We Have Always Been Here

by Lena Nguyen

  The rest of their lessons were geared towards tradecraft, any labor that still couldn’t be done by robots and androids. Most of the students’ futures lay in the workshops and factories of the last surviving cities. Or, if they were lucky, in the robot design firms, or the therapy hotels, or the law and dispute centers and the writing and idea mills.

  Even more optimistically, the brightest of them were sometimes granted early education in aeronautical engineering, advanced sciences. The goal impressed to most children was to get the hell out of Dodge and make yourself useful on Mars, quick as you could. Or else try to invent your way out of the whole damned mess: come up with some miracle solution to the Comeback. But only the best were eyed for that. When the class size was reduced to two, the whole thing defaulted back to algebra and needs-based architecture, the latter of which robots still hadn’t figured out how to do.

  At lunch, Park stayed in her seat and ate at her desk, watching the newstreams on her wrist console while she held one of Glenn’s vegetable patties in her other hand. When Ms. Allison left the room, Park kept her eyes fixed determinedly on her screen; Dataran Zinh, the Martian transfer student, was sitting a few rows behind her. He hadn’t left the room, either. Park understood that it was expected behavior for him to get up and approach her eventually, being that she was the only other person in the room. But she prayed that he wouldn’t do this. There was an odd peace about learning in an empty classroom: a balming quality, like the feeling of closing your eyes for the first time after a long day. Park hoped that Dataran understood this feeling; that he would respect and preserve it. Would in turn leave her the hell alone.

  A chair squeaked. Dataran’s voice spoke, suddenly directly in her ear, though not so close that she could feel his breath. “So why did you come to class?”

  “I like to learn,” Park answered curtly, without turning her head. Hadn’t they ever heard of personal boundaries on Mars? There was all that space—thousands of acres of red land granted to each family. Maybe he thought it was Earth custom to jostle close; maybe it seemed that way to him, seeing all the bodies crammed into a single biodome.

  “Oh,” Dataran said. She felt rather than saw him lean back, probably dismayed that she didn’t make eye contact. “I like to learn, too.”

  He watched her for a while after that; he seemed to find no problem in standing there, observing. Park tried to quell her irritation. Move along, she wanted to say. Nothing to see here. Certainly the other boys in her class seemed to think so, with their flat disinterest in her straight-hipped body, the prim, closed-collar clothes that Glenn warned her looked school-marmish. “I can download fashion software,” he’d offered, meaning into his operating system. “I could discern the popular patterns.” But patterns couldn’t help her knife-flat frame, Park thought, or the fact that making eye contact with her was like “looking into the windows of an empty house.” So she’d heard one classmate tell another.

  “What are you watching?” Dataran asked.

  Park tilted her console at him briefly.

  “That’s where your interest is?” he said. “News?” His mouth twitched into a smile. “Human interest stories?”

  When Park didn’t answer, he said, tapping out a kind of rhythm with his long, pale fingers: “You’d do better to watch the cinema streams. Television shows.”

  “They don’t make those anymore,” Park said, surprised into answering. The film industry had died a long time ago, and who owned TVs anymore?

  “The old ones, I mean,” Dataran amended.

  “And why would I want to watch old filmstreams?”

  Dataran smiled then, straight into Park’s eyes. For such a pale, wan thing, his smile was like a hot glittering light, forceful and unrelenting. Park felt the corners of her own mouth turn down.

  “Everyone does it,” Dataran said. “If you do it too, then you’ll fit in.”

  And why would I want to do that? Park wanted to ask, but she only put the dry little vegetable patty into her mouth and turned away.

  After school, Dataran dogged her down the front steps to the gate that led out into the street. Glenn wasn’t there yet, which had only happened once before, when he was having maintenance done—and he had told her about that well in advance. Park felt staticky concern prick her stomach before she quieted it. What was the procedure here? Was she supposed to go home on her own? She hated disruptions in her routine, Glenn knew that—so where was he?

