Blue Hearts of Mars

by Grotepas, Nicole

  “I—I don’t know,” I whispered.

  “Would you kiss an android? Or would the rules stop you?”

  His eyes were alight. I felt like I was staring at the heart of a galaxy and I remembered the first time I stared into his eyes. I didn’t have an answer to what he asked. At least, I didn’t know how to speak. I closed my eyes and let myself fall into his lips.

  Would a siren go off? Would a fire engine suddenly appear, full of men in uniforms who would pull us apart and arrest me?

  I mean, were there even any precautions against this? Because I was kissing an android!

  And it was amazing!

  And you know what? I didn’t care what the rules were. I kept kissing him. And he touched my face and I touched his and I ran my fingers through his hair and it felt like hair. I pulled away and we simply hugged for a moment and I smelled his hair and it smelled . . . like hair, like good, delicious hair, and I could feel his heart racing beneath his ribs as we held onto one another.

  We stayed that way for a moment. Then we parted, he took my hand in his, and I stared into his eyes. There was a light in there. A galaxy, yes, but it was more than that. It was the light of awareness. Of a genesis, a birth, a dawn. Or something.

  We stared at each other silently for a second. I was surprised. Elated. Overwhelmed. “You feel real,” I found myself saying.

  He laughed and his smile meant something completely new to me. It was an intimate smile. One shared between two people with a secret. A past. A history. He answered, “I am, yes. What did you expect?”

  My hand was still enclosed in his, and he stood up straight, pushing off the wall and pulling on my hand at the same time.

  “I don’t know,” I responded. “I have no idea.”

  “Are you going to run away from me, now?” he asked, pulling me along. We began walking. He let me lead and I took us back toward my apartment.

  “Why would I run away?”

  “Fear?” He raised an eyebrow and I shook my head.

  “I’m not like that,” I said.

  “I didn’t think you were. So then, what now, Retta?” He sounded so sincere that I stopped and stared at him. He turned to face me. Around us people parted like a dusty wind as they went past, ignoring us, and some made noises of irritation that we were in the way. Streetlights illuminated the pavement of the narrow road. The buildings rising around us like ever-vigilant sentries glowed beneath their windows. I was hyper-aware of how I was able to see people in their apartments, seeing into slices of their private lives. A little boy—who should have been in bed, really, if you thought about what time it was—knelt on the back of a couch, gliding his finger across the Gate as though browsing for toys or a show to watch.

  I found myself saying, as all these things went on around us, as though everything in the universe—my universe—hinged on what I said next, “We keep going, I guess. Unless you change your mind.” A door slammed near us, voices rose above the street, a man walked down the stairs from an apartment building to the street, his small dog on a leash.

  “You mean, just keep doing what we’re doing? Without a plan?” Hemingway asked, a hopeful tone entering his voice.

  “That’s right. No plans. Just us.”

  “And if someone challenges you?”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

  “They will challenge you, you know. And,” he sighed, “it might get really ugly. I’ve been dealing with it my entire life, but you, well, it will be totally new to you.”

  “I’ve had my share of difficulties. I think I’ll be able to manage.”

  He nodded. His face was serious, but a grin broke across his perfect cheeks. He rubbed his hands together and then offered me one. I took it and we headed back to my house.

  My dad would be home. So, you know, let the challenges commence.

  5: Domestic Conflict

  So. My dad. Let me explain a few things about him.

  Well, first of all, my mom died when I was twelve and my dad has just kept going. I don’t know what else he would do, but sometimes I think it’s pretty rough for him. He works as a botanist, so he’s gone to the greenhouses all day and when he comes home at night, he smells like dirt and the perfume of the flowers he’s working on. Sometimes he deals with trees and other types of plants, but usually it’s flowers. There are others like him whose main work is finding edible plants that can survive in the colder temperatures and harsh soil of Mars. I suppose at some point the plan is to be able to terraform the planet, but for now we all live under the domes near the many geothermal vents as the atmosphere slowly thickens from the CO2 that escapes the semi-permeable membrane of the dome.

