In the cafeteria, there are two boys.
As seen through the cracked window fitted within the blockaded exit doors, they are indistinguishable from one another. Huddled beneath a dining table, their rapidly beating hearts harmonize in a beautiful, fearful duet. Their little hands are clasped together, their little heads pressed forehead to forehead. They’re not brothers, and before three days ago, they weren’t friends. But now, they’re all that’s left.
As seen from up close, through the cross-beamed legs of the table, they’re subtly different creatures. The boy on the right is older by at least five Earth years. Nine years old, or a small ten. A tangled mop of night-dark hair covers his head; two thin, fraying braids keep the hair pinned back from dark, long-lashed eyes. He looks like his second father, the one waiting for him in the new colony.
The boy on the left’s face is chubby with persistent babyhood. His hair is a sandy brown spilling well past his shoulders, a bit scraggly, the ends split. His skin is darker than the older boy’s, but only by a narrow shade, his eyes lighter, a greenish hazel. A stuffed elephant rests in his lap, its fabric worn love-smooth, one tusk missing.
The older boy is singing something to the younger boy; the notes are off-key and he forgets a few words, stumbling over the second stanza. But the words aren’t what’s important. The boys don’t speak the same language, after all.
For three days, the boys have survived here, together and alone. The older boy built a nest for them to sleep in using clothing taken from the chef’s body. He hid the body inside the kitchen to spare the younger boy the sight and smell of human decomposition.
Around their nest, squeezed-empty packets of nutrient tubes litter the sticky floor. A massive bucket of water crowds the opposite side of their under-table world. It feels safe there, underneath the table, even though it isn’t.
The older boy understands four things. Because nine years old, and especially ten, is old enough to understand a fair bit about the world.
He understands the adults on the transport ship are dead, and that dead is final. He played lots of Terraform You before the thought worms attacked; he understands that life is like hardcore mode: if you die, you don’t respawn.
He understands that he and the younger boy are the first children to make the journey to the new colony. On a pre-programmed course, their ship will arrive in exactly seven more days. Once it enters the planet’s atmosphere, the thought worms won’t be able to survive.
He understands, though he wishes he didn’t, that there are voices in the younger boy’s head, intruders in his soft thoughts. The voices will kill him, just like they killed everyone else.
The last thing the older boy understands is this: if he wants to survive, he’ll need to kill the younger boy. If he doesn’t, they’ll both die. But it’s been three days, and he hasn’t done it.
The younger boy drifts fitfully to sleep. The older boy lays him on their nest of clothing, brushing his hair from his eyes the way his first father would do for him on Earth. The younger boy’s skin is feverish because the thought worms inside his brain are burrowing. The younger the human host, the longer it takes to die. The older boy doesn’t know why this is, he only knows that the oldest adults died fastest. And he knows that soon, moments before the younger boy dies, the thought worms will want a new host. The older boy is the only host left. He should kill the younger boy now, while he sleeps. That would be kindest. He found a laser gun on one of the bodies—it should be easy.
Except it isn’t easy, not even a little bit.
He removes the gun from its holster and aims it at the younger boy. Closing his eyes, he places his finger against the trigger. His hands shake.
For three days, the younger boy has looked to the older boy for protection. For three days, the older boy has fed him, and held him, and sung to him. And, sometimes, the younger boy sang, too. Pretty words the older boy didn’t understand, but they felt like they mattered. The older boy never had a brother, but he feels like he has one now.
The younger boy whimpers in his sleep.
The older boy exhales—it feels like relief—and drops the gun. He lays down beside the younger boy, to soothe him. Unconsciously, the younger boy shifts closer, sharing warmth. His breathing softens.
It isn’t so bad, the older boy thinks, to die for your brother. Especially if it means you can live a while together. Even if that while only lasts a few days. These aren’t thoughts he articulates fully—he’s never been great with words, had poor marks in his language classes, and still has trouble pronouncing his hard Rs, though he tries to hide that when he can. It’s more a feeling that comes over him. Maybe a little like love.
The older boy smiles and, just this once, lets himself cry. Because he really did want to see his second father; he really did want to see the new colony. And maybe it’s silly, but he’s sad he’ll never get to play Terraform You again.
But being with the younger boy—comforting him as he dies, even though that means they’ll both die—matters more.
One week later, when the transport ship docks in the new colony and immigration officials board for inspection, they find tragedy. This isn’t the first time a ship’s passengers have succumbed to the space parasite. The worms act too quickly—there are never survivors.
Except this time, in the ship’s belly, they find two boys, indistinguishable from one another until you get closer. The little one is wrapped in the older one’s arms. And when the inspector kneels to peer beneath the table, he’s shocked when both boys open their eyes.
Content warnings: Death, violence
