I withdrew my hand from the dome and said, “Okay, let’s see whether you can figure this out.”
He put his face close to the dome’s opening and read. Then, appearing somewhat annoyed, he snatched the pen out of my hand, stuck his hand in the dome, and began writing. Finished, he handed the pen back to me. I peered into the dome and read his hurried script: “You can tell your grandpa his secret is absolutely safe with me.”
I wrote: “The problem is that having Michael—that’s his name—is considered a serious crime in America, a crime you’ll become an accomplice to if you come live with us.”
As I wrote this I felt slightly sick with apprehension. I couldn’t—wouldn't ever—abandon Michael. But I couldn’t live without Elio, either. What if Elio didn’t like Michael? What if he didn’t want to live with Michael? Or Michael with him?
Elio wrote: “If being with someone you love is a crime in America, then I’ll be proud to be a criminal.”
After I read this, Elio wrote several questions, which I answered in turn, about the security in Michael’s area of the house, including my bedroom, and about how Michael compared with my brothers in Canada.
Then he wrote: “You call them your brothers, but how conscious are they? Are they more like us or like robots blindly following clever rules that humans program into them?”
I wrote: “The question as to whether androids are conscious or are cleverly-responding zombies is a philosophic debate on the level of the debate over solipsism. Grandpa says that even if the world is our dream, it is a dream in which there are those who must be practical. Accordingly, about a decade before my brothers were created, the U.S. Defense Department commissioned Stanford University to develop a new consciousness scale.
“The Stanford scale has many critics, but undeniably it has been of great value in raising our awareness that consciousness exists along a broad spectrum. The issue has become how conscious is a bird or a chimpanzee or an android or a human, not whether the being is conscious. The median score for humans 18 years and older is 95 on the 100 point scale; 90 is considered the human threshold. Except for Michael, who scored 97 about six months ago, Grandpa is not aware of any android scoring above 91. He believes that one of the reasons for Michael’s outstanding performance is that Michael has become able to think my thoughts and feel my feelings in a very literal and direct way.
“When I was eight, some of my brain cells, as well as cells for support organs, were extracted to grow a few of Michael’s parts, such as part of his brain. During that operation, a pair of neural junctions was implanted in my cribriform plate. While Michael was gestating, neural pathways emanating from those junctions were sent to all areas of my brain. The bottom line is that Michael and I are able to connect with each other’s brain through what we call a braincord.”
As Elio read, he occasionally glanced up and gave me an astonished look. Then he wrote: “Now I’m jealous. (Just joking.) But seriously, what happens if Michael overwhelms your thoughts? Is there any danger of him taking over your body?”
I wrote: “No. I have to completely relax and clear my mind before he can enter to the extent necessary to take over my body, and I can intervene anytime I wish.”
Elio wrote: “What about your private thoughts? Can you keep them private from him?”
I wrote: “My memories, thoughts, and feelings are available to Michael when we’re connected. But I don’t mind. I’ve grown accustomed to his presence inside my mind.”
Elio rolled over onto his side. I held him, nestling my head against his chest. I wanted to give him more time to think and ask questions. After a few minutes, he kissed the top of my head and said, “Let me try one last guess.” He picked up the pen and wrote: “I’m going to take courses at Berkeley to help me help you with Michael. I want to be a part of Michael, too. I want to be a part of everything that matters to you.”
We burned the overwritten pages plus the ten pages immediately below, which might have retained a faint impression of our writing, and as I launched the last pinch of ashes up into the breeze Elio caught my arm and pulled us together.
“I want to marry you,” he said. “I know you’re too young without your parents’ consent, and Ma would kill me, but we can do it ourselves, right here, right now. Besides, nobody needs to know. It’s none of their business.”
