“It sounds like the flu.” Hiding the note of alarm in her voice, Nyota Dorsey jogged ahead a bit. Hitching her pack higher on her shoulder, she waved at her brother to keep up. She grew concerned at the tenor of Miles Byfield’s cough. The Weyland-Yutani Corporation promised the best medical care, and she aimed to hold them to their promises.
Their home, New Allensworth, was a sanctuary for those of the African Diaspora and their allies who wanted a fresh start. Nyota simply wanted to be free of the weight of history that shaped their collective story. History always stalked her thoughts.
“Space flu.” Miles wrapped himself with his arms like someone desperately trying to keep their heat in.
“The way you keep sticking your face into every strange new plant, you’re probably having an allergic reaction to something.”
“Space allergies.”
“You can’t keep sticking the word ‘space’ in front of stuff now that we’re, you know, in space.” Nyota punched him lightly on his arm. While he pursued a life in biology, Nyota had become a security specialist, which in New Allensworth were designated griots. Every village had one, the keeper of history and stories. The living memory. Though it was that same history she sought to escape by coming to New Allensworth, the memories lingered deep in her bones. They fell into their sibling rhythms whenever left to themselves. The muscles in her arm twinged with a deep ache, a lingering reminder of her long, suspended animation voyage.
“At least I’m not running around in a hazmat suit.”
“It’s not a hazmat suit. It’s a standard breathing unit.” Nyota held her arms as if modeling a new outfit. Hers was a slimmed down version of an exploration suit. She never left her home without suiting up. Nyota flicked her rebreather unit, no longer even noticing its slight hum.
New Allensworth was part of the colonization boom they called the Fifth Wave Migration. A colonization ship, the Babalu-Aye, carried just over ten thousand colonists and nearly five thousand embryos, with a half-dozen others scheduled to join them. New Allensworth had come along quite a way and almost felt like home. Inspired by the original city back in California, the Weyland-Yutani Corporation really had stuck to their agreement and left them alone to build the colony the way they wanted. New Allensworth began to feel like a full-on city. Its library and arts center civic complex was its crown jewel. It was an audacious dream.
With his work as a xenobotanist and agriculture specialist, Miles lit up with pride when they passed the garden his work oversaw. He coughed again, the hitch in his throat caught twice like he tried to clear something from deep within his lungs. Spitting off to the side, he met her protective glare. “It sounds worse than it is. You don’t have to escort me to MedLab One. We have our own hospital.”
“Sweet Sankofa, you’re a pain in the ass. Look, Weyland-Yutani offered an opportunity and I chose to accept it. That does not mean that I trust them.”
The surrounding mountains were hidden by a mild haze. Behind them, the storehouses and stretch of farmland separated the community from the outskirts where MedLab One stood. Nyota scanned the looming building. The only thing remaining strictly under Weyland-Yutani’s purview was MedLab One, with their proprietary tech and oh-so-precious research. Its metal spires were formed from the shell of the original ship which brought them to their planet.
A blond man in a blue lab smock greeted them at the entryway. Male-presenting would be more accurate. He was Weyland-Yutani’s resident android. Nothing gave him away in his manner, but his vibe was completely off. No, more precisely, he gave no vibe at all.
“Good morning, Miles Byfield. Specialist Nyota Dorsey. How may I assist you?”
“I’m sick, Chad. Why else would I come here?” Miles asked.
“My name is—”
“You’re all Chads to me, Chad.” Miles sucked his teeth. Despite barely being in his thirties, he always channeled his inner old man energy. He had a long distrust—remaining just this side of hatred—of androids. He’d read every account of androids accompanying colonists on missions and, to the tune of “you never know if it will be ‘the one,’” vowed never to drop his guard around them.
“Why you gotta do Chad like that?” Nyota bowed slightly as greeting. Chad stared at her.
“What’s that about?” Miles asked.
“A gesture of respect. I read once that if you bow before shoebill storks, they accept you.”
“What you know about storks?”
“I read.”
Miles sucked his teeth again. “Well, Chad’s not a stork.”
Chad watched them both in cool, uncomplicated appraisal, his eyes a blank shade of blue. “What seems to be troubling you?”
“I got some sort of bad cold,” Miles said.
“What sort of symptoms are you experiencing?” Chad ushered them down another corridor to an enclosed bay. Moving to a station, he began a preliminary scan.
“Sweating. I’m tired. Hurting all over.” Miles raised his fist to his mouth and coughed. “Lots of that. My chest is tight, like I can’t take a full breath.”
