Blue Hearts of Mars (17 page)

“Oh, has an entire night gone by?” I asked, sitting forward. Yes, of course. I was still disoriented. Realization hit me and I almost leapt to my feet. My dad. Marta. “I need to get home. I need to speak to my father.”

“We took care of that,” Hemingway said, squeezing my hand. “He said he’ll come get you when you wake up, to just let you sleep.”

“Oh, right,” I said, feeling a little disappointed. “He just wanted me to sleep? Really?”

“He doesn’t know the extent of what happened. I thought you should talk to him about that,” Hemingway said.

I nodded. “OK.”

“You remember, then?” Sonja prodded, one dark-red eyebrow rising.

“I think so. I just don’t know how I got here.” I looked at Hemingway. “Did you carry me?”

“Yes,” he said, patting my hand, continuing to hold it with both of his. It was nice. It felt right.

“But why didn’t you just take me home?”

He looked at his mother as though to say, “Your turn.”

Sonja cleared her throat. “Retta, did he—” she broke off, suddenly awkward.

“What?” I asked, staring at her, then at Hemingway. “No, my word, no,” I said, in sudden understanding, taking a deep breath. “At least, I don’t think he did. He tried—the monster—but Hemingway stopped him. I fought. But he was too strong. Hemingway saved me.”

They both exhaled loudly, relieved. “Thank the heavens,” Sonja said. “That’s why Hemingway brought you here. In case the man had succeeded, Hemingway wanted me to be able to—shall we say, stop anything that had been set in motion.”

“You mean, in case he got me pregnant?” I asked bluntly. Talking about it, my ire rose. I felt myself growing tense. My shoulders hunched up toward my ears. I wanted to spring to my feet and start kicking things.

Hemingway began rubbing my back. I realized I was sitting forward, on the edge of the sofa, my fists were clenched, and that meant I had a death grip on Hemingway’s hand. As he touched my back, the tension eased. I took another deep breath.

“Yes, yes, of course. In case he got you pregnant,” Sonja said.

“Who was he?” I asked. “Do you guys know?”

Sonja shook her head, tucking a strand of red hair back over an ear—or at least, trying to. The frizzy lock popped out from behind her ear like a coiled spring. I turned to look at Hemingway. His lips were drawn into a thin line.

“No, we don’t,” he said quietly, his voice flat, angry. “But he’s dead now. Gone. Men like that shouldn’t live.”

“Dead,” I repeated. I knew that. So why did it bother me to hear it? “But that’s murder. Are you going to be in trouble?”

“No,” he said.

“The law is lenient when it comes to the death of an android,” Sonja said, her dark voice sounding a tad disgusted.

“There is no law about it,” Hemingway put in, his own voice seething with irritation. “That’s in my favor, for once.” I suddenly realized what I was searching for as I studied his face. Signs of the battle. There were none. He was totally healed. New. Last night his cheeks were bruised and almost broken. Today they were smooth and perfect.

I closed my gaping mouth. “I just, I can’t believe you killed him. It’s . . . upsetting. I mean, it’s murder,” I repeated.

Hemingway released my hand, jumped to his feet, and began pacing around the room, weaving between the furniture, pausing to look out the window. The sun was beginning to rise. Light streamed into the room, making a striped pattern on the bamboo flooring where it came through the railing around the balcony. I exchanged a confused glance with Sonja.

“Retta,” he said, stopping, placing his hands on the back of an empty armchair and leaning forward. “I killed a man who was trying to
rape
you. He was hurting you. When he was finished, he may have killed you.
Killed
you.” His gaze drilled into my eyes. I was transfixed. “A man like that does not deserve to live. And I don’t regret for a second that he’s dead. That I killed him. I would kill a thousand more men if they tried such a thing.”

OK. Wow.

“Alright, well, thanks,” I said, unsure of how to respond to such a declaration. Was he—I mean, did he want to get back together? The thought caught me by surprise. Since waking, it was just like we were back together. It felt like that. Did I need to address it? “I just don’t want you to get in trouble.”

He waved a dismissive hand, straightening. He still had hints of blue on his cheeks though he’d changed out of the clothes he wore the night before. “It’s my fault you were there anyway.”

Oh
yeah
. I’d forgotten that.

“Well, if you’re OK, Retta, then I’ll just be off. I have some matters to attend to at the university,” Sonja said, rising. She was dressed in a business outfit, I suddenly noticed. I’d been so wrapped up in everything else that I’d missed that detail. It was Sunday. What could she possibly be doing there?

“My mom’s been hired as a consulting faculty member,” Hemingway said proudly, watching his mother gather a few things, including Isaac. She tucked the little dog under her arm—he seemed used to it.

“I still spend most of my time here, in the apartment across the way—my workshop—but yes, I teach a few days a week.”

“Nice. Great job,” I said, smiling politely.

“It was wonderful to see you again, Retta,” she said, taking my hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Tell your father hello. I’m so glad nothing too terrible happened to you.”

“Thanks,” I nodded, remembering how I kicked my heel into that android’s eye. I felt my face turning white.

“You OK?” she asked, her eyebrows gathering in concern.

“Yeah,” I said, not very convincingly. “I just remembered and—um—but, I’m fine, thanks!”

“Good,” she nodded. “I’ll see you tonight, son,” she said, and left.

We were alone. Hemingway and me. Alone again.

Neither of us said anything for a moment, and then, without warning, Hemingway was on the couch next to me, cradling my face in his warm hands, smothering me in kisses. “I could have lost you,” he whispered, in between kisses, “I barely got there in time, it was my fault, my fault,” he went on, kissing me, and saying things like that.