At that moment a plane took off with a loud roar from the runway closest to us. I glanced at the plane and winced at the incongruity between our tender moment and such a storm of commerce. But Elio seemed not to hear the plane. His eyes were dreamy, as though he saw only me—and the noise and the imagined spies evaporated from my mind.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“Exchange promises that we’ll always love and take care of each other.” He looked at me eagerly.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I’ll always love you and care for you. Always.”
“And that we’ll share all our thoughts, all our feelings, everything.”
“I want those things, too. I never want to keep anything from you ever again.”
We bent toward each other and kissed.
“You go first,” he said, squeezing my hands and peering into my eyes, as if he could see directly inside me.
I looked back into him and felt so at peace, so full of love, so very much at home. “I, Sara Jensen, promise to love you always with all my heart and mind and body; to care for you always; to share all my ideas, feelings, and desires with you; to trust you completely; to be married to you, Elio Briand, for as long as we live.”
For our secret honeymoon, we decided to spend the six days left before my departure biking through the province of North Holland, though we had to return home each night to sleep. Obviously, Aunt Lynh’s trust of Elio’s promise to treat me as a sister went only so far. I wonder whether she ever wondered whether we might occasionally rent a hotel room for a couple of hours during the middle of the day (which we did). And did she ever wonder whether we might be sleeping together in Elio’s bed at night (which we also did), the doors to our rooms securely locked?
During those bike trips, Elio and I frequently stopped along country roads and lay hand in hand in the grass, talking of our past and dreaming of a shared future: going to university, working on scientific projects (of course, for security reasons no further mention of Michael was made), having children after our professional lives were established. For years we had enjoyed our summer vacations together; we had spent thousands of hours on Vidtel together; we had learned and experienced so much together. But for me, those six days held special wonder. It was as though all of our earlier experiences demanded to come forth and be replayed, to live again in the new light and fullness of our love.
On the morning of my departure, he got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom. Halfway there, he looked around. I was lying in bed, watching him. He smiled, then walked back to the bed, knelt beside me, and gave me a long warm kiss. “I love you so much,” he said. “I’d like to tell you a little secret before you go.”
“What?”
“It makes me feel really good inside when I know you’re watching me when I’m naked. I’d like you to come into the bathroom with me this morning, and any other time you want, and watch me do whatever I do.”
I flung my arms around his neck. “Thank you! I think you’re so beautiful!”
I sat naked on the toilet, cover down, and watched him take a shower. He came out and dried himself leisurely in front of me.
“You sure seem to have an erection a lot of the time,” I said.
He looked down at it, smiled, then turned to profile himself to me. His erection arched up playfully. “It’s the way my body smiles at you,” he said, grinning.
Now, whenever I think of that moment, his form starts to take shape. First, an outline of his muscular thigh appears; then the curve of his firm, round buttocks; then his muscled stomach, its mid-parting incurvation enticing me—and suddenly, he’s there: black, glistening wet hair; full,
ripe lips and white teeth smiling; dark-skinned torso arching back slightly to accentuate the v-shape it forms with his erection. And it’s true—his body is smiling at me!
First Brother
She walks, the dog runs, toward a sign that reads, “Private Property. Beware Of Owner.” She repeatedly looks toward the house just east of the graveled way leading down to the landing.
“Rusty!” she calls. “Come! Come here, boy!”
The dog stops, turns, and trots back to her. She reaches out with her right hand and strokes the dog’s shoulder. “Leave the pigeonoid alone. Heel. Good boy!”
The dog walks beside her for a couple of meters. She calls out toward the house and toward the garage north of the house: “Hello! Hello! Is anyone home?”
One door of the garage is open. A Toyota brand vehicle with two canoes attached to its top is parked inside the open garage door. She leans in beside the right side of the vehicle and again calls out: “Hello!”
The dog runs into the garage on the left side of the vehicle and disappears from sight.
“Come,” she says. She turns and heads toward the house.
