Blue Hearts of Mars (16 page)

I ran for a while. At first I didn’t know where I was going. But I had to get there. Wherever it was. And then I realized where my feet were taking me.

The vents. The industrial part of town.

This will make you feel good,
my feet seemed to say
. Remember this place? You walked here with Hemingway. Isn’t it lovely?

Feet can be such smart-asses.

The noise of the vents was suffocating. The place was warm, really warm, and I began to sweat as I meandered, wandering aimlessly between the wide, steaming vats and chasms. The hissing noise of air rushing upwards accompanied me as I plodded, dejectedly over the walkway. Above me, lights glowed on the catwalks, looking ominous through the clouds of steam.

Hemingway. What a jerk. I mean, honestly, I felt like such a moron for pining for him all that time, only to find him with another girl. He’d probably been planning it all along. I’d been some weird conquest. A dare. “Bet you can’t bag a human!” I could just hear it.

Oh yes, he could. Humans are easy targets against the wiles of the beautiful blue hearts.

I stopped at a rocky opening blocked off by a railing and stared down into the crevasse. I wasn’t very close, because the heat would burn my face off. But I was close enough to see the red earth of Mars opening up, and how it sank deep into blackness. Maybe I should throw myself in.

The thought was idle. It was stupid. Dramatic, because sometimes I was dramatic. But I would never be suicidal. Marta needed me. Dad needed me. It wasn’t obvious all the time, but I knew.

I couldn’t get the image of Hemingway with another girl out of my mind. I shook my head. What a jerk! He was the worst. He was evil. He was cruel. And love completely sucked, and I was a total idiot to have gotten swept away by him and all his lies.

I sighed heavily, my shoulders slumping inward, and turned to begin the long walk home. There was no point heading back to that torture scene. I bent over to take my heels off. That was when someone grabbed me from behind, surprising me. The thought that it might be Hemingway slid across my brain, but vanished quickly as whoever it was maneuvered me roughly, slamming me into the ground and flipping me over onto my back.

“What the—” I began, but a hand covered my mouth, almost covering my nose and suffocating me.

When I saw who it was, I wanted to scream. My heart roared in fear and I felt adrenalin surge through my veins. My hands were pinned on my stomach beneath one of his hands, and his eyes were wide in hunger, staring down at me in a half-crazed look.

I kicked him. It did no good. He was forcing himself on me. A rictus smile spread across his face.

I fought and fought and fought. I swear I beat him with my knees and feet for what seemed like a good hour. I tried to get some leverage on his hand with my mouth, to bite it. No good. Something in my heart began to crumble, the fight or something. My spirit was breaking. I closed my eyes, pleading with God, the Universe, Buddha, whoever, that it would be over.

That’s when I felt—and heard—a thump and the burden of his weight disappeared. My eyes whipped open. My attacker was gone. I sat up, feeling a whimper of relief rise in my chest as I looked around.

There. Twenty feet away, smashed against the wall of a building supporting the catwalks. Two figures. Hemingway and my attacker—a man I’d seen months ago hovering, haunting the catwalks of the vents. I squinted to see through a sudden gust of steam-clouds and cringed as Hemingway pummeled the man in the face over and over again, one hand around his neck, the other punching.

Then Hemingway fell away as though kicked, and the hulking man gained his balanced, unharmed, and flew at Hemingway. The sound of their blows echoed in a sort of muffled way, barely rising above the rush of the air coming from the vents. I scrambled to my feet. Brushing my hair off my face, adjusting my dress and recovering my heels, I began to edge away while watching in amazement as they battled.

The hulking man was obviously an android. Otherwise Hemingway would have crushed him already. It was like seeing two titans fight. They would grapple, then separate—sometimes one of them would be thrown by the other—and then they’d clash again like two rutting rams.

