If I married Hemingway, I wouldn’t be able to marry anyone else. I’d be stuck with him forever, or for as long as we both lived, or I guess we could always get divorced. But that’s not how I did things. I didn’t back out of deals.
Like every girl, I’d spent an obscenely huge amount of time thinking about marriage: who I’d end up with, how he’d propose, what the wedding would be like, where we’d honeymoon, where we’d live, what he’d do to make money, what I’d do to make money. Some of the answers I came up with were boring and realistic, and some were farfetched and impossible, like we’d honeymoon on Earth at a beach resort (right, well, only if I was marrying a tycoon), or we’d live on a luxury space-yacht smuggling illegal goods between Earth and Mars (another tycoon, this one the dangerous, handsome, smuggling type).
Did I really want to throw away these fanciful ideas to tie the knot with Hemingway, sitting on a bed in a hotel room? It was a very nice bed. But still. Just a hotel room. With my family far away. And did I want to marry with no government of any sort stamping the ceremony with its all-powerful seal of approval?
Well. Yes.
The question wasn’t even if I loved Hemingway. I did. I’d decided that a long time ago. Before I broke into the Synlife building.
And I didn’t care about the government deciding it was OK for me to marry someone. That was my choice.
But in all my daydreaming, I had come to the conclusion that a marriage was a promise between two people. Not between two people and the government. Hemingway already had my heart. And I felt pretty certain I had his—even after everything. After all, I trusted him, and maybe that was stupid, but it wouldn’t have been the first stupid thing I’d done. Not that that was a great reason to do something. But . . . despite everything, you had to trust. Despite what my dad had told me about the truth and the media. Despite watching androids being used like they were property. Despite the history of Mars and Earth and the wars and everything ugly in the universe.
Because there were beautiful things out there too. Like throwing yourself into the boxing ring with the man or woman you loved and fighting your guts out, even if you got beat and lost. And because if love didn’t matter, then what did?
So was it stupid to marry Hemingway, especially if I didn’t have some outside source’s seal of approval? Maybe. But if this wasn’t worth it, then nothing was.
The ceremony androids had devised to seal their vows would be enough.
I was pretty sure.
As long as we were both doing it for the right reasons.
“Is it what you really want, Hemingway?” I asked, my eyes searching his for the answer. A part of me was afraid to find a negative response in there. I wanted to look away and look harder at the same time.
“Retta, it’s what I always wanted. You. Any contradictory behavior in the past was only done to protect you. Do you believe me?”
I hesitated. “Well, yes, mostly. It’s just hard sometimes, to remember how bad it hurt and to trust that it was done in my best interest.”
“It was,” he said gently.
We were still holding onto each other with that strange grip. He squeezed my wrist tightly. Sparks flew back and forth between the swirls of red and blue lights in his pupils. I nodded. “I believe you.”
“Good.”
“What next?”
“We both say what’s in our hearts.” His cheeks flushed like he was embarrassed.
“You go first,” I said, nudging him with our joined hands.
“OK.” He cleared his throat. His cheeks flamed even more. “Retta, from the moment I first saw you a year ago at the junior end-of-year dance, I knew you were different. In a good way. The best way.”
My brow furrowed. “Wait. The first time we saw each other was that day you came into the coffee bar.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. An appeal flared up in his eyes. “The first time I spoke to you was that day. But I knew of you before then.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I just did. Just now.” A tone of worry entered his voice. “But, well, I guess I didn’t know I needed to.”
“You don’t. I just, I thought, I mean, I thought I knew our history. But I didn’t. I knew a history, and it wasn’t the right one.”
“Does it matter?” He bit his lip.
“No, but—”
“But what? It doesn’t change anything. Does it?”
“Well, what else is there that I don’t know?”
“Not much. But we’ll have time to work through these things because we’ll be together.”
I began to let go of his hand, my grip relaxing in sudden concern, and he held it tighter.
“Don’t!” he said, panicking. “The ceremony.” His eyes widened in alarm. I’d never seen him so afraid. “Retta, I’ve loved you for a long time, is that so horrible? I’ve been torn too, with the knowledge that I loved a human. It took me months to gain the courage to speak to you. What kind of man would dare approach a potential love knowing he was only half a man, or not even remotely recognized by his larger culture as a man? So I’m sorry if telling you this now seems like a breach of trust. It’s not. But I did want you to know how long I’ve loved you.”
“You’re not half a man,” I said quietly. “You don’t believe that, do you?”