Sara
Even though I wear gloves as I write, my hands occasionally get cold and I go to the module where Michael is working on the artificial wombs, where it is tropically moist and warm and where, sometimes, I can close my eyes and feel at peace. But this time during my break to rest and warm up, Michael was excited to show me the set of breasts he just completed fabricating, four breasts stacked 2 x 2 that he will strap onto his chest to nurse the first children. He already has names for them: Kyla, Sophie, Eddy, Jace.
Soon, using my eggs and genetic material preserved from Elio and some people Grandpa felt were superior both physically and mentally, Michael will complete the design of the coiled strands of the children’s DNA, those twisting tornadoes of possibilities, then nine months later will pull four wet infants crying and kicking from the artificial wombs, and for a year or so nurse them on the quadruple heated breasts strapped to his chest, where, I imagine, the newborns will suck and coo, cough and spit and wiggle themselves into caramel-smelling slumberous calm, their doughy thighs and pudgy little fingers cradled in his arms, their heads pillowed in his cruciform cleavage, their anterior fontanels—crested with white, black, blond, and auburn downy hair—visibly pulsing to the warm, red, iambic rhythm of human life. Sophie will be my clone, her eyes buttons of bleached-blue sky; and Eddie will be Elio’s, his skin chocolate and when in the sun, smelling of rain on warm stone.
Michael says I should see them as my children, too. But he insists that they remain here for a while, perhaps years, until he is certain the threat from the androids on Mars is over. I can’t imagine staying in this cramped, cold place for years. Each day I become more anxious, more eager to leave, to return to Grandma, Lily, home. And perhaps I suffer from an antiquated notion that a mother is someone who wraps her long legs around a father. There is no father like that here.
I longed for Elio during the flight home. But I felt drawn forward, too. I’d been gone for two weeks, and I missed home: Grandpa, Grandma, Michael, and Lily—and the vineyard, that palimpsest of sweetness and green, shimmering in the midsummer sun.
After playing with Lily and then talking with Grandpa and Grandma over lunch, I showered to rid myself of any clinging microdevices and stepped in front of Gatekeeper 3. The first door opened, then closed behind me. I placed my feet on the foot diagrams printed on the floor and waited for Gatekeeper to examine me. While still in Amsterdam, I’d called Grandpa and Grandma and told them Elio and I had become lovers. They had been wonderful, wishing us happiness. I worried, though, about how supportive (or upset) Michael would be. Had they told him already?
I heard the seals of the second door release, and there was Michael, smiling and reaching in for me before the door finished sliding open.
“I’m so happy you’re home!” he exclaimed, hugging me.
I reached for a pair of underpants, but he grabbed my hand and pulled me along toward our study. “I saw the recording of your telling Grandpa and Grandma about you and Elio. I was so excited that I asked Grandpa to bring me materials to examine related to the physiology and psychology of sex and love. It’s fascinating.” Near the computer was a pile of chip cases. “I want to brainjoin with you while you tell me about Elio.”
We sat cross-legged on the floor, and after the braincord made its familiar journey up my nostrils to its junctions, I began telling Michael about my two weeks with Elio.
He asked me to skip to just before I knew Elio wanted to make love with me. I did. After a bit, he asked me to go back in the story and concentrate on seeing Elio naked in bed. I did. He asked me to try to see and feel as much as I could about that first sexual experience, and as I did my nipples became erect. He bent over and looked at them closely. “I read about this. And you’re flushed and breathing heavily.”
“Yes, well, remembering and describing all this is sexually arousing for me.”
“I know all about it. I’ve been studying. I also read that people masturbate to give themselves pleasure. I’d like to experience masturbation while we’re connected.”
“I’ve never done it by myself. Only with Elio.”
“But humans do this—usually alone. Couldn’t we do this alone?”
I had agreed to share my life with Michael, but I’d been only eight at the time. I hadn’t known then that one day I might want something only for myself.
