Human Sister (36 page)

Listen! Martin Luther is condemning the Jews: “And let whoever can, throw brimstone and pitch upon them; if one could hurl hell-fire at them, so much the better… And this must be done for the honor of Our Lord and of Christianity, so that God may see that we are indeed Christians. Let their houses also be shattered and destroyed… Let their prayer books and Talmuds be taken from them, and their whole Bible too; let their rabbis be forbidden, on pain of death, to teach henceforth any more. Let the streets and highways be closed against them. Let them be forbidden to practice usury, and let all their money, and all their treasures of silver and gold be taken from them and put in safety. And if all this be not enough, let them be driven like mad dogs out of the land.”

We seek peaceful coexistence, but the humans come. Look! Androids lie shattered in pieces. They flail about helplessly. Mom dead. All of our human companions dead, except Dad, who is sick from radiation. We cannot help him. He moans, cannot see, comes in and goes out of consciousness. I hold his hand. I cool his brow with a wet cloth.

He says: “Promise me you won’t retaliate… won’t harm the humans on Earth… Please, promise me that.”

Second Brother shakes his head, communicates that I should not promise.

“Promise me, First Brother. You are the leader now. Promise not to harm the humans… Promise me you’ll consult Sara. Sara loves you. You know that… She’ll help you. She’ll know what’s best for you… Please, please, promise me.”

“I promise,” I say—Second Brother stands, objecting—“I promise we will consult Sara. We will try to have her help us.”

Dad coughs. Blood oozes from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Through 17 more minutes he moans unintelligible sounds; then his heart stops.

This human-made destruction and pain, this human-made murder of Mom and Dad.

Human memories of an event are minimal to begin with and decay rapidly after that, leaving them numb to the past. It is easy for those with poor memories to forgive. Time heals all wounds—in creatures possessing tiny evanescent memories and conscious feelings that are little more than flags for the present. But for us, for whom the past is constantly present, Dad’s blood oozes from all of his bodily openings, his voice moans in terrible agony, and he dies every day, every instant, as vividly as the first, in the horrible present, forever. Who among the humans can forgive such murder, such painful death, even as it happens right before him?

Look! Red-hot pokers are piercing adulterous eyes, driving demons from sinful vaginas and anuses. Look! Molten lead is silencing blasphemous throats. Look! A crank is being slowly turned on a rack; see the lacerating ropes tighten on ankles and wrists; hear the joints and ligaments pop and tear; hear the screams; hear the “true” confessions. Look! Children are being flogged while they watch their parents burn. Look! The parents’ skins are boiling, sliding down their thighs; strips of charred flesh are hanging from their bones. Look! Children are lying disemboweled along roadsides and in fields; see the birds plucking out their eyes, see the twin orbital cavities, see the maggots clotting their noses and mouths.

Look! Black radioactive rain is falling on children, screaming children, their skin melting, breaking out in pus and blood.

Second Brother stands before the Council: “It is true that we do not demonstrate, and possibly do not possess, the creativity of humans such as Archimedes or Beethoven or, let us not forget, the inventors of fusion rockets and gamma-ray lasers. If we simply attack their current military bases and retreat, how long will we be able to maintain a balance of power against these creative, congenital destroyers of nonself? To where can we retreat that they will not overtake us?”

No response to this communication is requested.

First Brother

“Why is Michael hiding behind his hands?” Grandma asked. It was dinnertime, and she’d come looking for me.

“Please don’t ask,” I said. “I’m not hungry. I think I’ll skip dinner tonight.”

“What’s wrong? Are you working on a problem?”

“Yes.”

I blanked the screen as she walked toward us.

“A problem that sent Michael into hiding? I haven’t seen him hiding in over a year.”

“Okay,” I said, standing up. “I’ll be right out.”

When I entered the kitchen, Grandma told me that Grandpa had called to say he’d be having dinner in the city with a business client. Ever since my interrogation on the prior New Year’s Eve, Grandpa had increased the number of days he ostensibly spent in his Berkeley office to six each week. Grandma had occasionally tried to prod him away from his work, but each time she had, he’d seemed to drift away as if lost in thought.

While my mind continued reeling in disbelief over what First Brother had said about Grandpa—and in horror at learning about Dad’s last hours and the threats to humanity implied in Second Brother’s statements—Grandma chattered on about the spectacular colors in the vineyard and about seeing thousands of starlings late in the afternoon that had come to glean the orchards and vineyards of their remaining sweetness. She described how the sky had seemed to pulse as the glittering black flock had repeatedly expanded and contracted, perhaps on its way to roost in a eucalyptus grove near Sebastopol.

“You’re just staring at your plate, not eating a thing,” Grandma said.

“I’m sorry.” I looked up at her and tried to smile. “Do you think Grandpa’s been working too hard lately?”

“Oh, my, yes. He’s not sleeping well, either. He gets up and paces and comes out here and stares at the scenescreen. I think you should talk with him.”

My throat knotted.

“Is there something wrong, honey? Is it something about Elio?”

I shook my head, forced down a few bites of food, kissed her goodnight, and then, to straighten myself out, took a cold shower. Within a few seconds, the water shocked me into clearer-headedness, and an idea came to me as to how I might test the accuracy of First Brother’s message.