  Before she could decide what to do, Dataran broke in again, chattering into her ear.

  “You know,” he said, “I like you. As a friend, I mean. Of course. But. You’re nice.”

  Nice was the best he could come up with, Park thought sourly, and even then she knew she was the farthest thing from nice. Even Glenn wouldn’t call her nice, though he called her plenty of other things—positive assurance was in his programming—and where was he, anyway? Androids kept to schedules, they were never meant to be unpredictable unless something happened to them, and what was this hot and vinegary fear crowding up inside her heart? She dug her nails into her palm; her hands itched. She fought the urge to call out, into the thin air.

  “I was thinking we could hang out sometime,” Dataran babbled on, averting his gaze when she looked at him impatiently. “You know. Outside of school. If you wanted. That would be crash.”

  “Why?” Park asked finally, turning to face him.

  Dataran blinked. “Why . . . ?”

  And suddenly there was Glenn, rounding the corner of the building. Park felt something in her chest loosen at the sight of him. She started to wave in relief, but that felt foolish—she and Dataran were the only ones standing in the little schoolyard, so why would she need to attract his attention by waving? Dataran looked over his shoulder at Glenn, and even with his head turned, Park could see something in his face falter; some emotion she couldn’t read spasmed over his features. For a moment it seemed as if he was frozen in place, or winding up to deliver a blow. Then he turned quickly, muttered a goodbye to Park, and hurried off.

  “Who was that?” Glenn asked mildly as he drew up.

  “Some boy,” Park said. “Where were you?”

  “There was a traffic delay,” Glenn answered, a little too smoothly. “Rioters. The usual streets were blocked off. I had to recalculate. I apologize.”

  Park waved off his apology and handed him her bag. As they set off toward home, Glenn said again: “Did you know that boy?”

  “Dataran. This was my first time speaking to him,” Park replied. “Why do you keep asking?”

  “He displayed attraction towards you,” Glenn told her.

  “Yes.”

  “He exhibited the typical human mating behaviors. Flushed skin, dilated pupils, elevated heartbeat.” He paused. “It was quite . . . impressive.”

  “Why is that impressive?” Park asked, but he didn’t answer, and because she didn’t order him to, the subject dropped. Across the street, an older-model android dressed in a courier uniform was accompanying another dressed as a plumber. The two units stopped at the intersection Glenn and Park would have to cross to get home; it seemed that their paths were diverging, and they were preparing to go their separate ways. Briefly, the androids turned to each other and clasped forearms. Park had noticed that this was a gesture only advanced models seemed to perform. It was their way of saying goodbye, she surmised—if they liked each other. If they didn’t like each other, they usually didn’t say goodbye. They just left.

  “Are you jealous?” Park asked as they watched the two androids part ways. “Of Dataran, I mean.”

  She meant it as a joke, but Glenn didn’t smile; instead, he looked briefly sorrowful. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’ve never experienced that protocol. My processors would need time to recognize and acquire.”

  Something about his answer left Park feeling unsatisfied—more, it troubled her in a way she could
n’t name. They continued the walk home in silence, and once they got back Park went wordlessly into her bedroom while Glenn walked into the kitchen and began preparing dinner. It was Friday, so the city had opened the biodome vents at noon; warm, wet air circulated through the streets, and on the tenth floor of their apartment-module, Park could feel the heat of the outside world seeping into her skin like an infection. She had to keep blowing sweaty strands of hair out of her face, which irritated her. She peered at herself in the chipped mirror over her sink. How did Glenn see her? she wondered. He had ultra-resolution sensors in his eyes, along with all manner of visual filters, analysis modes, high-quality zoom-in features. She was sure that he could see the dampness of her hair, the unflattering sheen of sweat. Was she simply a conglomerate of flaws to him—large pores, hard frame, dark eyes that were neither luscious nor expressive, but slightly short-sighted, giving her a look of concentration that seemed severe?

