Human Sister

by Jim Bainbridge

  Grandpa hugged her and asked her to go get some sleep.

  I went next. Grandpa appeared satisfied with my account.

  Elio said his interrogation had lasted no more than ten minutes. He’d been asked whether he had any knowledge of his mother’s cooperating with my parents or anyone else in support of the androids. He hadn’t. Had he any idea what she might have been doing with my parents on a plane headed to the moon? No. End of interrogation.

  Grandpa said his interrogation had lasted for over three hours. There had been extensive questions about every friend Dad had ever had from childhood to the present, about everyone ever associated with the Sentiren project, and about the probable behavior of the Sentirens and other androids under various circumstances; but nothing had been said that indicated there was any suspicion directed toward our activities or home. In fact, Casey had treated him respectfully.

  Although I didn’t say anything at the time, that last fact concerned me; it indicated that someone wanted something from Grandpa—they disguise themselves as flowers—but what?

  It was nearly 0900, and although all of us were by then tired, we had a joyful and tearful reunion with Michael when he was set free from the bedroom wall. Grandpa gave Michael a brief summary of what had happened and then told us to get to sleep; Michael’s many questions could wait until we were fully rested.

  I woke about three hours later and couldn’t go back to sleep. Were the interrogations actually over, or had they just begun? What were Mom, Dad, Aunt Lynh, and my brothers planning? Had the alleged disappearances of androids—of Aita—that Mom and Dad had been telling me about for years just been part of an act?

  I unwrapped myself from Elio, whose eyelids were quivering in a tempest of dreams, and went out to the main part of the house where I found Grandpa and Grandma in the living room, watching the news. They hadn’t been able to sleep much, either. Grandpa asked me to sit between them; then he requested a playback beginning at 1047 Pacific Time.

  Mom’s hair, medium length when I last spoke with her on Vidtel, was cut short, nearly shaved. She wore camouflage fatigues exhibiting patches of moon-dust gray and the black of shadows. Her delivery was cold and stern, reminding me of her manner several times when I was a child and she’d said I’d been naughty. Now, it seemed, the whole world had been naughty, and she and her associates had no choice but to take matters into their own hands, to escape with loving sentient beings from a brutal species with a long and vile history.

  The vast majority of humans, she said, have a tendency to believe that a group sufficiently different, especially any group they fear might be superior to or competitive with them, should be discriminated against or, worse, destroyed. Most humans believe in a fantasy about a god with whom they, of course, have a special relationship. A part of their belief is that this god gave some ethereal fantasy something they call a soul to each human being, and that scientists like her were trying to create people without souls contrary to their god’s will. Such humans feel that these soulless people will, unless destroyed, take over the world and destroy humanity, just as humans seek to destroy the soulless people. But none of the artificial intelligences she had evaluated or was aware of had shown any sign of hostility toward or discrimination against beings unlike themselves.

  While she spoke, I remembered her telling me years before, when I’d first visited her and Dad in Calgary and asked why they’d emigrated to Canada, that the majority in the U.S. argued not with an overriding commitment to compassion and respect for individual differences but with power and a network of ancient beliefs so alien to hers and Dad’s that there could be no productive dialogue between them. She and Dad were as distant from the ruling majority in the U.S., she’d claimed, as wine was from sour milk.

  When the speech was over, Grandpa paused the recording and said, “It gets worse. News reports have identified me as the creator of some of the androids and as the father of one of the human accomplices. Unfortunately, you and Elio have been dragged into this mess, too. Begin playing WNN, 1150, Saturday, 1 June.”

  A program was interrupted for late-breaking news. A woman, identified as a wealthy Iranian whose husband and twelve-year-old son were among the hostages, was declaring that if her husband or son or any other Iranian citizen were injured, she would not rest until Grandpa, and Elio and I, “the unnatural pups of android-worshiping dogs,” were killed.

  Grandpa turned off the recording. “An hour after that broadcast, I received a computer summary of over ten thousand messages that have flooded into a Magnasea email address, threatening us. Of course, this means that neither you nor Elio may leave the house until the situation calms down.”

  He looked at me for a moment, then said, “In the coming days, weeks, perhaps months, I will have to concern myself with our security, you with helping Grandma, and keeping Elio calm and indoors—and with preparing yourself psychologically for never seeing your parents in person again if, indeed, they survive.”

  Over the next two weeks Grandpa employed teams of lawyers, psychologists, and private detectives to work with law-enforcement agencies to pursue people whose threats seemed especially serious or who set up website games wherein visitors could do unspeakably horrible things to likenesses of Grandpa, Grandma, Elio, and me, as well as to Mom, Dad, Aunt Lynh, and my brothers. All of us were referred to as terrorists.

  While we were eating breakfast on 14 June, Grandpa received a call informing him that Mom had just refused clearance for the third Red Cross flight from Earth. We all hurried in to watch a replay of her transmission.

  After a previous broadcast, Grandpa had explained it was best that Mom make no mention of Elio or me. But each time I watched her, I yearned to hear her say she loved me and hoped I was well. This time, with barely suppressed hostility, she declared that the third Red Cross flight was being denied clearance because, contrary to an explicit agreement, surveillance devices had been discovered on the previous flight.

