Old Mars

“Maartin, I’ll be back in a little while.” Dad was talking to him like the mayor talked to him. Too loud and too slow. Maartin swallowed sadness. Nodded.

“You’re going to be fine, Maartin.” Abram wasn’t looking at him, was looking at the screen with all the numbers and graphs. “But we’re going to keep you here a little while longer.” He gave that too-wide smile again, but he still wasn’t looking at Maartin. “You were unconscious for over three days.”

Three days? Maartin nodded, but the doctor wasn’t looking at him and didn’t notice. He lay back on the pillow and let the crowd in the plaza come back into focus. It had thinned now. People walked away, through the walls as if they weren’t there at all, and he could see the buildings, the road, the spiderways arching overhead. The curved wall of a building crossed through the room, right through the end of the bed. He watched Abram walk through it and right through a trio of people fluttering an intense conversation as they strolled into its wide, arched doorway. He shoved a foot out, tried to feel something as his foot pushed into the building’s wall. Nothing. One of the people rippled her fingers in a smile and said something that didn’t quite make sense, but almost. About his foot. And the building.

“What are you seeing?”

He startled and red flashed on the screen. Jorge stepped forward quickly and touched it. The red went away and he glanced furtively at the door. “Man, they’ve got the alarms set way high. I guess the doc is afraid you’re gonna seize again.” He perched awkwardly on the foot of the bed, oblivious to the two people who hurried through him. “So what do you see?” His dark eyes were intent on Maartin’s face.

“I … the city. Spiderways. People.” He let his fingers talk, too. It helped the words come. Jorge stared at them.

“With long fingers and they wave ’em all the time, right? Silvery hair? Skinny? Kind of weird.”

“… Beautiful. Like … spires.”

“Yeah.” Jorge sighed. The sound was tired. Old.

Maartin squinted at his face, at the shadows in his eyes.

“So it’s not just me.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I couldn’t figure out how I came up with this stuff. What are they, Maartin? Do you know?”

“… people.”

“Martians?”

Maartin shrugged. Silly question.

“Ghosts?”

Maartin frowned. Shook his head slowly. “Ghosts … dead people.”

Jorge groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I’ve been asking around. For a long time. Yeah, the guys who handle pearls see stuff, but nobody keeps a pearl very long. Well, me. But I wanted to figure out what I was seeing. I figured they were ghosts.” He raised his head and fixed his eyes on Maartin. “I did some checking. Found the old news post about your … about the accident. You and your mom got caught in a debris slide from a blast. It took out a small dome.”

They’d been visiting Teresa, Mom’s friend. She’d laughed a lot and taught him to play poker. Maartin closed his eyes as once again, the dome above them buckled, split, and red dust and rock flowed in like water. Screaming split his ears, then silence, darkness, and …

… people.

“I’m so sorry.”

Maartin opened his eyes as something brushed his face. Jorge was wiping tears from his cheeks.

“That was the richest shoal of pearls ever found. People … people went crazy. So, what are they?” Jorge was whispering now. “The pearls. Do you know?”

Maartin thought about it. He did know. He wasn’t sure he had the words, wove a faltering explanation in the air with his fingers, biting his lip, waiting for the breath-words to come. They didn’t.

“What does that mean? What you’re doing with your fingers?”

Maartin shook his head. “I … I think they … like …” He drew a deep breath. “… a soul. No.” He shook his head. “… projector? From long ago?”

“So they are ghosts.”

He sounded so relieved. Maartin shook his head. “… not dead. Alive.” He struggled to find words that would explain, as his fingers quivered. “Dif … different way … of being.” He raised his head, stared into Jorge’s dark eyes. “They live forever. But … when … when you take … pearls away … they … die. Everything. City. Spires. Spiderways.”

“No.” Jorge spun to his feet, heading for the door. “Kid, you’re dreaming. They’re not alive, they’re just visions. Yeah, they seem real, but that’s all they are. Ghosts. Visions.”

“No.” Maartin clenched his fingers into fists. “… alive. You kill them.”

Jorge left.

Maartin listened to his footsteps fade. Around him, the city hummed with life. People slid across the spiderways and a trio of musicians shook bouquets of delicate silver wands that gave off a shimmering, crystal music that rose and fell, filling the air with curtains of rose and golden light. A city. He strained his eyes so that the dome faded away and all he saw were the streets, the free-form plazas paved here with opalescent tiles, the silvery arches of the spiderways overhead, the delicate walkways that connected the tall buildings’ soaring spires.

Full of people.

Full of life.

A shoal.