  Or what about to Dataran? He’d asked to spend time with her—but why? What had appealed? Probably nothing—probably it was simply a farce. But she was curious. She supposed her cheekbones were adequate, her lashes dark and long. Her skin and hair looked healthy, at least. Perhaps Martian tastes actually tended towards bodies that were narrow and tough: it mimicked the compression of space.

  Glenn rapped softly on the door. “I have finished preparing dinner,” he said when she gave him permission to come in. He paused in the threshold, regarded her standing in front of the black-flecked little mirror.

  “May I ask what you are doing?” he asked. “I’d like to understand.”

  She turned to him. “Glenn,” she said. “How do you see me?”

  “I have optical sensors that operate on ultrasonic piezo actuators—”

  “No,” Park said. “I mean, when you look at me—what do you see?”

  Glenn blinked; his expression was unreadable. “I see you,” he said.

  “But what am I? To you?”

  “You are you,” Glenn said calmly. “There is nothing else. I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  Park sighed. “I know,” she told him, resigned. “Never mind. I don’t know what I mean.”

  She sat down with him for dinner. But the muggy heat had chased away her appetite; the thought of food made her a little queasy, like chocolate cake in a sauna. When Glenn put a plate of fish fingers—50% real fish! boasted the advertisements—in front of her, Park could feel her face flattening out in distaste.

  “Something’s bothering you,” Glenn said, observing her. He had internal sensors to monitor the temperature of the room, but he didn’t feel it, per se: androids of his make had coolant running through their systems to prevent overheating. He was always at the perfect temperature.

  “It’s hot,” Park said. “We’ve used up our air-conditioning rations for this month, so—”

  “I apologize,” Glenn said. His eyes were cool and impassive. “I should have noticed you were uncomfortable. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “No,” Park said, sighing. She picked up a fish finger and nibbled on the end. “It’s not that. Never mind.”

  “You’re not hot?”

  “No, I am. But never mind.”

  After dinner, she went through the media feeds to find a torrent of an old romantic film. The available selection confused her: what was the difference between Pretty Woman and Beautiful Girls? All of the images showed similar-looking actresses in similar close-ups, throwing their heads back and laughing at something invisible or off-screen. How to tell what was good? What even made a romantic filmstream good? The most amount of kissing per capita? Actors displaying the greatest amount of love? How did one measure that?

  “Glenn,” she said. “I need your help.”

  She was now sitting on their old, lumpy couch; he appeared over her shoulder. “Yes.”

  Park tilted her console at him. “Pick one of these filmstreams. I don’t know what’s good.”

  For a moment Glenn merely looked at the screen without expression. Then, when he looked at Park again, his eyes were unfocused a little, practically crossed: a robotic indication of extreme bafflement. A soft little click came from his head; then there was a furious processing, the smell of ozone suddenly blasting from him. “You want to watch this,” he said, carefully, without an inflection to indicate whether it was a question or a statement.

  “Yes,” Park said, embarrassed.

  “Are you feeling well?” Glenn asked. “This is highly unusual.”

  “Yes,” Park said. “It’s just a change of pace.”

  Glenn’s expression contorted: it was something between mystified and amused. Eventually they settled on using his random number generator to select a film; at Park’s invitation, Glenn sat down beside her with his knees at exact ninety-degree angles and his feet perfectly together. As the filmstream began, he said, “Are you still overheated?”

  “A little,” Park said, and Glenn placed his chilled hand on the back of her neck, his thumb on the artery to cool her blood.

  It wasn’t until later, when they’d struggled through ninety-two minutes of improbable run-ins and confusing verbal cues, that Park suddenly realized what had bothered her about Glenn’s comment earlier in the day. It came when the protagonist of the movie said, “I love you, but I have to let you go.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on,” Park said flatly.

  “I don’t, either,” Glenn said. “This is beyond the scope of my experiential sub-processors.”