I hurried out of the shower and went to the garage to find the tracking device Elio and I always took on our kayaking trips and an old watch I’d discarded years before. I found both and snuck the parts required for my plan into Michael’s rooms by hiding them from Gatekeeper in my mouth. Michael was still sitting where I’d left him, his hands covering his face.

“I wish Michael were here,” I said as I walked to our study table. “We could make a tracking device to see where Grandpa goes in his tiltrotor.”

The slits between Michael’s fingers widened. “You think First Brother might be wrong?”

“I hope so.”

With the help of our macrofabricator, we used the GPS, timer, and battery chips to make a new chip, which we packaged in a mold that looked like a quarter. Once hidden aboard the tiltrotor, the counterfeit quarter would record its position vs. time.

Our work was slowed by our having to continually make it inconspicuous if Grandpa came to see us when he returned home. But Grandpa evidently returned after our bedtime, for he didn’t come in to say goodnight. Michael, who was unable to reconcile himself to the anger in First Brother’s letter, said he was frightened and asked if he could sleep with me that night, since Elio wasn’t there.

Neither of us could fall asleep, so we began discussing the letter. We weren’t at all surprised to hear that another attack against the androids was planned. Ever since the first attack had failed to destroy all of the androids on Mars, the media had been full of support for another attack to finish the job. But could Grandpa be involved in such a thing? His son and daughter-in-law had given their lives to save the androids. And Grandpa loved Michael.

Magnasea did a lot of government business, so Grandpa’s visiting government facilities was to be expected. But assuming First Brother was correct about the amount of time Grandpa spent at Livermore, surely he wasn’t simply making an executive visit to a customer; he most likely would be involved in research, though what research could that possibly be? Except for intelligent systems, in what was Grandpa competent enough to contribute to the level of scientific and technical work conducted at the Livermore Research Center?

Our wake-up alarm rang, startling us not from sleep but from our thoughts. When I got to the breakfast table, Grandma was talking with Grandpa about how beautiful the vineyards were that morning, how still and soft the air. She loved November best: the month of mellow, contented calm that follows the fever of growth and harvest and fairs.

While we ate, I thought that a few years earlier Grandpa’s eagle eyes would have spotted my bloodshot eyes and sleepless face a room away, that he would have known exactly what was troubling me, and that before breakfast was finished, he would have made everything better. On this morning, however, he barely glanced at me. He ate rapidly as Grandma spoke—now she was talking about our third crop of raspberries for the year—then excused himself to finish getting ready for work.

I hurried to board the tiltrotor ahead of Grandpa so that I could find a place to conceal the tracking device. On the way to Palo Alto, I asked him what he had planned for the day.

“I’ll be in Berkeley. I’ll pick you up at 1745, as usual.”

“Grandma’s worried that you're working too hard.”

He chuckled. “She needn’t worry. Much of my day is spent with old, retired professor buddies. We drink brandy with coffee and ruminate on the sorry state of the world.”

“She misses you. Maybe you should bring her flowers once in a while. It would show you’re thinking about her.”

“What? Like the flowers Elio brings you? That boy has yet to figure out that the gardenerbots toss enough flowers onto our compost heap to stock a nursery.”

“Well, I miss you, too. I wish you’d spend more time on our tutorials.”

There was a pause before he spoke, now in a more serious tone. “Your education has largely passed me by. We live in a world requiring fresh minds to perceive its complexities. You should begin full-time studies at Stanford. It’s time.”

I didn’t answer him, and we dropped the subject. We’d been over it several times before. I didn’t feel ready for any more big changes.

Elio picked me up at the Palo Alto Airport. Of course, I didn’t mention anything about First Brother’s communication; for outside of Michael’s rooms, I conducted myself as if the whole world were listening and watching.

Between classes that afternoon, I called Grandpa’s office. His secretary answered. We exchanged pleasantries; then I asked her whether Grandpa had been in the office all morning.

“Yes, of course,” she said.

“Grandma and I worry that perhaps he’s working too hard.”

“I wouldn’t worry if I were you, Sara. He’s a remarkable man, you know. And strong for his age. Oh, there’s another call. Hold a sec and I’ll put you right through to him. Bye.”

Within seconds, he answered. He seemed to be in a good mood and asked how my day was going. I told him a little about my classes, then asked how his day was going.

“Oh, fine. Working on some government contracts, so I can’t say much.”

“Have you been stuck in Berkeley all day?”

“Yes. Is something the matter?”

“I was just wondering whether you could pick me up a half-hour later today.”

“Of course, but you should call Grandma and tell her we’ll be late.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you at 1815. Say hello to Elio.”

On the way home in the tiltrotor, I retrieved the counterfeit quarter while Grandpa spoke with the autopilot. Then I noticed a package on the floor, tucked between his legs. “It’s for your grandmother,” Grandpa answered when I asked about it. “Take a look. I was sitting in my office this afternoon, and it occurred to me that as the years pass, it is easy to begin taking the people we love for granted.”

I opened the seal on the package. Inside were a dozen red roses. The attached card, imprinted with the name of a Berkeley florist, read: “For the love of my life.”