Human Sister

each, to the passenger planes to speed their escape.
    By treaty, no nuclear-powered air or spacecrafts were allowed on Earth. Therefore, according to experts interviewed by the news media, neither the Americans nor the Chinese possessed the ability to launch a fighting fleet capable of intercepting the android group on their way to wherever they were going. But the American and Chinese governments both declared their determination to pursue and destroy the androids and their criminal accomplices.
    News commentators speculated that the androids had been smuggled to the moon one or two at a time in cargo sections of lunar passenger planes. I wondered whether Aita was with them. Had she hidden, hibernating under a blanket of moon dust until the wake-up signal had come? Had she dreamed of the Canadian greenhouse and of the elderly couple who had thought of her as a daughter?
    At the two-week mark, Grandpa told us that, unless a secret offensive using illegal nuclear-powered spacecrafts had already been launched, Mom, Dad, Aunt Lynh, and my brothers could make it to Mars without being intercepted—if, as it appeared, Mars was their destination. The next day, Mom sent a message of peace and goodwill. But despite the fact that the androids had managed to avoid human fatalities through wise use of non-lethal weapons, and despite their declaration of intention to live peaceably with humankind, America, China, and their allies united in condemning the androids’ actions and in declaring that the words of the androids’ accomplices were merely intended to beguile humans into thinking that androids posed no long-term threat to humanity.
    After the hostages were released, the threats against us slowed to a trickle, and Elio and I were permitted to leave the house. But our security staff reported there were still paparazzi and a few disturbed individuals lurking about, so Elio and I remained well within the vineyard boundaries. On the news, which we now watched for hours each day, there were unconfirmed reports of huge numbers of military transports departing from both the United States and China to the moon. All civilian lunar facilities were ordered to close until further notice. On 7 July, there were unconfirmed reports of a large fleet of fighters, thought to be nuclear powered, departing from the moon. On 24 August, Mom delivered a message stating that the entire exodus group had landed safely on Mars and that they remained desirous of peace but were preparing to repulse and destroy any attack launched against them. Then, on 12 September, Elio and I entered the kitchen for breakfast and found Grandpa and Grandma silently holding hands and looking tired and sad. The United States and China had begun their attack against the Martian bases, bringing into action the mightiest destructive force they were able to project to such a distance.
    No further news regarding the attack was released that day. The next day, Grandpa said he was tired of seeing Elio and me moping around, watching retread news. He suggested we drive to the ocean to contemplate something bigger than ourselves.
    We managed to slip by reporters stationed near our security checkpoint by hunkering down under blankets on the floor of the backseat of a Sakato security car. About a half-hour later, alone at the beach (except for the Sakato guard watching over us), Elio and I stood hand in hand and gazed out over the immense sea, its primordial, white-blossoming breath roaring in and out, in and out; its salty, seaweedy scent wafting over our anxiety-drawn faces.

    On our way back home, Elio’s right hand gently stroked my thigh, then languidly squeezed and rested. He looked at me, his face sodden with exhaustion and worry, and through the side window I saw clouds and sky undulating—white, gray; white, gray, blue; white, gray—just over the tawny autumn hills.
    Only minutes before, we’d passed the Old Bodega Schoolhouse, a historical landmark used in an early movie, The Birds . Passing it, I’d yearned to hear from Mom and Dad. Other than during the hostage crisis when I hadn’t been allowed out of the house, each morning since returning from the winter holiday vacation, I’d gone out into the yard as First Brother had directed and looked at the southeast corner of the winery’s roof. Each morning I’d been ready, had I spotted the pigeonoid, to walk to the plum tree closest to the security gate, touch the tree’s trunk as if I were inspecting it, and