I looked at Michael. He was so obviously eager for us to share this human sexuality, as we had shared everything before. For him, I was a confluence of many roles: mother, sister, teacher, friend—and I was a vitally important instrument for his ability to sense and feel, especially relating to activities in the outside world. And I loved him, loved him in a way that our special circumstances required, which meant, I felt then, that I had to share myself with him and had to try to be whatever he needed whenever he needed it, for how else could he obtain it?
“Okay,” I said, “but it’ll be more comfortable for me if I lie on my bed.”
Michael sat beside me on the bed, and I began doing what I’d never done without Elio—without his hands on my hands, his fingers atop my fingers, guiding them, pressing here, stroking there, releasing exquisite pleasure that shimmered magically over a river of contractions and moans. But though my fingers were in the remembered places doing the remembered things, they failed on their own to conjure up the shimmering pleasure.
“I don’t see or hear a story,” Michael interrupted. “From what I’ve read, aren’t you supposed to tell yourself a romantic story while you touch yourself in the right places?”
“Like what?” I said, trying not to think—for my thoughts he too would think—that the problem more likely was his presence studying me.
“Well, like about making love with Elio on your birthday. That aroused you before. It’s a story I already know, so I should easily be able to sense its many nuances.”
With my hands once again busy on my body, I began silently recalling the events of my birthday, when I found to my surprise that I merely had to evoke, in the manner already described, Elio’s body smiling at me to satisfy Michael’s curiosity and my sudden desire.
Michael stared at me without expression. Then he exclaimed, “Wow! That was amazing! The rising heartbeat, the tension, the crescendo of neural activity, the release—all that stimulation surged through our brains, crushing every conscious thought. I read about it, but I never anticipated such an experience.”
Yes, I thought. Words can only point, as the fingers of spectators point toward but can never give the experience of the blossoming of the event so many have come to see.
He reached over and touched my right breast near the areola, then jerked his hand back as if he’d been jolted by a spark of electricity.
“Ah! My fingers feel so cold!” His voice and manner seemed half-startled, half-despondent, and I instantly felt his or my—or our—pain.
> “I like your cool touch,” I said, reaching over and taking his hand in mine. “It’s just that… perhaps my breasts are hypersensitive right now.” I became conscious then of the problem of someday finding someone who would long—in the way a lover longs—for Michael’s cool touch, his touch that was loving in every way but lacked mammalian warmth.
“Do you miss Elio?” he asked.
I nodded. “He might be coming to live with us in a couple of months. He wants to live here and commute to school at UC Berkeley.”
“Live here? With us? In these rooms?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. And if we can get his mother to agree.”
Michael’s face lit up to its maximum expression of happiness. “That’s wonderful! We can play and talk and study together. And I can feel your sexual feelings for him, too.”
I thought for a moment. “Yes, it will be wonderful. But I would like you to wait awhile before you ask to feel my sexual feelings for him while he’s present.”
“Why is that?”
“We don’t want to frighten or offend him. Let’s wait until he’s nearly as comfortable with you as I am. Let him see to what extent my sense impressions and mental activities can be experienced by you. Let him see how you can take over my motor activities when I relax completely. Give him time. In the meanwhile, you’ll have many opportunities when he’s not present to experience through our braincord the love and pleasure I feel with him.”
A momentary buzz of seemingly incoherent words and images flooded my brain, which was still connected with Michael’s. Then he smiled, nodded, and kissed me on my lips, as we’d been used to kissing ever since he was born.
About a half-hour before dinner, I put on walking shorts and headed out to the vineyard, where I hoped to find solitude. As I walked I became aware as never before, not simply of my sexuality, but more expansively of the sensual richness and luminosity of the physical world. The gentle pokes and jabs of blades of brown grass and of clumps of dry, gray dirt made my feet feel free. The sun, low in the sky, felt warm and comforting, reminding me of how my skin had seemed to awaken for the first time on my birthday as it pressed against Elio’s dark silky skin; of how, since then, my clothes felt good in a new way when I put them on; and of how the spray of warm water in a shower now gave me goose bumps of delight.
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