Authors: Jim Bainbridge
“Yes. I performed my own analysis to determine that he does. Obviously, whatever was done happened before the cells used to create part of Michael were extracted from you.”
“Doesn’t this imply,” Michael said, “that they must have foreseen, years ago, a war against humans, and they wanted to protect Sara?”
“We can only speculate,” Grandpa answered.
“First Brother wanted to see Elio when we visited Calgary,” I said. “Maybe they were planning the same transfection for him.”
“Perhaps, but now we’ll probably never know.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about this before? Why did you make up that story about the liver enzymes?”
“They didn’t want you to know they’d found something peculiar in you because they couldn’t be certain that you weren’t communicating with the androids. And I don’t want to know if you are. I just hope you’re not. I’m told that there are encrypted transmissions flowing between Mars and Earth, but who or what is receiving and transmitting those communications here on Earth is unknown. You can be certain, however, that we’re being carefully monitored, and I don’t think I need to warn you—”
“Are they going to try to sterilize Sara,” Michael interrupted, “pursuant to the Human Genome Protection Act?”
“All of this is top secret, for now. They don’t want the public to panic. You don’t plan on having children any time soon, do you, Sara?”
“No.” I felt numb.
“But someday,” Michael said, “someday, when all this is over, maybe in a year, they’ll want to sterilize her.”
Grandpa closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
When Elio finds out, I thought, how will he respond to this? We had often talked about having children as soon as we were secure in our professional lives. An empty feeling began growing deep in the center of my body where I’d thought that something that was Elio’s—that was ours together—had been lying dormant, waiting for the right moment to blossom into life.
“Sara, I’m sorry,” Grandpa said. “I’m so very, very sorry. I keep thinking that things will straighten out if I cooperate in just one more scheme. But it keeps getting worse.”
“Did you have anything to do with the transfection?” I asked, feeling my face flush with anger.
“No! No, honey. I was shocked and devastated to find out. Please believe me. Please.”
As I watched his deeply creased face quiver and his eyes brim with tears, my anger cooled. I knew he would never intentionally hurt me, and I reached for the calm place inside that many years before he had taught me to go to when I needed to control my emotions.
Anchored in that calm, I said, “I believe you about the transfection. But it’s not right for you to play with our lives and our trust as you have. I think it’s reprehensible to tell someone she has a potential liver problem when something else, something much more serious, is going on. And all this about destroying the androids and attacking China—I know good things can come from bad things and vice versa, but it isn’t right for us to be mixed up in such matters: people killing each other because they’re convinced they’re right. It’s not us, Grandpa. We’re not capable of holding such fervid convictions. Our hearts aren’t in it. You know that.”
Grandpa wiped tears from his eyes. “We don’t belong; yet here we are in this mess, and I don’t see a way out.”
“You need to come home where you’re loved,” I said. “You need to get out and get out now. We might become victims of what’s brewing, but I’d rather we be victims than participants in the kinds of things you’ve described.”
“I agree,” Michael said. “General Renner should be able to find someone, or perhaps a couple of scientists if necessary, who are younger and know as much as you do about how androids operate. I can’t believe you’re so indispensable to their schemes.”
Grandpa took the slight without a wince. “You’re probably right. There are people who know much more about android mechanisms than I do. But none of these younger, smarter people have decades of experience interacting socially with androids. One can know everything there is to know about how androids function without having the foggiest idea of how one will respond if someone screams ‘Fire!’ in a crowded theater. But having said that, we can hope others will share your feeling and will simply think ‘Good riddance!’ if I leave.”
“So, you’re leaving?” I asked.
“Before we jump to that conclusion, let me present more of the case for continuing my association with the project. I’ve already told you that I have very little constructive input to the plans to launch an attack against the androids. As for the surprise attack against China, our partner in crime, how can we be sure it’s the wrong thing to do? Isn’t it plausible that certain technologies are too dangerous to be in the hands of contending parties who, in their struggle for supremacy, might unleash such devastating technologies against each other? If history is any guide—if what I’ve heard our generals and senators crow about in private for decades is any guide—our government will use any horror available to it to prevent its defeat by another government. My guess is that the Chinese government thinks the same way.”
“What’s going to keep the Chinese from destroying us in retaliation?” I asked.
“I’m not privy to all the details, but in summary it goes like this: The surprise first strike will, in a matter of minutes, take out most if not all of their satellites, missile bases, submarines, communication centers, and androids. There is high confidence that our defenses will be able to handle any aggressive threat remaining after that first strike. Our European and Asian allies will be given a warning to go on full defensive alert as the strike begins. The Cinnamoids, supported by Marines and massive air cover, will then secure most Chinese facilities involved in strategic technologies. We will immediately announce a generous sharing of the fruits of these and future technologies with everyone in the world—including the Chinese, if they are cooperative. We will also announce the creation of an international science council. The job of this council will be to fund and govern strategic technologies for the benefit of all humankind.”