It was great. Really perfect. I mean, all I had to do was almost get defiled and killed to get him kissing me again. No big deal. I’m sure most girls execute similar plans all the time.

I kissed back, of course. And it went like that for a while. Some part of me felt a bit of revulsion, though, just because of the nearness of the memory of the night before, but I punched it back down into a bottle and sealed it, like sealing up a genie, so I could enjoy the attention.

We kissed for a while. It was just like before, only more intense because there was so much more tinder this time—the time apart, tinder; nearly getting killed, tinder; feeling like I lost him, tinder; being reunited, tinder; being forbidden to be together, tinder. It’s amazing how much can be kindling in a case like this, and how hot the flames of love can become merely because of some thought or thing or item in your past.

After a while, we stopped. My lips were sore, actually. I wanted to go forever, but it wasn’t possible. We lay there on the couch, holding each other. Breathing deeply. Hemingway kept pushing me away slightly so he could look into my face. Every time he did, his eyes were on fire.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally, touching my chin gently with his thumb.

Those words made me relax all over.

“Really?” I asked, sitting up, separating from him. I didn’t want him to let me go, but it was time to talk.

“Yes,” he said, reluctantly releasing me. “Where you going?”

“Nowhere. Just getting up.” I adjusted my clothes. It was gross that I still had on what I’d worn the night before. I needed to clean up. “What about the girl you were with last night?” I asked, suddenly. I couldn’t get her beautiful face out of my mind. And how amazing they looked together.

Hemingway’s expression went stony. “What about her?”

“Who is she? For starters.”

“Just a girl.”

“Your girlfriend?” I asked, feeling snide.

“She’s an android.”

“I figured. No human could look that perfect. So . . . are you together?”

He looked away. His jaw flexed. He breathed out his nose loudly.

“Well?” I prodded.

“No one can interfere, Retta. No one will hurt her because of me. No one.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said, a wave of cold crashing over me. I stood up, holding onto my stomach like I was going to vomit.

Hemingway’s face crumpled. “Don’t go.”

“Do—do—you love her?” I stammered.

He stood up. That’s when I realized I was backing to the door.

“No, I want
you
. I love you, but she’s—she’s,” his fists were clenched at his sides. He reached an imploring hand out to me.

“What? She’s safe? She’s easy?”

He closed his eyes, then opened them, slowly, and the fires were out as though the galaxies had stopped spinning within them. “She’s an android. There
are
no complications. Being with me can’t hurt her.”

“Then have her,” I said, my voice thick in grief and rage. I stumbled out the door.

“Retta, please, come back!”

I ran from the sound of his voice.

I looked like one of those refugees from the famines back on Earth, before millions came to Mars just as things got really bad there. I walked through the borough toward home. My violet dress was wrinkled, torn, and covered in dirt. A few tears had crept down my cheeks and I caught a glimpse of my hair in the window of a pastry shop as I passed by. The chopsticks holding it up were totally askew and most of it was down around my face in ragged snarls. I considered adding a limp to my gait just for the fun of it. It would not have been out of place.

Sunday mornings and weekday afternoons the farmers brought in produce from the most recent harvest and set up a market along the street of our area. Others joined them—glassblowers, potters, knitters, bakers, whatever. Most people in New Helsinki tried to have two specialties, if they could. My dad even brought some of his plants down from time to time and set up a booth to sell them. I wove around the booths and through the crowds, not even caring at that point that I looked so terrible. People stared, their mouths gaping as though they wanted to ask if I needed help. I glared at them until they turned away.

I really did want to know what Hemingway’s problem was and why I allowed myself to get so carried away. I ought to know better. I should. I mean, look at him. Beautiful people always get their way, and it doesn’t matter if they’re an android or not, things will still go their way. People will still bend to suit them.

And I’m clearly no different from all those idiots who swoon.

Even after being with him all morning, I still didn’t know if he was dating that girl. Or if it was casual. It didn’t matter, I thought, trying to work up my resolve. I was through with him. I never wanted to think about him again.

I stepped on a rock, grimaced, and began limping.

Great. Limping. Visual complete. Total refugee.

I was in bare feet. Honestly, even if I’d seen my shoes in Hemingway’s apartment, I wouldn’t have taken them. There was probably eyeball ooze on the heel. I never wanted to see those heels again in my life. In fact, the moment I took my dress off, I’d burn it. The thing was tied to bad memories all around.

At last I came to my street. I lived ten blocks from Hemingway, apparently, but the walk felt like an eternity for a number of reasons. I was alone again, to name just one. Hemingway kept messing with me, I’d been violently assaulted the night before, I was in bare feet—to name a few more.

I came to my building and walked up the stairs to the glass doors, ignoring the calls of fruit-sellers and wine-makers. My hand was on the door when I heard a frenzied shouting and a commotion coming from behind me. I turned and saw a man running through the market with a flag waving behind him. Not a flag really; a white sheet tied to a pole. The words, “Equality for all. Androids unite for freedom from oppression,” were scrawled on the sheet in black letters.

People were shouting at him and throwing things as he passed.

I gaped as I watched him plowing through the crowd, ducking to dodge a couple large vases and a bottle.

“Machine!”

“Monster!”

“Baby-killer!”

“Ingrate!”

Baby-killer?
I cringed as the faces of people in the crowd turned sneering, demonic, cruel.

Soon the flag-bearer had passed and the throng integrated again and people began arguing with each other over the intent of the words on the flag.

Baby-killer.
Where did that one come from? Was it just something horrible to shout at him or was it true?

I surveyed the mass of people, wondering what it would take to cause a war—tension seemed high—and then opened the door and went up the elevator to my floor.