Helsinki. I’ll stay with you, or you with me. And we’ll get a feel for what’s happening. The ships may not be leaving for years still.”
“I’m not just going to let them take you. This conversation is only on pause,” I said. I was finally beginning to feel normal again. Mostly. Weird too, because I’d seen a side of myself I’d never thought I’d see. It would take some getting used to. I was strong. I wouldn’t just lie down and die. I’d fight back, even if it meant killing. I didn’t want to kill. It was permanent and that sickened me.
But if it meant dying, I’d kill first. If it meant letting Hemingway die, I’d kill first. If it meant letting dad or Marta or Hemingway’s mother die—now, since she mattered to Hemingway—I’d kill first.
*****
Hemingway went to meet his mother at a neutral location, worried that her apartment was being watched, and I approached the hospital carefully—trusting the agent hadn’t lied when he said he really didn’t care about me, just the android. I got inside without any problems and watched her room long enough to be sure it was safe. How long did it take the IRS to respond to situations? I mean, had the agents we fought on the train already notified someone? Were they on their way to find
us and were all the places that meant anything to us being observed?
I didn’t know. I had no way of knowing. But what I did know was that I needed to be with my father and sister. And I prayed to God, Buddha, whoever, that there would be a moment, a day, or two, where I could take care of these things before they came for me or Hemingway again.
When my dad came out of Marta’s room, I went to him.
“Where is she? How is she?”
“Retta!” he gasped, hugging me tight. And then, more sternly, he said, “Retta.”
“I know that tone, Dad. Not right now, I need to see Marta.”
He stepped back, looked me over while still holding onto my upper arms, and said, “This isn’t over. There’s a conversation we need to have.”
“After,” I said.
He nodded. There were small indications that he’d been through the ringer: his face seemed to sag and his eyes drooped a little. An ache plunged into my stomach—he was mortal. I never thought too hard about it. But I could see how the worry ate at him. Guilt for causing some of that worry nagged at me. I pushed it away and went into Marta’s room while my dad went to find a cup of coffee.
Marta looked terrible. The minute I saw her, I was glad we had come back.
She lay in the hospital bed, her face even paler than normal, her eyes encircled with dark shadows.
I smiled and took her hand. It was cold. “Hey,” I said.
“Retta, I was worried about you!” she said, her voice sounding weak and raspy
“You were worried about me?” I jabbed her gently in the ribs. “Well it’s my turn to be worried. Get better already.” She sounded really terrible and it took all my acting abilities to pretend like seeing her so bad off didn’t make me want to burst into tears.
“I want to.” She looked up at me with those bright green eyes, so full of innocence. A pang of fear went through me. “Where’s Hemingway?” She tried to see past me, but fell back into the bed with a grimace.
“He’s with his mom. We got back this morning and I came right over. Dad’s outside. He’ll come in soon.”
“Is he mad at you?”
“What do you think?” I rolled my eyes dramatically.
She scratched her cheek and smiled. “Has he lectured you yet?”
“I’m sure he will later. For now he’s just glad we’re back.”
“Where’d you go?”
“New Tokyo. New Sydney.” I waved my hand casually to demonstrate how boring my missing-in-action moment had been. “Nowhere exciting.” I gave her a teasing smile.
“Those places sound exciting to me. I’ve never been anywhere.” She played with a loose thread on the white hospital sheet, looking glum.
“Hey come on. They’ll still be there when you’re better.” I squeezed her forearm encouragingly.
“If I get better.”
“Pish. Don’t talk like that. It’s bad for your mental health.” Still standing beside her bed, I gave her hand a little squeeze. “So, do they know what’s wrong?”
“Something with my heart. Some kind of heart disease. It’s making me tired and weak. I fainted when dad and I realized you were gone. It sucks.”
“And do they have a treatment for you?” I ignored the uncomfortable feeling that it was my fault she fainted.
“They’re working on it, I guess. For now I’m stuck here.”
“What, is it like, new or uncommon or something?”
Her tiny shoulders rose in a weak shrug and I felt a batch of warmth behind my eyes like I was going to burst into tears. She was so small and innocent. So undeserving of this. Hadn’t she already been through enough?
“Is it genetic? Is it something you catch? Have they told you much?”
“Not really. Dad knows more than me, I think.”
“Well, isn’t that killing you? I mean,” I stuttered, totally horrified at my choice of words, “sorry, um, isn’t not knowing completely frustrating?”
“I don’t want to know. I don’t care. If I never find out, I can keep thinking I’ll get better and it will vanish, whatever it is. I’ll get better, Retta. I know I will.” She looked up at me with her pale complexion and those green eyes that seemed to confess a fear of being defeated. She was being so calm and mature about it. I wondered where her strength came from.
I leaned over her bed and hugged her. She felt like a tiny bird in my arms and I shoved my tears down and told her she would get better if I had anything to do with it.