  When my mom was alive, life felt smoother. She took care of Marta and me, and dad worked a lot more than he does now. Nowadays, I have a job to pay for my own things, and dad manages to work less so that he can be home more frequently with Marta. I don’t always get along with my dad, so it’s fine that I’m gone for a while after school because that way we don’t butt heads.

  He’s fairly strict. I love him, I suppose, but I really suspect that he’d run my life for me if he could. A morbidly curious and rebellious part of me was hoping that bringing Hemingway home would shake things up. I hoped Hemingway could deal with a shake up. If not, there’s no future for us anyway.

  When we got to my apartment, dad and Marta had just finished watching a show on the Gram in the great room and he was sending her to bed. She complained about it being too early, and he pointed toward her bedroom with a firm look on his face. Marta cast a rueful glance at me as though she was imploring me to step in for her. I shook my head and shrugged. Her eyes flickered over Hemingway and I felt him stiffen in recognition of being sized up. We were still holding hands because I wasn’t about to pretend for their benefit. With a flick of her hair, Marta turned and marched off to her room, stomping along the way in protest. I knew she wanted to talk to us and meet Hemingway, but she would just have to do that later.

  “Now then,” my dad said, turning to me and Hemingway, standing in front of us, sort of blocking us from going further into the apartment. He crossed his arms and weighed us both with his gaze.

  “Hey Dad,” I said. “So, this is Hemingway. I know him from school. Hemingway, Dad.” Hemingway nodded and moved forward to offer his hand. Dad didn’t acknowledge him and Hemingway stepped back to my side and I took hold of his hand again.

  “You’re late,” my dad said, keeping his gaze leveled on me.

  “Only a little,” I said, glancing at the time hovering over the Gram. Ten-thirty. Dad likes me home before ten. “We went for a walk when I got done.”

  “You’re holding hands,” Dad observed astutely.

  “Yep,” I said, keeping hold of Hemingway’s hand. I knew my dad wanted us to let go.

  “So what, does that mean you’re together?” he emphasized together like he wanted to laugh at that thought. He hadn’t relaxed his stance. It was an all-out power-struggle. My mom always used to say that if it was a power-struggle I wanted, she would win. And she did, usually. But Dad isn’t mom, and besides, mom would understand. Dad hadn’t liked Stig either; I tend to agree with him now. But Hemingway is different. And not just different in that he’s an android. I wondered if Dad was going to notice that. Well, if he didn’t, I wasn’t about to tell him.

  “Yes,” I answered, my eyes flashing to Hemingway’s face and back to dad. There was a challenging set to Hemingway’s jaw, as though he was about to charge at my dad and lock horns with him.

  “How did you meet?” Dad asked. “How long has this been going on?” He raised his chin and I noticed a twitch of his eye, like he was irritated that he’d been left out of my life.

  “School,” I said. He obviously wasn’t listening before. Not surprising. “A while,” I lied. For some reason. I guess I wanted him to feel left out.

  Hemingway still hadn’t said anything, but Dad hadn’t given him a chance.

  “How old is he?” Da
d asked me, not Hemingway. Awkward.

  “My age,” I answered, not knowing the precise answer to that. As if it mattered.

  “Who are his parents?”

  Er. I didn’t know the answer to that. I turned to Hemingway and gave him a look that meant, “You answer.”

  Hemingway stepped forward, letting go of me and offered his hand to Dad again. “Good to meet you. My mother is a former engineer. If you’d like to meet her, I can arrange that.” Dad accepted Hemingway’s hand slowly, scrutinizing him as he did so.

  A wave of anxiety weakened my knees. I held my breath. Would dad see the tiny lights in Hemingway’s eyes? What would he say if he did? Hemingway held up nicely, but I felt sure I was about to faint from the pressure.

  “Former? What does she do now?” Dad asked, continuing to stare at Hemingway.

  “Consulting. She still engineers, but mostly on her own projects.” After the handshake, Hemingway stood casually in front of my dad, meeting his gaze, conversing. I wanted to pull him back to my side, to avoid the confrontation and revelation that would surely come if he continued to stare so confidently into my dad’s eyes.