He shifted his legs and hips, and looked away. “No. Not really. Maybe a little, because that’s what the world tells me.”
“You said you loved me.” I blinked. He said he loved me.
“I did say that, because I do.”
“I love you too.” I’d never told anyone that but my mom, dad, and Marta. It was like the words left my mouth and hovered above us, a balloon of syrup that exploded and covered us, fusing us together.
“Let me finish,” he said soberly, the corners of his mouth curling slightly. “The first time I saw you, it was like I knew. You were different. I’ve heard people say all girls are special when you get to know them, and there’s no reason to get hung up on one. They’re wrong. People try to be unique, but they do it in ways that aren’t significant. They wear an old style, reviving it to make a statement. You’re unique because you see to the heart of things. It’s the way you carry yourself. The way you’re unafraid to do what’s morally right. I’ve been hung up on you since the day I saw you and I’ll be hung up on you for as long as I live. I’ll keep you safe. I’ve been trying to do that for a long time and I’ll never stop. I thought keeping you safe meant keeping you away from me. I was wrong. I promise to always take care of you, no matter what that entails.”
I blushed. “Wow. How do I follow that?” Those tenterhooks in my heart were suddenly pulling outward and my heart was swelling with each tug. I wondered if my chest cavity would burst. “Um, OK. Let’s see. Hemingway, I don’t care that you’re a blue heart. Your heart has always been red to me, even before I knew the truth about the hearts. The first day I looked into your eyes, it was like I saw the birth of stars in them. You got inside my thoughts and I’ve never been able to get you out of them. That doesn’t sound as right as it should—but, it’s true. I’ve been doing things to stay close to you. I broke into the Synlife building. I’ve left my life behind to be with you. I feel right when I’m with you. You feel like home. I’ll follow you anywhere because everything that never made sense, makes sense when I’m with you.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment. We stared at each other. The rush of the climate control starting up was all I heard. Voices outside our room rose and fell as people walked past the door. My pulse raced as I wondered what he thought of what I said. The bed covers rustled as I shifted on my haunches.
“So is that it?” I asked finally.
He stirred as though being woken from a dream. “Now we say, ‘Make us one, one flesh, one purpose, one heart. Weave our lives into one life, one future, forever and eternally.’ Then it’s done.”
“OK,” I said, biting my lip. We went on like that, with Hemingway sayi
ng it, and I repeated it after him.
When it was done, his fingers relaxed and I pulled my hand away and rubbed my palm on my leg. It was still sore from the fall earlier when running from the agents.
“Do you feel different?” he asked, sounding thoughtful.
“Not really. You?”
“No. I always thought I’d feel differently.”
“Me too. Are you disappointed?”
“No.”
I tilted my head to one side. “Yeah. I’m not either.” But I was, kind of. “Maybe if we had something to symbolize it.”
“Like rings?” He grinned and fell back into the pillows.
“Something like that. Just so it becomes concrete in our heads.” I needed something for myself, to feel like it was official. Something to symbolize the promise. A reminder that it was real. “You can wear rings, can’t you?”
“Of course.”
We were both quiet. I sat there, hunched over, feeling vulnerable for some reason, and Hemingway reclined amidst an absurd amount of pillows, staring up at the ceiling. Outside our window, the hazy, orange day drifted toward dusk. The ball of anxiety that had taken up most of my innards since deciding to leave with Hemingway continued to swirl and eat at the edges of my torso. What was my father doing? Had he begun to look for me? Was Marta disappointed? The thought of letting her down bothered me the most. She needed me, but I chose Hemingway. Guilt over that was casting a shroud over everything.
“Retta?” Hemingway said, interrupting my thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“Can I hold you?” The question was soft and appealing. It was the only other time Hemingway had seemed vulnerable; the first was when I almost broke his grip during the ceremony. Did he think I’d say no?
I unfolded from my hunched position and crawled over into the mass of pillows and lay down next to him. My head rested on his arm. He rolled onto his side and looked into my face.
“Will it be enough for you?”
The question surprised me. “What?”
“For a blue heart, it’s the only choice, really. The ceremony. But, you have other options. You could have married a human in a government-sanctioned wedding. And, well, you asked about rings. I thought, because of that question, that maybe you regret it. Maybe it’s not enough. Maybe you need all those other things.”
I leaned over and kissed him, really thoroughly, leaving no bit undone, rising up on my elbow and almost crashing against him like a wave of wind and sun. I pulled away, bit my lip and asked, “Does that answer your question?”