“I miss mom,” she said when I let her go. That almost did me in. I nearly lost it. I bit my lip hard and smiled around it like there was nothing heart-wrenching about my hospitalized little thirteen-year-old sister telling me she missed our mom. “Do you ever miss her?” she asked, squinting at me and fiddling with that thread. She’d wrapped it around her finger and was pulling it tight.
“Yeah, I do. All the time. But you know what, Marta?” I took a deep breath. “Mom misses us too. She’s here with us, right now, I can feel it. She never leaves us. She never really left us. She’s just changed,” I said, surveying the room. Marta looked around too like she might be able to see mom. I went on, “She’s a spirit now. But she’s real.”
I don’t know if I believed what I was saying, but I wanted to comfort Marta. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t true anyway or whether I believed it. What mattered was how it made Marta perceive her situation. Did it make her feel less alone? Did it make her feel like there were more people on her side? If so, then I was willing to tell her the things she needed to hear.
“How’s it going in here?” Dad asked, poking his head into the room. He came in and sat down in a chair behind me. He took a sip of the coffee he’d returned with. I backed away from the bed and sat down next to him. I backed away from the bed and sat down next to him.
“Good,” Marta said, flashing me a look that said she wanted to keep our conversation to ourselves. “I’m glad Retta’s back.”
“As am I, Marta. As am I.” He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head at me as though to say, “I can’t believe you ran off like that.”
“What?” I asked, defensively. “Dad, there’s a lot you don’t know. So much. I didn’t just run off because I’m bad, or a runaway, or something.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Real mature, Dad,” I said, shaking my head.
Marta laughed. Both Dad and I looked at her, then back at each other. That was the first time I’d heard her laugh since my return. I smiled. If verbally sparring with Dad got Marta feeling good, I was willing to fall on that sword for her.
*****
“You what?” Dad shouted, his face quivering in barely contained rage.
We were back at the apartment. Marta was still in the hospital, but Dad would be going back later to stay with her through the evening and night. I’d just told him about the marriage ceremony I’d done with Hemingway.
“I married him,” I said resolutely. I wasn’t going to let him bully me into backing out or changing what I’d just said, which is what yelling is supposed to do, I’ve always thought.
“What? You . . . how . . . what?” He sputtered loudly again. His face turned purple. A vein began popping out of his neck as he stood, stock still in the middle of the great room. His fingers were clasped tightly around a glass of ice water. I worried he was going to crush the glass and cut his hand up.
“Dad, look. It was bound to happen someday anyway. I mean, maybe not to Hemingway, but to someone. If not him, then someone else, although I don’t really want anyone else, so it’s him.” I crossed my arms over my chest and lifted my chin up. I would hold my ground. That’s what adults did and I was going to be an adult about this.
“Retta! He’s a blue heart. A blue heart! You can’t marry a blue heart, you can’t—you can’t be with one, like, like that. Intimately, I mean. He’s—he’s a freak.” He closed his eyes, put his free hand to the bridge of his nose, and tilted his head back like he was so appalled. It was dramatic and un
like my father. “What do you think? That you’re some sort of crusader? You won’t change the world, Retta. If anything it will change you. You’re messing with forces that are far bigger than you can possibly imagine.”
I stared at him like he was being a total moron. Which he was. I’d never say that, though.
“Dad, you’re being a total moron.” Well, maybe I would. “This is ridiculous. It’s done and you can’t stop it. We’re together. It’s what we both want. And I’m old enough to make my own decisions. And what do you know about being intimate with a blue heart? Have you tried it?” I folded my arms, challenging him to making some admission about his possible sex life with the blue hearts.
“No, no. I’ve never done that. More important, I’ve never wanted to.”
“Why not? They’re always beautiful. So much more beautiful than humans.”
“Retta, they’re artificial. They were created by human hands.”
“So were humans. But not their hands, generally. I mean, humans are created by humans.”
“Not the first human.”
“No? Who created that one?”
“Well, God, I think, but I don’t really know,” he said, looking distracted and putting his glass of water down on the circular, wide rim of the living room Gram. He sat on the long sofa and leaned back with a deep sigh. He’d finally calmed down enough for us to have a real conversation.
“So you’re telling me you believe in God?” I asked quietly. Dad wasn’t religious. He never took us to church even though there were thousands of them, the strongest of which was the Church of the Atheists for the Triumph of Scientific Thought, but when mom was alive, she only took us a few times to the Methodist church.
“No, no. I’m not. I’m just saying, humans were first. It was our advancements that brought the blue hearts to life. You’re like a God to them. All humans are. You’re taking advantage of your position of power over them.”
“They don’t worship us,” I said, gasping and going to sit across from him. “They’re just like us. They have souls. Do you even think about that? We made them, and from somewhere, consciousness came to them, they became awake. They have souls.”
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