“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.
16: A Plan
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.
“Retta!” Dad said, rushing to me as I closed the door to our apartment behind me. “Hemingway said he’d send for me when you were ready to come home. What are you doing here?”
I shrugged, giving him a half-hearted hug. I really needed a big hug. But I was terrible at asking. “I left in a hurry.”
“What happened?”
Marta came out of her r
oom and stared at me anxiously. There were dark circles under her eyes and she seemed tired. She looked as terrible as I felt.
“It’s too complicated,” I said, my eyes flicking toward Marta then back to my dad. “I just want to clean up and change into different clothes, and, maybe, burn this dress?”
He nodded. “Of course. Of course.” Then he took me by the shoulders, stared into my face, told me how worried he’d been, how thankful he was that I was all right, and that kind of thing.
I smiled reluctantly. “Thanks, Dad.”
As I went to my room, Marta clutched my hand a moment and smiled as I passed her. I grinned at her appreciatively.
*****
Mei punched me in the arm when I told her what happened Saturday night.
And then she slapped my cheek when I told her about Sunday and kissing Hemingway.
“But what are you going to do?” she asked.
“No idea,” I said, rubbing my cheek gingerly. She was such a freak sometimes.
“You’re going to just let him stay with that android? It’s only because it’s easier. You know? You’re right about that. You can’t just let that happen.”
“I didn’t think you cared. You believe androids and humans together is wrong, I thought,” I said massaging my arm where she’d punched it.
“I did. Do. Sort of. But then we saw that heart. We’ve been lied to, Retta. I can’t just keep my head in the sand like that. I have to adjust.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. So the heart changed Mei?
We were in Craspo’s class, it was almost over, and he’d given us free time to study in groups for the upcoming final. Occasionally Craspo would look at me, and we’d have this weight in our gazes, an understanding, and I’d long to talk to him more, to see how he was doing, and what his plans were. We hadn’t spoken in a while.
But maybe I should talk to him again. I’d chickened out ever since the day I told him our hearts were the same color. I was too nervous to do anything big. Take a stand. Make loud declarations, that kind of thing, after what happened when I blew up at Hans. I’m a chicken really, when you get right down to it, when you stripped away the meat and bones—I was made of chicken feathers.
The most I dared to do was try to be with Hemingway, and that was total selfishness. Out of that deal, I gained the most. It only helped me and Hemingway. I was no hero who just did what ought to be done because it was right.
At least, that was what I was finding.
Here Mei and I held a document that, if we exposed it, could maybe save the androids from being shipped off against their wills. We both had copies. We could take them to that guy calling himself the Voice independently, so he’d believe it. We could distribute it, hand to hand, and see what kind of ruckus it made. It might change things.
But did we? No.
I hid. I tried to pretend things would stay the same forever. Like I could just keep going to school, keep being a kid, keep working at Cassini Coffee, keep hoping to reunite for real with Hemingway.
Mei was shouting in my face. “Well? Retta? Well? Wake up! Hey!”
I snapped my eyes back to her, watching over Mei’s shoulder as Craspo turned his gaze back to his desk with a shake of his head. “What?” I asked before she could hit me again.
“What. Are. You. Going. To. Do.” She enunciated each word carefully.
“About what?” I asked, leaning back to put a safe distance between us.
She still managed to swat me on the arm.
“About Hemingway,” she said, forcefully.
“Mei, there’s nothing to do,” I answered. “It’s extremely clear that all he wants is to be with a girl that doesn’t cause problems. I’m not that. There’d be problems for us.”
“But he said he loves you. That he wants you.” She leaned toward me, her dark eyes glittering fiercely, her lips curling back to show her white teeth.
“So? Love is as love does,” I said, thinking how wise that sounded. “It’s not even love, really, if he just walks away. It’s fear.”
I glanced at Craspo again. He was staring intently at something on his desktop Gate and one hand gripped a fistful of hair while holding up his head.
Mei slid closer to me, pulling her long hair into her right hand and draping it over a shoulder. It hung like a black veil over her chest. “You know what you should do?”
Shaking my head, I wondered skeptically if I wanted to hear this idea.
“You should tell him about the heart. And the other thing. The new colonies,” she whispered. “Tell him everything.”
“No way,” I said, gasping. “I can’t.”
“You need to.” Mei nodded as the idea picked up steam in her head. “He needs to know. They’ll send him away, Retta.”
“So? He doesn’t care about me. If he did, nothing would stop him from being with me.”