I gasped as Hemingway jumped thirty feet in the air and landed on an overhead catwalk. There he crouched on the thin railing and watched as the hulking man spun around, searching until he spotted me. My stomach shriveled and I shrank from his gaze, feeling a cold shiver pass over me despite the warmth of the vents. The man snarled and sped toward me and for a moment, I was frozen where I stood.

Hemingway sprang from the catwalk, dropping toward my attacker like a bird of prey. My eyes darted toward Hemingway and the man coming towards me saw the tiny change in my gaze, alerting him. He spun. Hemingway crashed into his shoulder and they fell, tumbling toward me. I hitched my dress up and pranced away, unintentionally letting out a little shriek of fear. If that spinning ball of android-muscle hit me, it’d be sayonara for me.

I turned around, a safe distance away and watched in pure horror as the lumbering man got Hemingway into a choke hold. His fist was suddenly using Hemingway’s face as a punching bag. Should I help him?

Before I could think too hard about it, I’d crossed the narrow, paved walkway, squared myself to my attacker—who was too engrossed in working over Hemingway to notice me—and slipped my high-heel on. The pointy toe connected with his cheek in a sickening crunch. The whole sensation of it caught me by surprise. I’d never done anything that violent in my life, at least, not with the intent to do someone actual harm.

I watched in a new horror as he turned to me, his face only showing minor damage. He dropped Hemingway, and lunged for me. A scream leapt from my mouth as I tried to break free. He had my ankle in a vise-like grip and was pulling me toward him. Where was Hemingway? I clawed at the rough ground, my fingers scraping uselessly, and craned my neck to look over my shoulder. Hemingway was on the ground in a heap. Unmoving.

“Hemingway! Hemingway!” I shrieked. This was going all wrong. I meant to help him. I’d only succeeded in getting us both further into trouble.

The hulking man grunted and sniveled like an animal as he pulled me toward him. My free foot still had the high-heel on. The heel—the heel! It was a weapon itself. I looked over my shoulder as my attacker finished pulling me toward him. My foot was just beneath his face. As he bent his head down to rise up on both hands, I jerked my heel toward his face. My body tensed, my breath curled inside my lungs like a dragon. The sharp end connected with his eye, the narrow heel sinking into that soft cavity. There was a grotesque liquid sound like a vacuum being opened.

His bellow was the roar of a berserking beast. I rolled away, my breath unfolded into quick little, panicked bursts, and I jumped to my feet. My attacker’s face was a bloody mess, the red ooze spurting between his large fingers where he pressed it against his eye.

Hemingway stood up behind him. He looked slightly worse for wear as he studied me. We stared at each other for a moment, then amazingly, the brute lunged for Hemingway.

I’d done enough. I hurried away, letting them finish the battle. If I got mixed up in it at that point, I knew that it would only make things worse. The man was beyond crazed. He was an injured monster, fighting chaotically to kill.

I gnawed on my fist as I watched from a safe distance. In one hand, I still held onto my dress shoes, crossed over my chest, protecting myself. Hemingway suddenly let out a monstrous roar and picked up—literally, he
picked
up—my attacker and with a great heave, threw him into an opening to the crevasse.

All was silent but for the rush of air from the vents. The roaring pulse in my ears faded. I rushed to Hemingway’s side and leaned cautiously toward the vent to see if the other man was really gone.

He was.

I settled back onto the heels of my feet and turned to Hemingway. I stared into his bruised face, his bright eyes that felt like home, and then, in a wave of weakness, I collapsed against him, crying, as the reality of all that had transpired settled upon me.

I opened my eyes. I was in a bed, but it wasn’t mine.

I jolted upright, remembering the last thing that had happened to me: attacked by that sick android. Or was it all a nightmare?

No, it couldn’t have been. My dress was torn and ruined with black smudges from being dragged across the cement, I noticed in dismay. I ached everywhere. My hip bones felt bruised; so did my knees and the palms of my hands. No, not a nightmare, because I wasn’t at home. Wherever I was, the room was vaguely familiar. The window to my right was covered with a dark blue curtain, but there was enough light coming in around the edges that I could see the rest of the room. The decor—wall hangings of notable scientists and solar systems, galaxies, other celestial imagery—jarred a memory. A Gate-call.