“Sounds awfully risky to me,” I said. “And who’s going to believe that the Americans will be so generous?”
“I have to admit that what I’ve told you is the story, the promise. What will be the practice may be another matter. But I do believe we humans have been fortunate to have survived on the brink of self-inflicted destruction for as long as we have. If we continue along the same path, with contending nation states just one command, one mistake, away from annihilating everyone, it probably isn’t a question of whether we will end it all, but a question of when.
“The military strategists believe we have a window of opportunity right now, a window that may soon close forever, to create global cooperation over dangerous technologies under one governing body in which all states can participate and benefit. People have explored the diplomatic route to internationalize strategic technologies for generations, but the powerful sovereign states have never been able to agree. Perhaps where diplomacy has failed, military cunning and power will succeed. Can any of us here, ignorant as we are of the whole picture, be certain that our generals and their geniuses are wrong? Of course, there will be casualties; we will be labeled a duplicitous aggressor; there will be denunciations and difficulties. But look at the terrible risks to all of us, to all of humanity, that will be eliminated if this project succeeds.”
“Do you genuinely believe that?” I asked.
Grandpa sighed. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. But I do know that I’m very, very tired, and I know that you and Michael are right: These issues, this work, the lies I’ve told you, the associations with people who are certain that they’re right—none of this is what I am or what I want to be a part of. And I worry. I worry more about what First Brother and the other androids out there might be capable of than I worry about any ability of the Chinese to retaliate. But no one will listen to me. They think I’m biased, that I’m protective of the androids, that I’m against the Martian attack plans—and they are correct about all those things, so they have essentially cut me out of the Mars loop.”
The next day, Grandpa informed us that he felt it would be best for him to return to work for a month or so, during which time he would attempt to convince certain key people that he was of only marginal value to the project. He said he would show up late for work, leave early, fall asleep during meetings, occasionally forget names and overlook details of established procedures.
“I’ll try not to appear too obvious,” he said, “but at ninety-one I should be able to take advantage of the stereotypes of old age.”
He assured us that, in any event, he would resign before the end of December because he feared the Cinnamoids would become increasingly resistant to their training, the project would fall behind schedule, and panic would set in—panic not allowing anyone associated with the project any slack for errors, personal problems, or time off.
As the days shortened toward winter, Grandpa’s views darkened: The plan to attack the androids became a filthy pandering to the irrational fears and prejudices of the public, and Project Cinnamon became a sure loser guaranteed to blow up in its creators’ faces. “I’ll deem it a success if the Cinnamoids don’t bomb Washington when they’re finally let loose,” he said.
His last day of work at Lawrence Livermore was Friday, 20 December. That evening, appearing at once relieved that the past had passed but apprehensive of a future developing beyond our control, he said he’d sensed that about half the people on the project had been pleased to see him go—and good riddance—but the other half, the craftier ones, had been suspicious and cold. General Renner had not said yes or no or even acknowledged his resignation. There had been no party, no well-wishing; Grandpa had simply walked out of the facility, hoping never to return.
I hoped so, too, but was troubled with doubt: Given the dangerous military context in which it had occurred, Grandpa’s resignation had proceeded too smoothly.
Seventeen days later, on the evening of 6 January, Grandpa told me that he’d been asked to go see General Renner the following morning.
First Brother
H
er left hand lifts the left side of her undershirt up and out from her pants.
The dog stands and again looks back at me.
Her right hand lifts the right side of her undershirt up and out from her pants.
Her hands move up beside her head and behind her neck, grab the undershirt, and pull it over her head. She drops the undershirt on the ground near her right foot.
The dog sniffs the undershirt.
She removes her pants, stepping first out of the right leg, then out of the left leg. She drops the pants on top of the undershirt.
The dog sniffs the pants.
She pulls down her underpants, her last remaining garment, steps out of them, right leg first, and drops them on top of the pants and undershirt.
The dog sniffs the underpants.
She steps forward and kneels in front of the middle marker. Her head is bowed. Her shoulders and back are seen making motions consistent with human sobbing.
The dog lies on the pile of clothes. It watches her.
She lies prone with the top of her head against the middle marker. Her arms encircle and appear to hug the marker. Her head is turned to the right. Her sobbing is audible as well as visible. There is no discernible rhythm to the sobbing. There is no predictable pattern.
The dog turns its head and watches me walk. The shadow of my head moves up the bottom of her left foot, left leg, buttocks, back, and stops on her shoulders.
Her sobbing quiets. Her breathing returns to its regular pattern.
The shadow of my head moves up her neck, across the right side of her face, onto her right arm, and stops.
She slowly raises her head. She does not look behind her. She lifts her right arm and places her right palm in the shadow of my head.