“Unless he’s really doing it to protect you.”
I tilted my head to one side, thinking about that. Was that it? So far I’d gotten into some pretty bad situations without him around. “No, it can’t be that.”
“Why not?” Mei asked, sounding affronted. She leaned back into her chair and flipped her hair over her shoulder.
“I’m safer when I’m with him.”
“That’s it?” She scoffed.
“What are you two lovebirds talking about?” a voice interrupted. We both looked up. It was Hans.
“None of your business,” I said.
“Did your date ever get out of the bathroom, Retta? Did you have to send someone in to rescue him? Oh wait, I almost forgot—you had no date,” he sneered, crouching down at the side of the desk Mei and I were sharing like he was about to put his arms across our shoulders in a gesture of camaraderie.
“Shut up, Hans,” Mei said, turning a wrathful expression on him. He fell backwards, not quite landing on his butt. “Get lost. I heard your date left you when she caught you making love to yourself underneath a table.”
Hans’ cheeks blazed instantly and he began sputtering denials at us.
“I don’t care one way or another, just get out of our space. No one wants to hear your excuses,” Mei said, turning back to me. Hans stood up and stomped away, muttering to himself about people spreading hurtful rumors.
I stared at Mei, mouth gaping. “Wow, Mei, nice one,” I said.
“Of course,” she answered curtly, still fuming about Hans.
I turned my head slightly to see what Craspo was doing. His hands were sliding over his desktop Gate, which he’d turned horizontal, like he was typing something up. His hair flopped around as he moved his head, his eyes fixed on whatever he was doing. I was struck again with how attractive he was.
“What are you staring at?” Mei interrupted. She followed my gaze. “Craspo? Seriously?”
“What? He’s cute,” I said, shrugging.
“And Hemingway?”
“He’s gorgeous. No comparison,” I said.
“You can’t have both.”
“This coming from the girl who went to a dance with four boys.”
“But I only danced with one at a time.”
“Minor detail,” I said.
“You know what you have to do, Retta.”
I shook my head.
“Yes, you have to. It’s in the stars. It’s why we even,” she looked around, carefully, then said in quieter tones, “It’s why we even broke into that building.”
“Everyone return to your seats,” Craspo said loudly, interrupting us. Mei jumped a little at the sudden disruption.
“You have to,” Mei mouthed at me as she walked back to her desk across the aisle from me. She’d been sitting in the seat in front of me.
“No I don’t,” I said, mouthing the words exaggeratedly to her.
“Remember, the final is on Friday,” Craspo said. He stood and went to the front corner of his desk, where he leaned casually onto it. “We’ll spend the next class before the final reviewing. So bring your brains. I can’t
bring them for you.” He surveyed the class as a whole. “After that, it’ll be farewell and you’ll start your new lives as free adults. I hope you’re prepared. Class dismissed.” He grinned and waved toward the door. I heard something in his voice when he said the word free, a blue note, full of sorrow or regret. I stared at him.
“Let’s go,” Mei said, tugging on my arm.
“Go on without me, I need to talk to Craspo.”
“Remember what happened last time you did that?” she pointed out, not letting go of my arm.
“You say that like you’re not in control of how you behave,” I answered with a little laugh. “Really, Mei, I think you’re old enough to take care of yourself. And to not do that again. I’ll catch up to you. Don’t be a baby about it.” I gave her arm a reassuring pat. She wasn’t going to bully me into following her around like a puppy.
“Fine,” she said. “But if I end up with a set of new best friends, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She marched off, her chin in the air like a conceited prima donna.
I wove through the stream of exiting students and stopped at Craspo’s desk. He’d moved to the side closest to our desks and was rearranging some jars of soil samples from deserts on Earth and Mars. He’d used them to help illustrate the difficulty of preparing the soil for farming on Mars. Some of the soil samples also held worms, ants, and tiny microbes that would add nutrients to all the dead materials.
Craspo looked up at me, and smiled. “Retta, how goes it?”
“I need to run something by you, Dr. Craspo.”
“What is it?” He went to the front of his desk where he sat down, leaned back in his chair, and put his legs up on the desk.
I surveyed the room, turning to check behind me. Satisfied that we were alone, I kneeled down next to his desk.
“OK, I told you about the heart thing, right?”
He nodded. “Yes,” he said, getting a skeptical look on his face.
“Well, that’s not all I found out. There were some other things in the . . . um, building, where I made that discovery.”
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