“Low grade fever, fatigue, muscle aches, difficulty breathing.” Chad perused the readings with a diffident aplomb.
“That’s what I just said, Chad.” Miles had no chill.
Nyota paced the perimeter of the room. The austere sterility of the lab was like a cathedral to science. Tall banks of monitors and computers, powerful enough to process an entire continent’s infrastructure judging from the size of them. Several complete isolation chambers were embedded into the wall.
“Go ahead and lie down.” Chad swept his hand out, presenting a stasis bed.
Miles hopped up on it. “No probes.”
“This is a lot of heavy research artillery for our little colony.” Nyota continued her discreet scrutiny.
“Your future lies more in the research laboratories, not in the spurious dreams of a colony.” The voice echoed from nowhere in particular until a person slowly rose from an unseen lift. Her hair was a level of blond not seen in nature, cut short and swept to the side. Her eyes were an icy blue like frost over a stagnant pond. Her mouth fixed into a perennial purse. Dr. Ann Saenger’s hands tapped in impatience within her crossed arms. She stepped through the archway and strode toward Chad with a determination that dared anyone to get in her way. “Hand me the readings.”
Her words held the snapping expectation of being immediately obeyed. Though Nyota always felt some sort of way about the Chads, mistrust was too strong a word. However, she felt even more of an unease in the way Dr. Saenger treated him like a servant. That air of superiority, dismissing those beneath her, stirred a long history of memories.
“He’s not your servant, Dr. Ann. We don’t do slaves around here.” Nyota made a point of calling her by her first name. Miss Ann was what black people used to call white women who were arrogant and condescending to them.
The assiduous sneer of the doctor’s lips gave way to a wan smile as she touched a finger to her chin, a gesture both condescending and cloying. “No need to be offended on his behalf. His programming precludes such… sensitivities. Isn’t that right, um, Chad, as you’ve now been rechristened?”
“Yes, Dr. Saenger.” Chad’s eyes were expressively blank, as if the idea of offense at human behavior eluded him. He moved with a tentativeness, as if unsure of the delicate nature of the instruments.
Dr. Saenger gave him a stern grimace.
“I’ve been hearing a lot of reports about similar ailments affecting many of our residents. Wanting to gather information on the scope of this outbreak is why I wanted to accompany Mr. Byfield,” Nyota said.
“Yes, his condition appears to be little more than an allergic reaction to native flora. We can treat the progress of this ‘cold,’ or at least lessen the symptoms. All of the standard precautions were taken prior to disembarkation, yet these scans show you’ve had the allergen in your system for months. The same infection. It hasn’t cleared. Some people have underlying conditions which may require an additional antibiotic.” Dr. Saenger gestured, the subtle pressure of expectation exerted by her title and presence.
“What sort of condition?” Nyota asked.
“A genetic predisposition for severe autoimmune disease. You have it, too, Nyota.”
Miles rolled up his sleeve. The muscles in Nyota’s arm twinged again. History was her hesitation. She could not escape the thoughts of the experiments J. Marion Sims did on black women, and the Tuskegee Syphilis Study on black men. The doctor attended him without further comment, the procedure over before he could begin his next question. Miles nodded with approval. He slid his sleeve back. “You getting checked or nah?” he said to Nyota.
“I’ll just listen to the spirit of my ancestors and take my chances with the precautions I’m taking.”
“Yes, I’d been warned that you were difficult and exacting with your iatraphobia.” Dr. Saenger handed her instruments to Chad who devotedly stashed them away. Chad stationed himself behind her.
“My what?” Nyota asked.
“An intense fear of doctors.” Dr. Saenger tapped her chin, this time to indicate Nyota’s mask. “You won’t even breathe the same air as us.”
Something itched at the edges of Nyota’s spirit. The way Dr. Saenger tracked their movements, with the severe scrutiny of an escaping patient.
“Look here, space Marcus Garvey,” Miles said. “We got our forty acres and a Chad. Why’d you even fight so hard for us to come here if all you’re going to do is assume the worst and spit in their face?”
“Whenever the Company cares so much to see about our wellbeing, I get… suspicious.”
“Am I good or nah?” Miles scratched at his chest.
“We’d like to keep you for observation to keep a close eye on your symptoms.” Dr. Saenger turned her full attention back to Miles. “But you’re… good.”
