Human Sister

brightness of the sun, staying where he wanted me—in the foliage of shadows.

    I had been eagerly waiting beside the thick, heavy door to the house for about a half-hour—a long time for a little girl only three and a half years old. Finally, the pressurizing fans clicked on and about a second later the door we called Gatekeeper unlocked with a clunk, clunk and slid open with a whoosh. Mom and Dad were there, as expected, and between them, also expected, stood First Brother. He was holding their hands. He looked entirely human, like an adult, though his body appeared rigid, even his eyes, which stared straight ahead. Because of the outward flow of air—intended to repel smart dust from wafting into the house—I couldn’t smell them, or the wet vines draping the arborway behind them, or the purple crocuses freshly in bloom, or the earthy scent of trees after a night of soft winter rain.
    Normally, I would have rushed into Mom’s and Dad’s arms, but on this day I, too, might have appeared somewhat wooden, intrigued as I was at seeing in person for the first time one of my brothers, whom Grandpa referred to as Sentirens. First Brother was about Mom’s height, shorter by about 8 centimeters than Dad, and wore black shoes, black slacks, and a long-sleeved pink shirt. His black hair, short and parted on the left, contrasted with Mom’s blonde hair and Dad’s, nearly white like mine.
    First Brother didn’t even glance at me. He just continued staring—eerily, it seemed at the time—at something over my head. I looked back, but there wasn’t anything on the blank white wall. All of the walls in our house were white and, except for the scenescreens in our bedrooms, blank: no windows, no artwork, no clocks—no places for surveillance microbots to hide.
    “Hello, Sara.” “Hello, sweetie,” Mom and Dad said, respectively, before stepping forward, still holding hands with First Brother. Gatekeeper went whoosh, clunk, clunk. The pressurizing fans fell silent.
    “This is your brother,” Mom said. She was trying to pull her right hand free from First Brother’s left. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”
    I looked back toward the kitchen and called out, “Grandma!”
    “My darling little girl,” Mom said, bending over to pick me up. “Give me a big hug.”
    Her breath smelled of stale cigarette smoke, but her body smelled of violets, and I loved the way she held me, loved her warm, wet kisses, loved the energy she exuded, of an intensity greater than either Grandpa’s or Grandma’s.
    I was passed to Dad, who had by then also managed to free his hand from First Brother’s. “How’s my sweetie?” He hugged and kissed me, but more gently, softly, softer than either Grandpa or Grandma would have; and he smelled good, too: citrus, mint, sandalwood—all calming like his smile.
    I heard cheery hellos from Grandpa and Grandma and was set back down onto the floor. While the grown-ups hugged and kissed, First Brother continued to stare, now at something on the ceiling, though at what I couldn’t tell, for there wasn’t anything there—just the same blank whiteness of the walls.
    “How’s my grandson today?” Grandpa said, sounding cheerful. He hugged First Brother, but First Brother continued staring at the nothing on the ceiling.
    Grandpa brought First Brother’s right hand close to me and indicated with a nod and a smile that I should do something with it. I took hold of the big hand—its skin cool and smooth, almost slippery, like that of a frog—but I didn’t know what else to do with it.
    “Perhaps you could show your brother our house,” Grandpa said.
    “Okay. Come along, then,” I said, pulling on the reptilian hand.
    First stop: kitchen. I showed him the chair I sat on in the breakfast nook. He didn’t look at the chair. He didn’t look at me when I sat in the chair. I opened the refrigerator door. He didn’t look inside. I touched the biorecycler, which was still purring with the leftover lunch Grandma had fed it. This he looked at, though not until I removed my hand.
    I walked over to the nutriosynthesizer. I told him that Grandma and I liked the fruits and vegetables that came fresh from our garden more than those that came from the synthesizer. Grandpa didn’t think there was much of a difference. First Brother continued looking at the recycler.
    I noticed the synthesizer’s green light was on, so I opened the small door. An orange, with no peel, lay on the round glass