Human Sister

leading down to the landing.
    “Rusty!” she calls. “Come! Come here, boy!”
    The dog stops, turns, and trots back to her. She reaches out with her right hand and strokes the dog’s shoulder. “Leave the pigeonoid alone. Heel. Good boy!”
    The dog walks beside her for a couple of meters. She calls out toward the house and toward the garage north of the house: “Hello! Hello! Is anyone home?”
    One door of the garage is open. A Toyota brand vehicle with two canoes attached to its top is parked inside the open garage door. She leans in beside the right side of the vehicle and again calls out: “Hello!”
    The dog runs into the garage on the left side of the vehicle and disappears from sight.
    “Come,” she says. She turns and heads toward the house.

Sara

    E ven though I wear gloves as I write, my hands occasionally get cold and I go to the module where Michael is working on the artificial wombs, where it is tropically moist and warm and where, sometimes, I can close my eyes and feel at peace. But this time during my break to rest and warm up, Michael was excited to show me the set of breasts he just completed fabricating, four breasts stacked 2 x 2 that he will strap onto his chest to nurse the first children. He already has names for them: Kyla, Sophie, Eddy, Jace.
    Soon, using my eggs and genetic material preserved from Elio and some people Grandpa felt were superior both physically and mentally, Michael will complete the design of the coiled strands of the children’s DNA, those twisting tornadoes of possibilities, then nine months later will pull four wet infants crying and kicking from the artificial wombs, and for a year or so nurse them on the quadruple heated breasts strapped to his chest, where, I imagine, the newborns will suck and coo, cough and spit and wiggle themselves into caramel-smelling slumberous calm, their doughy thighs and pudgy little fingers cradled in his arms, their heads pillowed in his cruciform cleavage, their anterior fontanels—crested with white, black, blond, and auburn downy hair—visibly pulsing to the warm, red, iambic rhythm of human life. Sophie will be my clone, her eyes buttons of bleached-blue sky; and Eddie will be Elio’s, his skin chocolate and when in the sun, smelling of rain on warm stone.
    Michael says I should see them as my children, too. But he insists that they remain here for a while, perhaps years, until he is certain the threat from the androids on Mars is over. I can’t imagine staying in this cramped, cold place for years. Each day I become more anxious, more eager to leave, to return to Grandma, Lily, home. And perhaps I suffer from an antiquated notion that a mother is someone who wraps her long legs around a father. There is no father like that here.

    I longed for Elio during the flight home. But I felt drawn forward, too. I’d been gone for two weeks, and I missed home: Grandpa, Grandma, Michael, and Lily—and the vineyard, that palimpsest of sweetness and green, shimmering in the midsummer sun.
    After playing with Lily and then talking with Grandpa and Grandma over lunch, I showered to rid myself of any clinging microdevices and stepped in front of Gatekeeper 3. The first door opened, then closed behind me. I placed my feet on the foot diagrams printed on the floor and waited for Gatekeeper to examine me. While still in Amsterdam, I’d called Grandpa and Grandma and told them Elio and I had become lovers. They had been wonderful, wishing us happiness. I worried, though, about how supportive (or upset) Michael would be. Had they told him already?
    I heard the seals of the second door release, and there was Michael, smiling and reaching in for me before the door finished sliding open.
    “I’m so happy you’re home!” he exclaimed, hugging me.
    I reached for a pair of underpants, but he grabbed my hand and pulled me along toward our study. “I saw the recording of your telling Grandpa and Grandma about you and Elio. I was so excited that I asked Grandpa to bring me materials to examine related to the physiology and psychology of sex and love. It’s fascinating.” Near the computer was a pile of chip cases. “I want to brainjoin with you while you tell me about Elio.”
    We sat cross-legged on the floor, and after the braincord made its familiar journey up my nostrils to its junctions, I began telling Michael about my two weeks with Elio.
    He asked me to skip to just before I knew Elio wanted to make love with me. I did. After a