Blue Hearts of Mars (28 page)

It’s electrified. Of course. I always knew that. Everyone knew that. Safety measures. A deterrent, so people didn’t throw themselves from the train into the thin air of Mars. My gaze darted back to the agent, who was not more than three feet from me. Grunts, cries of pain, and bone-crunching noises came from the other end of the train car.

“Retta! No! Retta!” Hemingway cried, such anguish in his voice. “Shut your eyes!”

The agent in front of me pushed the wand or fork or what-the-crap-ever it was, towards me.

I shut my eyes and lunged forward, shoving my hands out as I did, crashing into the agent. I heard him exclaim in surprise as I plowed him towards the door. He resisted, but I dug deep and channeled my rage and used it to press forward with all my might. I gave one last mighty heave and pulled back, opening my eyes. I watched in bewilderment as the agent fell into the electrified door.

He shook as a jolt of power went through him.
He’ll come for you again. He won’t give up.
I heard a voice say to me from deep within.

I hesitated, then, recalling the cruel tool he almost used on me—to wipe out a part of my life, to destroy a part of me—I lifted my leg and using my rubber-soled boot—God bless it—I pressed him against the door.

The agent shook and jittered, his face turning white.

A hand on my shoulder startled me. I pulled my foot back.

“Retta.” It was Hemingway. “Stop. You’re not a killer.”

There were tears on my cheeks, I realized. The agent was alive, barely. He slumped down until his face was on the floor and the electric door released him.

I turned. The blue heart agent lay defeated in the middle of the car. He groaned and rolled to his side, clutching his stomach.

I blinked up at Hemingway. His eyes stared down into mine. The lights in his pupils flashed and winked like stars. He hugged me. “Let’s go,” he said. “They’re both alive. But only just, for now.”

We ran for the door, leaving the devils to put themselves back together again.

We rode the rest of the way hiding in our compartment suite with the door shut. It wasn’t much, but at least if they came looking for us, we’d be able to barricade ourselves within.

I huddled close to Hemingway, feeling shaken and lost. I’d almost killed a man. Was that the sort of person I was? A killer? Hemingway said I wasn’t. But did he even know?

For a while we didn’t speak of it, and I was just as glad to go on in silence as my brain processed the entire experience. I kept seeing the agent shaking, a dribble of spit popping out of his mouth like sizzling grease in a pan. I still felt my foot driving him into the door, the weight and resistance of his body against my leg.

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.