Human Sister

areas Grandpa had designated as target areas. The navitors would slowly dissolve as they penetrated my brain, leaving a trail of molecular guidance cues and neuron growth factors that would develop into neural pathways running between the braincord junctions and their target areas. All tests on animal and Sentiren-type brains and all computer simulations had proved, Grandpa said, that there was no risk whatsoever of degradation in my brain functions—the entire process was as safe as, though more involved than, cutting toenails.
    Looking back, it’s hard for me to believe that, despite his assurances, I didn’t harbor some fear. Perhaps I’m simply not remembering.
    The braincord, the last 15 centimeters of which were bifurcated into two white channels, was guided by microsensors implanted near its tips. The first time it moved up my nostrils, I was so overcome by irritation that Grandpa quickly backed the cord out.
    I vigorously rubbed my alarmed nose. “It feels like two worms slithering up there!”
    “That was a good, healthy response,” he said, handing me a tissue. “We have automatic responses that help prevent things from slithering up our noses. Don’t fight the tickling sensations. Accept them. Relax when the cord moves into your nostrils. Shall we try again?”
    The second time, I concentrated on accepting the tickling, the watery eyes, and the runny nose; and the braincord found its junctions and implanted the first navitor clusters. For the next two hours, I lay still, listening to the FMD’s high-pitched chirr, which sounded as though it came from the busy workings of hundreds of little hammers. After a few sessions, neither the braincord’s movement up my nostrils nor the FMD’s buzz bothered me, and during the many hours I was required to lie still in the FMD, I was able to think about the math problems Grandpa had given me or about what it might be like to have Michael rather than this monotonous machine connected to me.

    Senator Franklin visited us one evening while he was in California for a Pacific defense conference. On that day, my afternoon FMD session was completed early.
    Grandpa made a point of showing the senator our remodeling plans, explaining that I would be a young woman in a few years and should have the privacy of the back third of the house for myself. “I don’t need the security any longer,” Grandpa said. “I’m glad to have put all that android stuff behind me. I wish Karl and Mary would do the same.”
    I felt confused in that moment, torn between revulsion at Grandpa’s lie to his friend and conviction that Grandpa knew what was best—what he had to do.
    “I heard about the transfer of their pets to somewhere in Canada,” the senator replied. “In a truck with avocados and strawberries, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes,” Grandpa chuckled.
    “Quite a caper, that,” the senator said, shaking his head. “Some uptight people in Washington were less than amused.”
    Over dinner, the senator complained unceasingly about his life and about what he called our troubled times: the military was demanding crazy projects that would bankrupt our country, which was already in its twelfth year of a seemingly implacable depression; barring some miracle, the ERP almost certainly would win many new seats in the next election; he would have to endure an exhausting campaign to win re-election; and his wife was unhappy that he had to work so hard and that when he did come home he was too tired to do anything.
    Though I felt unease from Grandpa’s seemingly light-hearted deception of his old friend, I sensed from Senator Franklin’s words and the tone of his voice that things were bad in the cage of the outside world and were getting worse. Evidently, Grandpa had been right: We had to be vigilant in keeping our secrets. But little did I suspect how many secrets there would be or how they would multiply malignantly, taking on a dark life of their own.

    Grandpa and I completed the FMD sessions during the first week of May, and six weeks later we flew to Amsterdam to visit Elio. Visiting Elio for my birthday had by now become a tradition, one I eagerly looked forward to. But this summer’s visit was considerably darkened by the fact that Grandpa was vigilant the entire time in not letting me run or engage in any kind of physical play. I had to be ever careful not to bump or jar my head because the connections between my cribriform plate and the new neural pathways were still quite