Human Sister

platform inside. I reached in and separated the orange in half.
    “Here,” I said, “you try. See what you think.”
    It took me a moment—a moment during which he didn’t reach for the orange, or even look at it—before I realized he probably wasn’t interested in food. I had been told he simply plugged his tummy into an electrical outlet to charge his tens of thousands of little batteries and capacitors.
    I put the orange back in the synthesizer. First Brother continued staring at the recycler.
    “When it stops purring,” I said, “we can put some of the feedstock into the synthesizer and make another orange. Or whatever you want.”
    He still didn’t look at me. A little voice inside said: He doesn’t want anything. Not from you.
    Tears welled up in my eyes. I wanted a brother I could play with.
    Just then, Grandpa appeared, followed by Grandma, Mom, and Dad. Perhaps they had been just around the corner, listening.
    “How’s the grand tour going?” Grandpa asked.
    I tried to smile. First Brother kept looking at the recycler. I wished it would stop purring.
    No one said anything for a moment. Then I noticed an antoid crawling along the seam between the floor and the cabinet on which the synthesizer sat. Rarely did we see an antoid during the day; they worked at night, seeking out and carrying off dust and crumbs and, should any make it past Gatekeeper, alien microbots. Grandpa said the antoids acted as an immune system for the house, destroying any foreign body, including any of their own kind that might have mutated or that might have been tampered with by outside persons. There were special killer antoids—larger than the others, with brown and black stripes that gave them the appearance of spiders—that checked the operating codes of all the antoids they came across.
    I knelt down to get a closer look at the one crawling on the floor. It was one of the striped killers carrying a regular antoid in its pinchers.
    “First Brother, look!” I said. “Do you have antoids in your house?”
    He didn’t answer, didn’t look.
    “I do the cleaning in our house,” Mom said. “We can’t afford an army of robots.”
    She glared at Grandpa. He simply looked at me and said, “Why don’t you show your brother the rest of the house?”
    “He’s not interested,” I said.
    “Of course, he is,” Grandpa said, narrowing his eyes. He had told me that I should be nice to my brother, that I should be patient.
    “How about our communications room?” I said, thinking of its plush, crimson seats and large Vidtel screen.
    “Another thing we can’t afford,” Mom said.
    “Perhaps your room,” Grandma suggested. She smiled at me. I wished I could be alone with her for a moment, so I could tell her how confused and upset I was.
    “Come along then,” I said, taking First Brother’s cold, limp hand.
    He followed me as I led him to my room and showed him around: This is my bed… This is my study table… This is the scenescreen on which I can see my choice of our garden or the sky any time of day… This is where I go potty… and so on. Every time I glanced at Mom and Dad, they were watching First Brother and smiling and nodding; but every time I glanced at Grandpa and Grandma, they were looking at me and smiling and nodding. First Brother picked the oddest things to stare at—a frayed edge on my pillowcase or the way the water swirled and dove, burped and rose again in the toilet when I demonstrated how to flush it—and he would just stare at such things until I’d pull on his hand and say, “Come along, then.”
    I don’t know where I picked up that phrase, “Come along, then.” It seems so formal to me now, and I don’t recall ever hearing Grandpa or Grandma use it, but I’m quite certain that is what I said over and over that first day to capture First Brother’s attention. I tried to capture Mom’s and Dad’s attention, too, by showing them new pictures I’d drawn and new words I’d learned, but they kept telling me to show my brother, and they kept smiling at him and watching his every move. He, however, clearly wasn’t interested in my drawings or words or in my ability to add, subtract, and multiply whole numbers. He kept staring at things I’d never paid much attention to, and not once did he look into my eyes.
    That’s all I remember of my first meeting with First Brother, but years later Grandma told me that by the time everyone sat down for tea, I was pouting. Then First