  What was happening to me? As soon as the stakes got higher, I became a complete weakling. All that wanting to shake things up and now I was eager to back out. Hemingway continued, “She had different views and her superiors didn’t appreciate it. They call her in from time to time, but mostly she does her work from her personal offices and laboratory.”

  Dad rubbed his chin, studying Hemingway and mulling over what he’d said. Dad nodded, and said, “Mind if I ask what those views were?”

  Hemingway shrugged. “You could ask her. I don’t feel comfortable speaking on her behalf.”

  “That controversial, huh?” Dad prodded.

  Hemingway smiled. “You could say that.”

  “What’s your intent with my daughter?” Dad was never one to mince words. Still, I gasped. What sort of question was that? He’d only just met Hemingway. I'd only just begun a relationship with him! Not that my dad knew as much because I’d already lied about how long we’d been together. But anyway. Heat rushed into my face.

  “Dad! Really, come on. Totally unnecessary,” I interjected, stepping forward. Was I really just now leaving the entry foyer of the apartment? I took Hemingway by the arm and pulled him to the big sofa in the great room.

  “It’s OK, Retta,” Hemingway said, touching my hand. “I don’t mind.”

  “Well, I do,” I said. “His intent is to spend some time with me, Dad. And have fun. That’s it.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Dad laughed, and followed us toward the couch. Oh great. Now he was going to babysit us.

  “Come to think of it, Hemingway, I would like to meet your mother. When can you arrange it?” Dad sat down across from us. I coughed. This was going all wrong. First of all, I really thought my dad would be able to tell that Hemingway was an android. The kids my age were doing it all the time. Sometimes it’s harder to tell and other times it’s easy. It really just depends on the individual and the circumstances, or so I’ve heard.

  First of all, the androids were made to settle Mars before real humans did. The story goes that they weren’t as beautiful then. I’ve seen pictures—it’s true. They were a bit more rudimentary, with their skeletons all exposed—dull metal bones, hydraulic joints, tendons, and ligaments shining in the harsh orange atmosphere of Mars before the domes were up.

  Mars had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of rare minerals and metals that increased human capacity to fine tune the androids. It was the androids who first came to Mars and prepared the planet for real humans to come settle. They set up the first domes and colonies, the space elevators, and some of the mining operations. I guess those androids didn’t require the same amounts of oxygen and pressure as the newer androids like Hemingway. Because I don’t think Hemingway could just pop out onto the surface without a pressure suit like his ancestors had done.

  So here I am, on the brink of dating one, and the androids look like individuals. I mean, like unique. I don’t know why they keep making them, because Mars is settled now, but they do and the blue hearts are part of us. Sometimes you look at someone and just know: android. Other times, like with Dr. Craspo, you look at him and think: could go either way.

  I knew Hemingway was one because I could see those galaxies of lights deep in his eyes, his tell. I don’t know what tells are half the time. Hemingway didn’t try to deny it. I’m not sure if that’s because he was made that way, or if it’s how all blue hearts are. But people hear the rumors—like Stig—and they believe them, and they make the android’s life hell. And Hemingway lets them. Maybe because he’s afraid to confront a human?

  Hemingway leaned back into the couch and crossed his legs. Dad had his forearms balanced on the tops of his knees and was rubbing his hands together.

  “I’ll talk to her, and then let you know,” Hemingway said politely to Dad’s request to meet Hemingway’s mother.

  “I’m a botanist,” Dad said, touching his chest. “It could be interesting to have a conversation with her.”

  Hemingway nodded. “Sure. Of course.”

  “You didn’t say what kind of engineer,” Dad pointed out, sounding genuinely interested.

  “No, I didn’t,” Hemingway shifted, as though uncomfortable. “Synthetic-life.”

  The words hung in the air between us, a leaden bubble that suddenly crashed down into fragments of silence.

