The Nest by Kenneth Oppel

he’s trash. It’s not right.”
    â€œIt’s not like we don’t put it to good use,” she said indignantly.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWe take it back to the nest.”
    For a moment I was hopeful. Stupidly I said, “And take care of it?”
    â€œNo, no. The workers eat it. They’ve been working like slaves, haven’t they? You’ve seen how hard they work! They need their reward. It’s only fair. Quite a feast it makes.”
    The baby smiled down at me. Maybe it was just a gas grimace, or maybe it was having a dream of glory before its birth. But I knew, absolutely I knew, that this perfect baby didn’t care about our little Theo. It didn’t care about me or anyone else. It couldn’t, because it was so perfect that it wouldn’t even understand what it was like not to be perfect. It could never know weakness or fear.
    But I could. Because I was broken inside too. And in that instant I decided that this perfect baby would never replace my brother.
    I said, “I won’t help anymore.”
    â€œOh, for heaven’s sakes. We have a contract.”
    â€œI didn’t sign anything!”
    â€œYou don’t need to. A spoken yes is still a contract. And we honor our contracts, don’t we? Or where would we be? People saying yes when they meant no, and no when they meant yes? That’s no way of running a society. And we want a good orderly society. That’s why we make our babies so perfect. Only a perfect baby can make a perfect society.”
    â€œI’m not helping!” I shouted. “I—do—not—say—yes!”
    I expected her to be angry and show me her stinger again, to squeeze out a larger drop of venom. Why hadn’t she stung me earlier? The onlyanswer I could think was that she needed me. Just like she’d said, they couldn’t do this without me.
    â€œSteven. If you don’t help, he’ll die.”
    â€œNo! If I help, our baby will die!”
    â€œThis baby is your baby. Why can’t you see that? This is your baby, only healthy, only without flaw and blemish! This is our gift to you! You’re hyperventilating, Steven. Remember, deep breaths, just like Dr. Brown told you.”
    â€œI’ll tell my parents!”
    â€œOh! Good heavens, such an idea! Please go right ahead. I can tell you exactly what will happen. They’ll send you straight to the psychiatric ward for assessment and pump you full of sedatives and antipsychotics and start debating your diagnosis. Maybe schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or who knows what other concoction they’ll invent for you!”
    I knew she was right. I had to keep it all locked up in myself, spun and sealed like in a cocoon.
    â€œNow,” the queen said, “tomorrow is Thursday, and we’ll be calling on you then. Be ready.”

T HURSDAY AFTERNOON D AD WAS AT WORK , AND Mom was out at some kind of parental support group. Vanessa was walking Nicole to a birthday party and then doing some errands before picking her up and bringing her back. I was alone in the house with the baby.
    I knew that whatever the wasps were going to do, it would be at night and I had to be ready. Theo was taking his nap, and I was downstairs in the kitchen with the baby monitor on. I got a pen and piece of paper—andstared at it, trying to form a plan, trying to think of a list of things that might help, that I might need.
    Over the baby monitor a voice said: “Steven.”
    My breathing stopped, the air corked in my throat. It was her voice, the queen’s. This wasn’t right; it wasn’t nighttime. I wasn’t dreaming yet. I forced a breath into my lungs.
    â€œSteven.”
    I changed the channel on the monitor. There was a flare of static and then:
    â€œIt’s time, Steven. Open the baby’s window and remove the screen.”
    â€œNo.”
    I didn’t even know if she could hear me through the