Human Sister

the terrible risks to all of us, to all of humanity, that will be eliminated if this project succeeds.”
    “Do you genuinely believe that?” I asked.
    Grandpa sighed. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. But I do know that I’m very, very tired, and I know that you and Michael are right: These issues, this work, the lies I’ve told you, the associations with people who are certain that they’re right—none of this is what I am or what I want to be a part of. And I worry. I worry more about what First Brother and the other androids out there might be capable of than I worry about any ability of the Chinese to retaliate. But no one will listen to me. They think I’m biased, that I’m protective of the androids, that I’m against the Martian attack plans—and they are correct about all those things, so they have essentially cut me out of the Mars loop.”

    The next day, Grandpa informed us that he felt it would be best for him to return to work for a month or so, during which time he would attempt to convince certain key people that he was of only marginal value to the project. He said he would show up late for work, leave early, fall asleep during meetings, occasionally forget names and overlook details of established procedures.
    “I’ll try not to appear too obvious,” he said, “but at ninety-one I should be able to take advantage of the stereotypes of old age.”
    He assured us that, in any event, he would resign before the end of December because he feared the Cinnamoids would become increasingly resistant to their training, the project would fall behind schedule, and panic would set in—panic not allowing anyone associated with the project any slack for errors, personal problems, or time off.
    As the days shortened toward winter, Grandpa’s views darkened: The plan to attack the androids became a filthy pandering to the irrational fears and prejudices of the public, and Project Cinnamon became a sure loser guaranteed to blow up in its creators’ faces. “I’ll deem it a success if the Cinnamoids don’t bomb Washington when they’re finally let loose,” he said.
    His last day of work at Lawrence Livermore was Friday, 20 December. That evening, appearing at once relieved that the past had passed but apprehensive of a future developing beyond our control, he said he’d sensed that about half the people on the project had been pleased to see him go—and good riddance—but the other half, the craftier ones, had been suspicious and cold. General Renner had not said yes or no or even acknowledged his resignation. There had been no party, no well-wishing; Grandpa had simply walked out of the facility, hoping never to return.
    I hoped so, too, but was troubled with doubt: Given the dangerous military context in which it had occurred, Grandpa’s resignation had proceeded too smoothly.
    Seventeen days later, on the evening of 6 January, Grandpa told me that he’d been asked to go see General Renner the following morning.

First Brother

    H er left hand lifts the left side of her undershirt up and out from her pants.
    The dog stands and again looks back at me.
    Her right hand lifts the right side of her undershirt up and out from her pants.
    Her hands move up beside her head and behind her neck, grab the undershirt, and pull it over her head. She drops the undershirt on the ground near her right foot.
    The dog sniffs the undershirt.
    She removes her pants, stepping first out of the right leg, then out of the left leg. She drops the pants on top of the undershirt.
    The dog sniffs the pants.
    She pulls down her underpants, her last remaining garment, steps out of them, right leg first, and drops them on top of the pants and undershirt.
    The dog sniffs the underpants.
    She steps forward and kneels in front of the middle marker. Her head is bowed. Her shoulders and back are seen making motions consistent with human sobbing.
    The dog lies on the pile of clothes. It watches her.
    She lies prone with the top of her head against the middle marker. Her arms encircle and appear to hug the marker. Her head is turned to the right. Her sobbing is audible as well as visible. There is no discernible rhythm to the sobbing. There is no predictable pattern.
    The dog turns its head and watches me walk. The shadow of my head moves up the bottom of her left foot, left leg, buttocks, back, and stops on her shoulders.
    Her sobbing quiets. Her breathing returns to its regular pattern.
    The shadow of my head moves