“I’m ghost then.” Elbowing his sister as they left, Miles stage whispered, “Yeah, but I’m the pain in the ass”
New Allensworth was on the planet designated LV-333, in the star system Xamidimura. The Khoikhoi people traditionally called the star and its mate “xami di mura” which translated as the “eyes of the lion.” Weyland-Yutani Corporation financed the dream of the colony to the tune of one trillion dollars, for transport and installation. For PR reasons, if Nyota had to guess, to emphasize the diversity aspect of their work. Sensing that such a gesture, expensive though it was, was in vogue. Like her people couldn’t see through that. The company’s agenda, to exploit them one way or another, never changed. She would leverage any of their resources for the betterment of her people. On their terms, not the company’s.
Nyota and Miles followed the narrow promontory that wound behind MedLab One. A colonnade of trees surrounded the facilities, the rugged terrain like a barrier to it, with tree branches so thick in places, they interlocked like dead man’s fingers. The evening wasn’t too cold, barely a noticeable breeze. A furtive movement near a dense copse of trees caught Nyota’s attention. Her chest tightened. A dull ache shot through her arm. Something about the image brought to mind images of hidden tunnels along the Underground Railroad, the kind her ancestors used to escape the South.
Hidden by the thick underbrush, a figure emerged. A thick mane of dreadlocks bobbed with his movement. Moonlight briefly reflected from his ill-fitting clothing which seemed to jut at odd angles with an iridescent sheen. Something seemed wrong with his face. Hunched over, creeping low, he sought to gain his bearings and seeming to catch his breath. He searched the night sky, as if for its brightest jewel—the drinking gourd according to her family—to follow its direction. With the muscle memory of someone used to moving through the woods, he disappeared into the trees, but another stealthy movement hinted that he scampered up one of them.
And then… nothing.
Yet Nyota had the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Hunted. Pressing a lone finger to her mouth for them to be silent, she led Miles down behind the cover of bushes. They made their way closer to where the man had emerged. Only the breeze rustled the limbs about her. Craning her neck slowly, she searched the trees for the near-invisible figure camouflaged by the branches. A sigh passed among the trees, signaling a withdrawal.
Chad emerged only a few paces from the tree line. His impassive face scanned the surrounding foliage as he began stalking the woods with a grim determination. The echo of a snarling growl—like a series of crackling, bursting clicks—seemed to emanate from all around them. The sound chilled Nyota. Miles eyes widened in near panic. Her arm wrapped around him and yanked them both to the ground. Chad remained unphased.
With barely a shadow to give him away, the figure dropped from the trees. The android whirled, but too late. That was when she saw the man’s face, if she could call it that. It was more a frozen rictus with mandibles and long, hair-like appendages, her mind processed the visage as a beetle with long braids.
A Predator.
She knew about them—all griots had been briefed with stories on them—but hadn’t expected to encounter them here. Not in New Allensworth. But here it was, fangs protruding from its resting pissed face.
Palming something, the Predator flicked his wrist and a spear-like weapon telescoped out. He slashed at Chad, the blows finding their intended target, but the android still managed to scramble out from under him. They circled each other warily.
The Predator moved haphazardly, with a staggering gait. His form emaciated, like he was still recovering from a long cryo-sleep. Nyota hadn’t had anything to gauge his height before, but the way he towered over Chad, he must’ve neared eight feet tall. The Predator cocked his head as if he had trouble seeing Chad fully. Taking his measure, he initiated combat with a head butt. Chad barely recoiled. Nyota’s stomach lurched. Chad’s face plate shifted. He nudged it back into place. She had the sinking suspicion that Chad might have some combat-level augmentations. As she leaned forward for a better look, a twig snapped under her weight.
The Predator glanced in Nyota’s direction.
Chad rushed him, delivering a punch that sent him sailing into a tree. The synthetic checked the treeline for whatever distracted the Predator, but Nyota ducked further out of sight. The Predator heaved his spear, a precise throw aimed at Chad’s heart. With little effort, the android caught it.
Chad’s kick landed squarely in the Predator’s gut. Sluggish, as if drugged, the creature could do little more than crumple into a fleshy pile. His lungs drew another breath, clutching his side as if the act of breathing drove needles into his lungs. A succession of stomps landed about his ribs and arms as he desperately protected his face. The rain of android footfalls stopped with his low, surrendering moan.
“We have to set an example for the others. We can’t have them thinking in such rebellious ways. There’s still so much for us to do,” Chad said.
The creature turned and stared in Nyota’s direction. With one last blow, Chad rendered him unconscious and unceremoniously started dragging him back to MedLab One. The trees whispered at the wild night’s work like silent conspirators.
“What… the entire hell… was that?” Miles asked.