It was Hemingway’s bedroom. Relief washed over me. I fingered the pale blue comforter around my waist, immediately intrigued by the thought of that perfect body sleeping beneath it night after night. It was soft. It smelled of Hemingway. The bed itself was comfortable enough, though a little on the hard side for my taste.

Hemingway must have carried me there, because I had no memory of walking. I remembered nothing after glancing into that dark abyss where he’d thrown the other man. The android.

What was that all about? Was that android broken? I’d never heard of an android doing anything that antisocial.

And why was I in Hemingway’s room anyway? A sudden dread filled me. Was I remembering everything correctly? Had something worse happened than I recalled?

Swinging my legs out of bed, I stood up and walked to the door, my bare feet slapping across the bamboo flooring. I peeked out into a hallway finding that the layout of their apartment was the same as mine. The door to the room across the hallway was closed. That would be Marta’s room in my own apartment. Leaning further out, I glanced down the hall and then went to the corner of the hallway, past the spare bathroom and laundry room, to peer into the kitchen and living area.

Voices.

“Some of them can’t stand the pressure, I think.” It was Hemingway.

“There must be something else happening.” That was Sonja, her velvet voice sounded concerned. “Corrupted memory, something like that, perhaps.” They must have been sitting in the front room, where I couldn’t see them.

“We’re designed to defragment when we sleep, Mom, it can’t be that.”

“It could be anything. It could be a combination of things.”

“My opinion is that it’s the social pressure. Antisocial behavior in humans comes from similar things. Sometimes, just sometimes, it’s actually a problem with the physiology of the human.”

A sudden yapping noise at my feet startled me. I leapt back around the corner, and hurried back into the bedroom. The little dog followed me, continuing to yap at me.

A dog?

“It’s OK,” I said, reaching a tentative hand toward the small animal. That only riled it up more as it descended into a mad, chastising tirade.

“Retta?” Hemingway was in the doorway, flipping on the light. Sonja peered over his shoulder into the room at me.

“She lives,” Sonja breathed, a hand held to her chest. They came into the room and stood, staring down at me where I sat on the bed.

“Of course I live,” I said, squinting, feeling self-conscious under the brighter light. My dress was a mess—what a way to spend the night, in my dirty clothes—and my hair might have been styled by a sandstorm. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Sonja’s eyes flicked to Hemingway then back to me. She shrugged. “I’ve just been worried about you.”

“Come out here. Come sit with us,” Hemingway said, taking my hand and pulling me gently out of the room. The dog stayed at my heels, deciding I was OK now, trotting happily along as we moved into the large living area at the front of the apartment.

“I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“He’s mine,” Sonja said. “Hemingway would never have a pet. His name is Isaac. ”

“Why not?” I asked, glancing at him, then back at the dog who was hopping around Sonja’s ankles.

Hemingway shrugged. “I’m not home enough. My mom would end up taking care of it.”

“I love animals. But we can’t really afford one, so . . . ” I said, letting the sentence hang meaningfully. Maybe Sonja would hire me to dog-sit or something. I sat down next to Hemingway on a white, faux-leather couch. I wanted the dog to come sit by me, but he stayed on the floor, refusing to get on the couch.

There were green-fronded plants in all the corners of the room, and shelves attached to the walls held lifelike models of the human face with closed eyes. I stared at them in awe, a little disturbed but also intrigued. Each face was different, but each one perfect. There was a casual kitchen table near the center island, and the kitchen was much the same as the one in my apartment with a few appliances and three bar stools on one side of the island.

So far, none of us had said anything about what happened. I suddenly wondered what time it was, and looked around for a clock.

“Retta,” Sonja began, on the edge of her seat, leaning forward in a concerned posture. She’d taken a seat in an armchair at the corner of the couch. “Do you remember what happened last night?”