“Not precisely,” he answered, a ravenous tone in his voice. “But now that you’ve started something, why stop there?” He caressed my cheek with his free hand. The lights in his eyes burned like flames.
No one had any expectations. It was just the two of us. On our quiet honeymoon. Maybe the IRS agents were out there somewhere, still looking for us. Maybe my dad was somewhere looking for me. I knew where I was, and that was where I was supposed to be—becoming one heart, one flesh, with my blue heart.
21: Wind Garden
New Tokyo was one of those mishmash cities that pull you in with all its distractions and then spits you out, your head spinning in total confusion over what you just experienced. It was strange and beautiful and everything anyone could want in an exotic locale.
Well, except that we were trying to stay incognito. You would think that’d be easy in a city of a million and a half, but since Hemingway and myself were pale complexioned—at least compared to everyone else—we stood out. And the place was crawling with IRS agents. So we had to be careful, which took some of the fun out of exploring.
There were others like us, but the majority of the population was Japanese or of Japanese descent. Our first full day there, we ventured out, exploring, looking for ways to spread the information about the Unified Martian Government sending new colonists away. It was the simplest item. The scariest.
The other bit, about their hearts actually being red, well, that was too much. People can only stand change by degrees. Most people liked the secure feeling that the blue hearts were different in a really fundamental way. They looked like us. They talked like us. They did everything like us. But at least their insides were vitally different. At least! That knowledge would blow a hole in the collective unconscious of the entire planet. It might make humans simply side with the government sending them away.
We walked down a street amidst the throngs of people, holding hands, gaping at the shops, the wares, the trinkets. Everything was so odd. There was a seafood market that reeked of water and slime. Pale-bodied fish lined artificially chilled slabs of red rock, kept cold before someone bought them, took them home, and threw them into their own freezer.
Hemingway ran a finger down the iridescent scales of a long, glassy-eyed fish.
“Hey, hey! You touch it, you buy it,” the shopkeeper said, leaning over the display and slapping Hemingway’s hand away.
Hemingway’s gaze snapped up to stare at the shopkeeper—a man with a wide mouth, a proud, aquiline nose, and an intense stare.
“You want to buy it?” the shopkeeper asked, leaning forward. “I protect all my wares. You see? So when you buy it, you know it’s not infected or polluted.”
“We just don’t see a lot of fish back home,” Hemingway said and gave a slight bow, which the shopkeeper returned somewhat haughtily.
We moved on. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the shopkeeper dabbing at the fish with a wet cloth, shaking his head as though irritated.
“Infected? What’s he talking about?”
“I don’t know,” Hemingway said. “The world just gets stranger and stranger, don’t you think?”
“I thought that was just part of growing up, but yeah. Craspo mentioned something similar.”
“Dr. Craspo?”
“One of the teachers back at school. Did you ever take one of his classes?”
“No.”
“He’s a blue heart,” I said, quietly, looking around to see if anyone heard me.
Hemingway stopped, stunned. “Really? I wonder how many people are that we don’t know about. How many more will reveal themselves?”
“You think people will start making announcements like that?”
“As word gets around, more blue hearts will feel they have to speak up. And once it’s clear about the new colony, everything will get more intense.”
We stopped near a huge gate with a big, flashy sign—Rock Garden!—it said. A stream of people poured in while another gushed out, blocking the sidewalk and preventing us from easily passing. “Ooh, this sounds interesting,” I said. “Let’s go in.”
Hemingway glanced around, his brow furrowing, eyes narrowing as he checked to make sure we weren’t being followed. When he was satisfied, we headed in.
At the admission desk beneath an open pavilion style stone building, an effusively happy girl with long, braided hair took our money and told us to remain on the paths. She smiled widely and invited us to enjoy our trip into the rock garden.
Distinctive, somewhat mystical music played around the garden. We walked over red dirt paths that led us to arches of red rock that were swirled with pale yellow and orange ribbons of stone. It was achingly beautiful.
“That music is horrid,” I said, glancing at a couple of lovers that were even more clingy than Hemingway and me. The girl kept resting her head on her companion’s shoulder. I heard them laughing as they walked off. “It’s ruining the experience for me.” A crowd of teenagers younger than us posed for a picture in front of the huge arch near us. I watched them and wondered if they had cares as serious as mine. A pang filled my stomach—I should have been carefree like them, I felt, then I remembered that I’ve never been carefree.
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.
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