Blue Hearts of Mars (24 page)

I stared as a mother walked up to a nearby arch and helped her child touch the stone. “See? See? It’s smooth,” she said to the boy. He smiled and caressed it. They looked happy. What did people think beneath the surface? I couldn’t tell from watching them. In fact, everyone looked fairly happy and carefree.

The stone arches made me feel small. I gazed up at the nearest arch, holding Hemingway’s hand tightly, and had this epiphany that I was small. The arches were ancient, smooth, and beautiful. They got that way by resisting the forces around them. They were older than the city. The city was older than me. Everything would be around longer than me. My cares were tiny compared to all this.

We’d been walking a while and had seen about seven arches. The path was deceptively long as it curved and bent around on itself.

I sighed. “I can’t believe this is in the middle of the city,” I whispered, leaning toward Hemingway’s ear. I felt closer to him than ever before. Holding his hand as we went along was just an extension of the unity the ceremony established, and the things that transpired afterward. I wondered if people could tell. Was it written on my face that we were one?

“I’m glad it is,” he said, leaning his free hand against the base of the nearest one—it was easily ten times bigger than him. He leaned his head back to stare up at it. “They left it here, these natural formations, rather than tearing them down to build the city.” Hemingway squinted and looked around.

“How is it even possible? I mean, what made them?” I knew he’d have an answer, which would save me the effort of looking it up or reading one of the flashy placards next to the nearest arch.

“The wind.”

“Maybe they should call it the wind garden.”

“I like that. The wind garden.”

Suddenly he stiffened. I felt his back against my arm become rigid and I looked up at him in alarm. His face was frozen in a plastered-on smile. “IRS agents,” he said without moving his lips. It came out slurred and I stared at him, confused, before I understood what he meant.

I resisted the temptation to search for them.

“Keep walking,” he said. We began backtracking, making for the exit. But we’d already gone the distance of several city-blocks. I couldn’t see getting out of there without the agents spotting us.

“Where will we go? Back to our room?”

“Let me think,” he whispered. He kept smiling. Translating what he said became harder as we moved through the garden because of the music playing through hidden speakers placed along the trail.

We rounded a curve in the path and came face to face with another group of agents.

“Oh no,” I said, frozen in place.

For a moment we all just stared at each other, the two agents looking like clones of each other, black hair greased back and dark goggles hiding their eyes. Both of them glanced down at their Links where 3D holograms of Hemingway and I hovered, then they looked back at us. “Hey,” one of them began, raising a hand as though to take me by the arm.

“Run!” Hemingway collided with them, knocking them over, and they scattered like toppled bowling pins, falling with loud thumps onto the dusty path and rolling away.

We were off, speeding back through the garden, shoving tourists aside. I shouted apologies when I could, but mostly I just ran.

The path was cursed. It curved and wound around the formations like the sinuous line of a wicked snake. The whole place was a canyon that ran through the center of the city, and stretching for several blocks. Until that moment, as I was running, I’d been unaware of just how far we’d walked.

Trying to get out of the park using the path was taking too long. “This way!” I shouted. Hemingway glanced back at me. I released his hand and headed off the trail, going under a looming arch. The rock was smooth. The soles of my shoes gripped it nicely. I heard the soft chuff of Hemingway’s breath and the crunch of his shoes over the stone.

We darted beneath more arches, climbed stony swells, scrambled down the other side, and occasionally checked over our shoulders. The agents had left the path to follow us. I pushed myself harder. Somehow I always found the strength to keep going.

The city towered around the perimeter of the garden like frost on the edge of glass. Even though the stone surrounding us was so natural, the city was always there, with its dome-scrapers shooting toward the sky.

We came to the exit, my breath a ragged wind in my body, and shoved through the crowds rushing in and out. I could hear the pursuing agents behind us, their voices raised at the crowds, “Get out of the way! Out of the way!”

And I hated them. If they wiped my mind . . . what would I remember? Would Hemingway still be mine? Would I remember our promise? Would I recall the feel of his body next to me? The questions propelled me ahead, too afraid to allow myself to ever find out the answers.

As we tore out of the admission building, our feet slapping onto the paved streets, Hemingway shouted, “This way.” He snagged my hand and yanked me after him.

“Just pick me up already,” I said. “You know it would go a lot faster that way!”

“Everyone will know,” he hissed, as we pushed through the maelstrom of bodies.

“Who cares?”

“Fine,” he grumbled, barely pausing to scoop me into his arms. At least that way I didn’t end up a sack of trash, slung over his shoulder, my bones and guts jostled into a frappe.

“How’d they even find us?” I asked when I finally caught my breath, one arm slung over the back of his neck, but he didn’t answer.

The crowded streets were easier for Hemingway to negotiate without having to think about me. I gazed out at the sea of faces and heads. Some of the people in that throng paused to clap as we passed by, like we were doing a performance. The world bounced up and down in my vision. I began to recognize some of the shops and thought perhaps we were going toward our hotel.

Hemingway ran so fast. It was astonishing, really. And I couldn’t help but believe that we’d left the agents behind long ago, but there was no way to know. I soon realized that we weren’t heading for our hotel. He was taking us to the train station.

He hurtled into the station—a grand airy building with vaulted ceilings and windows that streamers of sunlight poured through—took the stairs up to the ticket platform two at a time, and put me on my feet as he purchased two tickets. I didn’t catch what settlement he picked, he spoke so fast. The kiosk spit out the tickets and before I could read mine, we were running to the train platform. I didn’t even have time to consider whether or not we were still being followed.