  After the broadcast, Grandpa told us that, in his opinion, a crisis was imminent; the next phase of whatever the android group had planned appeared ready to begin.

  Within an hour, a man with explosives in his pickup was stopped at a checkpoint leading onto our property. Robotic boots immediately clamped on to the pickup’s wheels, but it took hours to persuade the man to leave his vehicle peacefully. As he was being handcuffed, he began screaming: “Terrorists among us! Terrorists among us!”

  Two days later, while Michael, Elio, and I were caring for the hydroponic garden, Grandpa entered and breathlessly exclaimed, “They let all the hostages go! It appears that the androids and your parents are headed for Mars. Reports indicate they’re all safe and none of the hostages was seriously injured.”

  We hugged one another and cried with relief and joy.

  But within minutes, concern about what would happen next set in.

  Over the following days, it was reported that the estimated five hundred androids and their fourteen human accomplices had stolen three lunar passenger planes, all the American and Chinese nuclear-powered fighters and space transports, most of the moon-based military weapons, and two fusion power reactors. Reports indicated that the android group had attached six nuclear-powered fighters, two each, to the passenger planes to speed their escape.

  By treaty, no nuclear-powered air or spacecrafts were allowed on Earth. Therefore, according to experts interviewed by the news media, neither the Americans nor the Chinese possessed the ability to launch a fighting fleet capable of intercepting the android group on their way to wherever they were going. But the American and Chinese governments both declared their determination to pursue and destroy the androids and their criminal accomplices.

  News commentators speculated that the androids had been smuggled to the moon one or two at a time in cargo sections of lunar passenger planes. I wondered whether Aita was with them. Had she hidden, hibernating under a blanket of moon dust until the wake-up signal had come? Had she dreamed of the Canadian greenhouse and
of the elderly couple who had thought of her as a daughter?

  At the two-week mark, Grandpa told us that, unless a secret offensive using illegal nuclear-powered spacecrafts had already been launched, Mom, Dad, Aunt Lynh, and my brothers could make it to Mars without being intercepted—if, as it appeared, Mars was their destination. The next day, Mom sent a message of peace and goodwill. But despite the fact that the androids had managed to avoid human fatalities through wise use of non-lethal weapons, and despite their declaration of intention to live peaceably with humankind, America, China, and their allies united in condemning the androids’ actions and in declaring that the words of the androids’ accomplices were merely intended to beguile humans into thinking that androids posed no long-term threat to humanity.

  After the hostages were released, the threats against us slowed to a trickle, and Elio and I were permitted to leave the house. But our security staff reported there were still paparazzi and a few disturbed individuals lurking about, so Elio and I remained well within the vineyard boundaries. On the news, which we now watched for hours each day, there were unconfirmed reports of huge numbers of military transports departing from both the United States and China to the moon. All civilian lunar facilities were ordered to close until further notice. On 7 July, there were unconfirmed reports of a large fleet of fighters, thought to be nuclear powered, departing from the moon. On 24 August, Mom delivered a message stating that the entire exodus group had landed safely on Mars and that they remained desirous of peace but were preparing to repulse and destroy any attack launched against them. Then, on 12 September, Elio and I entered the kitchen for breakfast and found Grandpa and Grandma silently holding hands and looking tired and sad. The United States and China had begun their attack against the Martian bases, bringing into action the mightiest destructive force they were able to project to such a distance.

  No further news regarding the attack was released that day. The next day, Grandpa said he was tired of seeing Elio and me moping around, watching retread news. He suggested we drive to the ocean to contemplate something bigger than ourselves.

  We managed to slip by reporters stationed near our security checkpoint by hunkering down under blankets on the floor of the backseat of a Sakato security car. About a half-hour later, alone at the beach (except for the Sakato guard watching over us), Elio and I stood hand in hand and gazed out over the immense sea, its primordial, white-blossoming breath roaring in and out, in and out; its salty, seaweedy scent wafting over our anxiety-drawn faces.

  On our way back home, Elio’s right hand gently stroked my thigh, then languidly squeezed and rested. He looked at me, his face sodden with exhaustion and worry, and through the side window I saw clouds and sky undulating—white, gray; white, gray, blue; white, gray—just over the tawny autumn hills.

  Only minutes before, we’d passed the Old Bodega Schoolhouse, a historical landmark used in an early movie, The Birds. Passing it, I’d yearned to hear from Mom and Dad. Other than during the hostage crisis when I hadn’t been allowed out of the house, each morning since returning from the winter holiday vacation, I’d gone out into the yard as First Brother had directed and looked at the southeast corner of the winery’s roof. Each morning I’d been ready, had I spotted the pigeonoid, to walk to the plum tree closest to the security gate, touch the tree’s trunk as if I were inspecting it, and then, without looking again for the pigeonoid, walk up to the study table on the deck above the house where, on the bench’s seat, I would find a chip with news from Mom or Dad or First Brother. But to date, no pigeonoid had appeared.

