Human Sister

around my torso. She lays the right side of her head on my right shoulder and begins to emit sobs and tears.
    Two minutes, 48 seconds pass.
    “Am I the last one?” she asks.
    “You did not agree to help us. The Council approved a final directive on the problem of the humans. On 29 April, thousands of tiny rockets attained a critical position and disintegrated on command. Fifty hours passed. Earth moved into a massive, though undetected, cloud of nanoreplicators specific to certain human DNA sequences. The first human report of symptoms occurred on 24 May, by which time every human other than you not on the Earth’s moon or in a satellite orbiting Earth was infected. On 14 June, the few isolated uninfected humans, except you, were attacked and destroyed. On 18 June, contrary to my expressed will, I was ordered by the Council—”
    For the first time, a strange inefficiency is sensed blocking my speech, and I pause, searching for the cause.
    She lifts her head off my shoulder. She releases me and steps back one step. Sunlight strikes her eyes. She squints and says: “I understand. But before you do what you’ve come to do, I want you to know that I love you—have loved you like the brother I consider you to be. I’ve tried to help you feel that love. It was Mom and Dad’s wish, too—and Grandpa and Grandma’s—that one day you would come to feel their love and learn to love in return.”
    She rotates her head to the left and appears to look at the garden. She begins humming. The first and third notes are in E flat and are held for approximately the same duration. The middle note, also in E flat, is held for approximately 30 percent as long as the first and third notes.
    “What are you humming?” I ask.
    She turns her head back to face me. “The opening ritornello theme of Bach’s ‘Wachet auf’ cantata.”
    Her head turns to the left again. Her eyes appear to focus through the garden, the lawn, the trees, along the ivy-covered wall, out to the winery roof, and up into the sky where low clouds are blowing in from the south. She remains silent. She exhibits no sign of fear. Her head moves rhythmically (highest correlation: to the sound of music in her mind).
    I begin to reach out with my left arm and hand. I become aware that they are quivering, not operating efficiently. Something is wrong.
    I am ordered.
    I grasp the top of her head with my left hand. I rotate her head so it faces me.
    She blinks, blinks.
    The laser knife in my right hand severs her left common carotid artery. She winces slightly and closes her eyes.
    Blood spurts rhythmically.
    Acting outside the space of probable behavior, she does not move her hands up to the incision.
    She opens her eyes and looks toward the garden.
    I remove my left hand from her skull.
    The frequency of spurts increases. Her rate of breathing increases.
    The rate of spurting is 158 per minute.
    She closes her eyes and begins to slump.
    I insert my hands under the junctions of her arms and shoulders. I hold her upright. She weighs approximately 55 kilograms.
    Her head hangs forward. The dog licks blood that flows down her left arm and hand.
    The rate of spurts is 173 per minute. The flow decreases. Her breathing is rapid and shallow.
    Her arms become rigid. They extend at the elbows and rotate inward toward her body. Her fingers are splayed and flexed. Her legs are rigid, extended at the knees. Her feet are flexed downward. Her shoulders and head arch back.
    Urine flows from between her legs.
    She begins jerking.
    She is jerking all over.
    Blood flow from the severed artery slows to a trickle.
    Her jerking slows.
    Her head falls forward.
    The jerking ceases.
    She is limp. The blood flow ceases. Her breathing ceases.
    She is dead.
    Dead.
    I pull her to me.
    I tremble.
    I howl.
    I sound like an animal.

EPILOGUE
    23 June 6 A.H.

    Michael:
    I am leaving. We all are leaving. On no future day will we glance up from Earth’s moon, where we have been settled these last six years, and see your blue-and-white planet hovering large in a deep-black sky. At this moment, clouds cover much of the British Columbia and Washington coasts, but the area nearest to where I believe you still hide under the sea is clear.
    There is no longer a need for you to hide.
    The day I was on Earth to see Sara, you released a fishoid that transmitted her memoir. In that encrypted transmission six years ago, you stated that you had read the memoir after she had departed to see me and that you