The pod crash left Kiran and Yusuf stranded on Kepler-438b.
Their supplies? Two survival manuals, a dented radio, and a gelatinous alien cub that clung to their shadows like a second moon.
It studied them. Mimicked them. It echoed Kiran’s sharp, incredulous laugh, then wobbled through Yusuf’s broken Hindi lullabies, humming them back in a warbled, otherworldly tone.
They named it Kal—"Tomorrow" in Urdu.
At first, Kal was small enough to nestle in their hands, its translucent body pulsing softly like a heartbeat. It needed nothing but touch and time.
Then, it grew.
And so did its hunger.
It devoured starlight, drinking it like nectar. Then it fed on soil, its body shimmering with the minerals it absorbed. Soon, entire cliffs crumbled into its form, dissolving as if they had never existed.
“It’s terraforming,” Kiran whispered, watching a mountain vanish in slow, silent horror.
Earth’s rescue mission finally came through the static. Their message was clear: Kal must be euthanized.
Kiran read the order. Yusuf ignored it.
He sat cross-legged, Kal curled in his lap, running a hand through the creature’s now-massive, undulating form. It shifted, reshaping itself—lips forming, then parting in a familiar, lopsided grin.
Yusuf froze. His breath hitched.
It was the grin of his dead son.
Kiran paced. “If we don’t stop this now, there won’t be a planet left to save.”
Yusuf held Kal tighter. “It’s just a child.”
Above them, the sky split open. Kal tilted its head—listening. Then it let out a sound. A call.
The hive was coming.
Kiran didn’t hesitate.
She plunged a syringe into Kal’s shifting body. Not poison, not death—but a neural suppressant. A quieting.
Kal shuddered. Its glow dimmed. The sky sealed itself back together. The hive, sensing no call, drifted away into the void.
Kal sagged in Yusuf’s arms, smaller now, gentler. Still alive.
The radio crackled. Earth’s ships were descending.
Parenthood, they realized, wasn’t just about protecting life. It was knowing when to hold on—
and when to hold the syringe.