  “So wait,” Dad said, his finger paused mid-air, about to point accusingly at Hemingway. Dad leaned forward, his eyes squinted, straining to see Hemingway clearly, “Does that mean—no, no, impossible.” He shook his head as his gaze swiveled to me. “Unless—”

  “What?” I asked, my voice becoming cold and defensive.

  “Retta,” Dad said. I’d heard my name in those tones a million times. Retta, you’re not going to work five days a week. Your job is school right now. Or Retta, you had better explain to me where you were until two in the morning. And Retta, this is not up for discussion. You’re my responsibility until you turn eighteen. After that, you can go to Earth all you want. Dad went on. “Is there something you two aren’t telling me?” His lips were pursed together into a thin line of holding-back-judgment. But he knew where this was going.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head emphatically.

  “Actually,” Hemingway said at the same time. We exchanged a glance.

  “I know where this is going,” Dad said with a long sigh. He fell back into the striped, red cushions of the sofa.

  “Nowhere, Dad, it’s no big deal,” I said, my voice going an octave higher into a borderline hysterical pitch.

  Dad didn’t seem to be buying it. Hemingway was quiet. His eyes were focused on the floor beneath the glass coffee table. A waterfall scene played across it. It was peaceful. The exact opposite of the general mood in the room.

  Dad rubbed his eyes. “Retta, you know this is wrong. And illegal.”

  “But why? There’s no reason for it.”

  “Hemingway?” Dad turned to him, as though Hemingway would have to back Dad up out of sheer decency.

  Hemingway looked up. His eyes smoldered with rage. “What? Did you want me to side with you? Because I won’t. Sir.”

  Woo! I smiled at Hemingway. He took my hand and squeezed it tightly. His palm was wet with perspiration. Nervousness. That boosted my courage.

  “So you’d really let my daughter compromise her future? That’s not love, kids,” Dad gave Hemingway an accusing look, his eyes flicking back to me.

  “Love?” I laughed. “Dad, we’ve only just started hanging out. But even if we hadn’t, what’s that supposed to mean? Hemingway doesn’t decide my future, I decide it. And I want to be with him.”

  “You marry the people you date, Retta,” Dad said, his nostrils flaring in frustration.

  “So? So what if I did want to marry Hemingway?”

  “You can’t,” Dad’s face darkened. He swept his b
lond hair back with both hands. “They won’t allow it.”

  “But why? Look at him, Dad. He looks just like us. He’s kind and beautiful. And they never say why we can’t be with them.” I suddenly felt like a jerk for saying them like Hemingway wasn’t a part of humanity. He was outside it. Grouped with the blue hearts.

  “He’s an android!” Dad yelled, leaping to his feet, waving an angry hand at Hemingway.

  I jumped in my seat involuntarily. My dad usually didn’t raise his voice. When he did, I knew it was bad. Hemingway put a protective arm around my shoulders, pulling me close into his side. I could smell the musk of sweat near his neck. “Maybe I should go,” he whispered in my ear. “You and your father have some things to work out. I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head weakly, but I knew he was right. I didn’t want him to leave. When would I see him again? We exchanged a look. He stood up and said goodbye to my dad, who had turned away from us and was staring out the far window. There was a small balcony out that window that my father had turned into a greenhouse. Some people used them for basking in the filtered sunlight, enjoying the pretense of being outside, maybe watching the sunset or the moons rising. Dad put his to use. Through the condensation on the window I could see the profiles of some ornamental breed, orchids or lilies of the Nile. I reluctantly let go of Hemingway’s hand as he headed for the door.

  My dad murmured a barely audible goodbye.

  The front door closed behind Hemingway and I felt a piece of flesh being torn from my heart on a tenterhook. I could almost see it trailing after him.

  6: History

  If I had wanted a conversation with my dad about why we couldn’t have relationships with androids, I got one.

  He sat down with me and we had a long talk. At one point, Marta was discovered lurking in the hallway, her face looking gaunt and tired, but vibrantly curious. How long had she been there? Just a few minutes, she answered sheepishly. That meant she’d been there since before Hemingway left. She wasn’t even in her pajamas. Dad sent her marching back to her room and this time he checked to make sure she got in her pajamas and into bed.