Old Mars

Dad took him home the next day, treating him as if he were made of delicate glass and might break. He had rented a mover, as if Maartin had a broken leg. Maartin felt silly, perched in the seat next to Dad as they hummed past people walking to their gardens or shopping or doing whatever. They all looked at him as soon as they could. He didn’t have to turn around, he felt the stares like prodding fingers on his back. But he found he could let the Martian city come into focus and didn’t have to feel them. But even that wasn’t comfortable. The feel of the city was changing and that anger-hum threaded through everything. Everything. South, toward the canal, the empty red space where the spiderways ended and the canal gaped barren and dry nagged like a missing tooth. When they got back to their rooms, Maartin told Dad that he didn’t feel good and Dad gave him one of the pills Dr. Abram had given him. The pills made him sleep and he didn’t even dream about the city. Dad was relieved when he took the pill. Now he could go return the mover and didn’t have to worry.

The city got in his way. He had to concentrate in order to keep the dome in focus. If he forgot, if he lost focus, the city buildings and the people and the spiderways tangled up with the corridor walls and the dome and he stopped when he didn’t need to or ran into people. Or walls. Everybody was really nice about that, they’d all heard about the “seizure.” They just walked him back home, even if that wasn’t where he wanted to go, saying soothing things in too-loud, too-simple voices. Their kids slunk away whenever they saw him.

But the anger-hum was fading. Dad took him to Canny’s one night and he heard people talking about how the miners had quit blasting, that they weren’t finding any pearls, that they were doing some test digs, but if nothing turned up, they’d move on.

He hadn’t seen Jorge since he’d walked out of the infirmary.

Dad took him back to Dr. Abram again and asked the doctor to do another brain scan.

“Yes, there has been an increase in random activity in the temporal lobes.” Abram didn’t bother to lower his voice even though the door was open between his office and the exam room where Maartin was sitting. “It’s a significant increase since the scan I ran after the initial accident.” The doctor reached across his keyboard to put a hand on Dad’s arm. “Speech, hearing, visual processing … it all comes from that area. Think of an old-fashioned Earthly thunderstorm. The lightning made the lights flicker, caused static on the radio, interfered with old-fashioned cable TV. That’s what’s going on in Maartin’s brain.” He sounded almost cheerful now. He loved lecturing, Maartin thought. He’d logged in to some of Dr. Abram’s video lectures on health issues and they were pretty good.

Not this one.

Dad’s sadness dimmed the city plaza that overlay the office. One of the people strolling by flickered sympathy to him and he rippled a weak appreciation. “Is there any way to fix the problem?”

Abram shook his head. Such a crude gesture when the slightest curve of his third finger could have conveyed so much more. Maartin watched Dad’s shoulders slump. “The drugs quiet the activity, but since they sedate him …” Abram shrugged. “And a lower dose doesn’t seem to do any good.”

Well, it dimmed the city some, but that was all.

“What about his hands … they twitch and spasm all the time.”

“I don’t know what’s causing that.” Abram frowned.

Thunderstorms. Maartin frowned. Dad was feeling pretty bleak and Dr. Abram was patting him again. A shoal, Jorge had said. Lots of pearls in that avalanche of dust and rock when the miners blasted the escarpment above Teresa’s settlement? And he’d been buried in them for a whole day. That’s what Dad told him after, anyway. It had taken that long for someone to dig him out. Sleeping in the pearls, touching them? Thunderstorm?

Two people carrying purple flowers paused as they crossed the plaza and flickered a negative at him. Not quite right. The taller one fluttered rapid fingers, waved emphatically. Rippled a smile.

We fixed you.

You are whole now. You were broken. Imperfect unit. They rippled smiles, comfort, and approval and strolled on their way, their arched feet barely brushing the polished tiles.

Wait! He waved both hands. They paused, looked back. Fix the miners! Fix them! His fingers snapped together with urgency and both of them curled disapproval at his tone, but softened their fingers into a long arc of understanding. Imperfect unit, still. They rippled a shrug and went on. Maartin flinched as his father’s hands closed over his.

“Easy, son.” His eyes were full of pain. “Try clasping them together when they want to do that.”

You don’t understand. His fingers writhed in his father’s grasp.

“They …” He forced out the crude huff of air. “Don’t.” His fingers twitched, stifled in his father’s grip. “Care.”