  There it was, Park thought; her brain felt like it had suddenly flexed. He’d said something similar, about Dataran and jealousy: “I’ve never experienced that protocol.” Watching the two characters on the screen embrace, the music swelling around them as they melted with love, Park finally understood what it was about his comment that had troubled her so much. I’m no better than him, she thought. She had never experienced that protocol, either.

  Out loud she said, “What is it like to kiss someone?” The two characters on screen were engrossed in the activity, their mouths making softly wet sounds as the movie came to a close.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Glenn answered. “Having never done it before.”

  There was a vague and innate knowledge within Park that, in any other circumstance—in a movie, perhaps—this would be her cue to do . . . something. Instead she said, feeling angry for no reason: “Well, of course you haven’t.”

  Glenn pondered this for a while, all the way until the credits faded to black. His hand was still resting lightly around her neck. “Kissing,” he said, obviously pulling it from the data banks, “is a primate-exclusive behavior utilized to mediate feelings of attachment between pair-bonded individuals and to assess aspects of mate suitability.” He looked at her then, as if proud he could give her an answer.

  “Yes,” Park told him, feeling as if she might cry. “Thank you. I understand.”

  * * *

  —

  Dataran found Park again the next morning, falling into step with her on the way to school. He must have been waiting, watching; there was only a scant city block between Glenn slipping off and Park crossing the picket line, and Dataran materialized almost as soon as Glenn left. He sidled up to Park and said cheerfully, “Good morning.”

  Park said nothing, only watched him out of the corner of her eye. If Dataran was perturbed by Glenn’s appearance the day before—or by Park’s own standoffishness—he didn’t show it. There was a “pep in his step,” as the old saying went—he swaggered with some secret confidence. She was suspicious of this, and wary of any further attempts to commiserate; what was there to be so happy about? She thought that maybe he was being smug—that he somehow knew that she’d watched a retro filmstream, after all. She’d followed his advice against her will. Maybe he was going to see what else he could push her to do.

  But Dataran, jogging a little to keep up with her,
only said, “How are you?”

  It was funny, Park thought, how much more advanced ISF colonies were in relation to Earth. Spacer technology and resources were so much more extensive, and what limited knowledge she had of Martian culture and governance impressed her. And yet they’d also regressed to archaic Earth conventions, some of them, in many ways replicating and relying on the old behaviors more than biodomers did. Who asked anyone how they were doing, anymore? It was an empty ritual, something to be said by rote—meaningless, in the long run, like Glenn saying “I understand.” She’d thought they’d evolved past the need for nicety by now. And what answer was Dataran expecting from her, anyway? Or what answer did he want?

  “You made a hasty exit yesterday,” she said, in lieu of a response.

  “Did I?” Dataran’s smile didn’t waver. When he slowed to a halt, Park found herself slowing with him, unwillingly; her feet dragged as if she were resisting a strong wind.

  “You look like you’re coming down with something,” Dataran said.

  Park looked quickly around. In a close-quarter, closed-off environment like the biodome, even minor illness was taken extremely seriously. A bout of coughing on the city streetcar had everyone around rummaging for their surgical masks and Immuno-Blast syringes. Rapid outbreak was an acute concern; she’d be in trouble if anyone heard Dataran’s comment. That same morning, Glenn had been reluctant to let her leave the apartment-module at all. “If your teaching unit notices, it will enact quarantine protocols and send you home,” he’d warned.

  Because Park did feel ill: the overheated feeling from the day before had never really gone away. When she’d gotten out of bed, her head had felt like a sack of pulp. She felt as if she’d slept encased in warm, wet wool. She wanted to peel her skin off. But when Glenn had told her to stay home, she’d refused. She couldn’t say why—only knew that she felt troubled around him, suddenly. Looking at him made her heart jerk, as if he’d done something to hurt her. As if she wanted to cry.