Twin Lives
by Larry Hodges
Ben lay in bed watching the tickertape parade for his brother on MindTV. His clenched jaw hurt and he couldn’t remember not having a headache, not since learning his brother Adam’s ship had returned from the voyage to Gliese 357, bringing with them the squid-like alien ambassadors. This was in addition to the constant agony from terminal cancer. He had only weeks to live out the rest of his failed life.
Gliese 357, commonly dubbed “Grease,” an M-type main sequence star in the Hydra constellation, was 31 light years away. Astronomers had found a planet in the habitable zone circling it with 1.6 times Earth’s gravity, as well as signs of possible life. They had been right. Traveling at 99% the speed of light, it had taken Adam and his crew about nine years to make the round trip, ship’s time, due to time dilation. Adam, 41 years old when they left and two minutes older than Ben—as he he’d never tired of reminding him—was now 50 years old.
Sixty-two years had passed on Earth. Ben was 103, kept alive for decades by machines and anti-cancer drugs. But even they had their limits. Cosmetics, on the other hand, were way ahead of cancer treatments, and until the previous year Ben had looked much younger. But they too had their limits. Now his eyes were sunken and dead looking, his skin a sickly gray that hung in folds. He avoided mirrors, but no matter how hard he tried, he’d occasionally see his liver-spotted claw-like hands that looked like something from a decaying Frankenstein monster.
Adam looked like a movie star. Had he been working out all those years in the spaceship? And his hair—they both had brown hair, but Adam now had wavy blond hair that looked genuine.
Ben tried to think good thoughts about his twin, the inseparable good times they’d had growing up together, especially the constant baseball games in the field across the street. The two would often stay well after the other kids had left and the sun was a distant memory. They’d lie on the ground afterwards and stare at the stars, picking out the constellations they knew so well. They swore that someday they’d visit them. But the distant memories evaporated back into the one thought he could not put out of his mind.
That could have been me.
Both brothers had been admitted to the space academy. But Ben was cursed—CURSED!—to be the better baseball player. While his twin began space training, Ben opted for minor league baseball as a budding shortstop. He had potential and spent five seasons in the minors.
He never made it to the majors . . . or to space.
He married, had kids, and taught Phys-ed at the local middle school, and coached the baseball team to two county championships. He got old and retired. Then he had his annual physical and his world shot out of orbit in ways his brother could only dream about. It had now been decades since the first cancer diagnosis, but only weeks since his charts had finally declared that final, irrevocable word that all the miracles of modern medicine could not overcome: terminal.
When the doorbell rang, telling him that Adam had arrived for their brotherly reunion—no doubt in a limo, trailed by dozens of newsjets and watched by millions of fans—Ben could only wait painfully in bed. He hadn’t told Adam about the cancer.
Two of his many great grandchildren—or was it great-great, he could no longer remember—Oliver, 13, and Oaklynn, 11, sat in a corner, eyes closed, quietly playing on their mindphones. They had never met their uncle but were excited to do so. Dozens and dozens of Ben’s friends and family were downstairs for the big reunion dinner.
The doorbell rang. Ben heard rather than saw his brother’s entrance. The great grandchildren raced downstairs to meet their famous uncle, and he could hear them and the other children jumping up and down and squealing in excitement. He used to take them all fishing once a month—a madhouse on his boat—and still knew them all by name, but the memories were fading. He could hear his wife Julia, 98 years old but still walking and especially talking like she was a girlish 60. Their latest dog, Buzz, howled at all the commotion.
And then he heard his brother’s footsteps coming up the stairs. He gasped as a spasm of agony shot down his spine; he gritted his teeth and then braced himself for the reunion.
Adam stopped at the door in his too-white NASA uniform without a crease in sight. He took one look at his brother and gasped, “What the hell happened to you?” Such were their first words of reunion.
Explanations and introductions were made. They talked baseball and about their days watching the stars together. But Ben could hold back no longer.
“You’re my famous brother who went to the stars,” Ben croaked. “You’re a legend. Billions of people know your name.” A single tear rolled down his face. “I’ll die a nobody.”
Adam shook his head. “My little brother, what are you talking about? You’ll die loved and surrounded by friends and family.” Adam leaned over his bed and hugged him. When he stood back up, tears streamed down his face. “When I die, I’ll die alone, a nobody in every way that counts. Billions will mourn me . . . but I won’t even know their names.”
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Larry Hodges is an active member of SFWA with over 250 short story sales, including six to Abyss & Apex. He also has four SF novels. He’s a member of Codexwriters, and a graduate of the six-week 2006 Odyssey Writers Workshop and the two-week 2008 Taos Toolbox Writers Workshop. In the world of non-fiction, he’s a full-time writer with 27 books and over 2,300 published articles in over 200 different publications. He’s also a ping-pong aficionado, and claims to be the best table tennis player in SFWA and the best science fiction writer in USA Table Tennis! Visit him at www.larryhodges.com.