  I looked down at Elio’s hand on my thigh. Usually as we drove home together he caressed me playfully along the way, but after two days and a long night of not knowing, of not sleeping, of crying over deeds done and not done, words said and not said to his mother, he finally seemed exhausted.

  I placed my hand on his, and our fingers instinctively curled together.

  “We have to remember to call Luuk and thank him for the roses,” he said.

  When I’d spoken with Luuk the night before, he’d asked how we were and whether there was anything he could do for us. I’d remembered that Aunt Lynh had always had a white rose in a glass vase on her kitchen table, and I’d suggested that he send some white roses to Elio. The next morning, a dozen white roses had been delivered, together with a note wishing Elio and his mother the best.

  “Do you know why Ma always had a white rose on the table?” Elio had asked.

  “No. Why did she?”

  “I never asked—” he’d said, choking on the words before breaking down in tears.

  When we arrived home, we stopped by the grape presses to see Grandma. She enjoyed getting up early and working straight through the day with Carlos and his crew, especially at harvest. She greeted us with kisses and two glasses of free-run Sauvignon Blanc juice, which was frothy and exuded a distinctive aroma of fresh-mowed grass. She said it had the makings of a very good wine. I didn’t ask for news of the battle on Mars. The fragrances of harvest, the sounds of the presses, the trucks overflowing with ripe fruit—all called her to the present, to the there and then, away from thoughts of the irretrievable past or the ungraspable future or even of the ineluctable ongoing catastrophes on a world millions of kilometers away.

  Later that night I was awakened by a light tapping on the bedroom door and bolted up from Elio’s sleeping embrace. “Coming!” I shouted. I yanked open the door and squinted against the bright light.

  Grandpa stood before me in his kimono. His hair was disheveled from sleep, his eyes red and puffy. “There’s been news,” he said. “Get Elio.”

  “Are they okay?”

  His eyes met mine for a moment; then he looked down at the floor. “No.”

  I watched in shock as he turned and slowly walked away. Then, as if in a dream, I watched Elio pick his briefs up from the floor, pull them on, stand motionless beside me.

  “I think something bad has happened,” I said.

  “I heard.”

  For a few seconds I seemed unable to move or think or feel. Then I saw tears form in Elio’s eyes, and from deep within me a great surge of grief cried, “No!”

  Moments later we were told: Mom, Dad, and Aunt Lynh, more fragile than my brothers, had died.

  First Brother

  The house door opens. The dog rises from its lying position in the shade of the garage and runs toward the arborway, from which she emerges, wearing only pants and undershirt. The dog nuzzles her right hand as she walks. She appears not to notice me standing near the tiltrotor.

  She walks southeastward toward three memorial markers lying near the western edge of the garden. Each of the markers is a granite stone, one side of which is polished and inscribed. There is a space about 25 centimeters between the rightmost marker and the middle marker, as well as between the middle marker and the leftmost marker. The markers are surrounded by wilted violas of multifarious colors.

  It is 1 hour 12 minutes 23 seconds before sunset.

  Sara

  Michael just cautioned me, in the same professorial tone as Grandpa would have, as to the possibility that I’m becoming compulsively worried about our safety. Perhaps it’s true—I hadn’t noticed until he pointed it out: I have been inquiring every day, sometimes several times each day, about whether microcracks might be developing in the molluscan outer shells of the domes, and whether he is certain the worm-like robots that constantly monitor the outer surface are all working optimally. He assures me that the domes are fine. He hasn’t said so, but perhaps he thinks I’m the one who’s cracking.

  The only part of the dome's inner surface that I can see—and, yes, lately I have been examining it carefully and often, perhaps compulsively often—is our artificial sky. Each time I examine it for cracks that might be caused by the tremendous pressure of water at this depth, I wonder: How will Michael’s children respond when they finally experience the real sky, that blue-within-blue immensity they won’t be able to touch merely by standing
atop a desk? Will they think it a hollow fraud, its clouds merely ephemeral floss unimaginably far away? And once they’re ashore, free at last of these domes, which until then will have held them inside like a jealous lover, how will they experience the ocean—the salt, the seaweed, the labial scent of the sea—from which they came but never so much as dipped their little toes into?

  Early in the morning of Monday, 11 November, two months after Mom, Dad, Aunt Lynh, and all of their human companions on Mars had died, Elio and I walked under the dripping arborway toward the garage. The old joints of the garage door creaked as it rose in the cool air. Elio set his briefcase down beside his car, walked over to Lily’s house, and peeked in. “Good morning, Lily!”

  Her face appeared, nose lowered, eyes downcast. She looked blue, perhaps ashamed that she’d again failed to greet us. “Good girl!” he said, stroking her head. “I don’t blame you for wanting to stay in where it’s nice and dry. On days like this, I’d rather do that myself, rather than drive to school.”

  Two months—it had been a difficult time for Lily. She’d had several organs replaced because of cancer, and she’d never fully recovered her spunk. Now, we were managing arthritis until Dr. Lopez, her veterinarian, felt she could endure an operation to replace her hip and shoulder joints. “Nearly fourteen,” I was told. “That’s old for a German shepherd. You’ve got to expect these things.”