A sleek blue and white train waited at the platform, its engines already humming and purring. The platform was empty except for a conductor who strolled along, checking the doors with his hands clasped behind his back. He spotted us and jumped, startled. I watched as he began shaking his head, as though he was about to tell us we were too late. 

“Now, Retta!” Hemingway urged me, ignoring the conductor and pulling me up the stairs into the car.

We slipped between the closing doors, spit out on the other side by a gust of air as the compartment pressurized and the doors sealed and hissed as their electrical barrier formed. The train jerked forward and I stumbled into Hemingway who swayed slightly, one hand gripping a railing beside the doors. The train was off! Darting out of the station, silently swooshing forward.

We were on a dining car, I noticed in surprise as I regained my feet and breath. The other passengers resumed their conversations as though our mad rush to board the train had put everything on hold. I flopped toward a window seat, my legs loose and watery from the receding panic. Outside, I caught a glimpse of red-emblemed shirts and black jeans at the end of the platform, arms waving madly.

I slumped against the window, my breath pouring out of me. As I inhaled, I felt the strength returning to my knees.

Hemingway came up behind me and wrapped me in his arms. “That was close,” he said into the top of my head.

“Too close,” I answered with a full, almost bottomless sigh. “Where we going?”

“New Sydney.”

“Good. I’ve never been there. Let’s only stay a night and move on. We should never stay very long, wherever we go.”

I’d nearly had my memory wiped. My
memory
. That was what made me, me. It was the only thing linking me to Hemingway. To my dad. Marta. If I lost my memory, I’d lose everything.

For the train ride, we had a sleeper compartment. It was posh. A total suite, with a comfy bed along the outside wall that slid into the panel beneath the window when not in use, a table and two chairs bolted to the ground, and a couch along the wall opposite the table. I felt like a rich girl, like Mei must feel every night except that she’s used to it so she doesn’t notice how great her life is. The bed was better than my bed back home—which made me realize that I’d had the same bed for about ten years. So it didn’t take much to outdo that, I supposed. The window next to the bed was a Gate, too, so if we wanted one, we had a pathway to the world without having to leave our quarters.

We checked the dining car and train cars closest to us for agents, then I went back to our compartment and lay down to catch my breath. After the mad dash to escape the IRS agents, I was exhausted, emotionally as much as physically. Hemingway sat in the small armchair and read, saying he wanted to make sure we’d really shaken the agents before he could relax.

When I woke up it was dark outside as well as in our compartment. Hemingway snored lightly behind me, taking up half the bed. I lay there quietly, facing the outer wall of the train car, and kept thinking about having my memory wiped. The idea sickened me, sending chills of fear up and down my arms.

In school, we had learned about people who’d gotten sick and randomly lost their memories. There was one guy who lived over two hundred years ago whose short term memory reset every seven seconds and he barely remembered his own kids. For a while, he would keep notebooks where he recorded the time when he woke up, as though from a deep sleep. Invariably, when he saw the previous records, he’d cross them out because he didn’t recognize them as his own. He remembered his wife and that he loved her, but every seven seconds, sometimes longer, he would greet her happily as though he was seeing her for the first time—even if she just left him for a moment to go do something.

It was one of the saddest things I’d ever heard. I mean, on an individual basis, because there were certainly sadder things in the universe, like how the blue hearts were considered less than human. And war. War is always a sad one. I mean, the most recent war, the one between Mars and Earth, was completely messed up.

Entire vessels of men, women, and children, were destroyed. I thought about their bodies, floating lifeless in space, scattering in all directions. There were people on Earth who never wanted to stop trying to get to Mars. And war was a bad reason to stay on Earth. But Earth didn’t want to give them up. A planet needs bodies to keep it productive.

Lying on my back, I stared out at the moons, sought the constellations that always comforted me, and listened to Hemingway breathing beside me. It was nice to not be alone in the night, as I slept, but it also took getting used to. It was hard to ignore him. His body was like a fire and the thought of him so close made me feel like I had a fire in me.

I rolled to my side, and turned the window beside the bed into a Gate with a swipe of my fingers. The glass shimmered and then went dark as it took me online. I entered my unique ID and waited as the preferences loaded. Soon I was staring at my familiar screen that was as comforting as home, as my bedroom, as my former life.

Taking a deep breath, I opened a document creator and began quietly dictating a message. Just as I was finishing, a Gate-call came through. The soft ring startled me and I jumped. Hemingway stirred but didn’t wake.

The call was from my father.

“Blast,” I muttered.

I posted the document on my home website and then sent links to a bunch of sources. There was no way to be anonymous about it—anonymity on the Web had ended a hundred years ago. I had to take ownership. I hoped it didn’t ruin my life. I hoped Hemingway didn’t hate me for doing it.

I hit ignore on the call and rolled onto my back.

The pit of my stomach swirled with anxiety. My dad was looking for me. I was a horrible, horrible daughter. I’m sure he probably had a heart attack when I didn’t come home. He’d most likely tried to get help in looking for me. I wonder if he’d figured out that I was with Hemingway.

If I spoke to him now, he’d ask where I was. The conversation would wake Hemingway. And dad would see Hemingway beside me. I was certain my dad would explode in a rage and I wouldn’t have a chance to explain anything before the shouting match ensued.

No. Talking to my dad right now was a bad, bad idea. It was enough that he knew I was alive. He’d seen my profile light up. In fact, he probably could tell from where I leeched my profile.

The window beside me went clear again and I watched the stars. Hemingway rolled over and put his arm around me.

“Was that your dad?” he whispered, his voice rough with sleep.

“How’d you know?” The fire in me stoked hotter with his touch.