“There’s so much that we don’t know. Back in the lab, where did Dr. Ann come up from? MedLab One was constructed out of Babalu-Aye. We can see it. So what’s underneath it?” Nyota scrambled up the slight incline of the hill beside them before lying down. She withdrew a set of scanning binoculars from her pack. Barely discernable channels—grooves along the earth—segmented the vegetation and formed a geometric pattern, like an equilateral triangle. A few remnants rang with familiarity, like the basic elements of construction. Though dirt hid the bulk of the structure, an intricate design was obvious.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.” Miles huddled down next to her.
“I don’t know how to interpret what I’m seeing. It’s like MedLab One sits on top of another structure. Something… hollow.” There was a hierarchy of structures. Each enclosure built separately, perhaps in stages. The highest one almost like a watchtower. “Come on. I want to get a closer look.”
Nyota scrambled down the embankment, stopping at a thatched piece of ground near where the Predator had emerged. Dropping to her knees, she groped about it until her fingers found a groove. She peeled back an incised platform, which left a divot in the ground like an empty socket. She slid down the cave shaft’s opening, its walls a rough-hewn corridor, setting down on a floor of not quite dirt, more like a quarry of pebbles, reduced to scree.
Miles landed next to her and she shot him a look. “What? I wasn’t going to let you explore a long, dark tunnel without backup. That never ends well for us.”
Nyota began mapping a grid of the structure. The shafts led to a series of enclosures which formed a complex within the complex. Allowing her eyes to relax, she was better able to see the images on the walls coalesced into a bas relief mural, symbols etched in the stone.
“Almost a sculpture garden. This was once a settlement of some sort.” Nyota ran her fingers along the walls. History intruded on her speculations. The structure brought to mind the story of Seneca Village. The land in New York City, from West 82nd to West 89th Street. By 1855, it was an enclave of mostly black people owning most of the property. It became a thriving community, a refuge. But then the city declared eminent domain, acquired the land, and built Central Park over it.
A groan from Miles drew her thoughts back.
“You alright?”
“My head… hurts.”
“You don’t look good.” She pressed her hand to his head. “You’re clammy. Maybe you should go back and rest.”
“Someone’s got to have your back if you on some simple nonsense.”
A distant plinking of water droplets echoed from farther down the corridor. The passage opened up into a cavernous room. The walls glistened, its moisture refracting light from an unseen source. The way the shafts were reinforced every ten meters brought to mind the image of ribs protecting vital organs. Except the braces were rigged with failsafe explosives. Miles recoiled, pantomiming a reaction to some smell. Nyota thanked her rebreather for sparing her from whatever assaulted his nostrils. An undulation of movement drew her attention. The shadows pressed in on them from all sides, like a physical thing struggling against it. A series of small objects dotted the floor. As she neared, they reminded her of bulbous, organic egg-like pods. Nyota stepped closer. Something moved inside them.
Whatever it was seemed to enliven at her approach. Enthralled by a curiosity she couldn’t explain, she began to reach out to it. An object swam about within the egg, causing it to throb in engorgement, awaiting her touch. Miles stepped between her and it, causing her to halt. He attempted to get a closer look, but the movement within the pod slowed until it stilled completely at his presence. Miles’ gaze bounced between her and the pod several times. And then glanced back toward the passage from where they came. Nothing about this felt right. She, too, wondered whether to turn back. But she was no closer to understanding what was going on. She pointed toward the next chamber. Miles swallowed hard and followed.
Several cryopods lined the room, similar but much longer than the kind which transported the citizens of New Allensworth to the planet. The armor of several Predators hung behind them, displayed with the air of mounted trophy heads. Condensation clouded the outside of each face plate. Nyota ran her hand across one to clear the glass. The beaten Predator. Its skin, dark and scaly. Along a deeply mottled countenance was some sort of tribal ornamentation etched into its forehead. A luminescent phosphor green smear streaked the faceplate.
The Predator opened his eyes.
“Sweet Sankofa.” Nyota scrambled away from the chamber. “He’s still alive.”
“What the…” Miles yelled.
“They’re less useful dead,” Dr. Saenger said from behind them, sounding unsurprised to see them. Chad trailed behind her. “Welcome to MedLab Two.”
“What are you doing to them?” Nyota asked.
“We’ve been lucky to have these specimens transported to us for study. We’re still mapping the nature and parameters of their physiology.”
All about Nyota was the medicalized display of creature parts. Preserved as objects of curiosity, a mausoleum exhibit of exotics. Like a dramatic presentation which argued the inferiority of the aliens’ bodies. A collection of skulls. Desiccated limbs. Dissected material. More of the shards of plates that the Predator had cobbled together as armor upon its escape. A disarticulated gulag such that they were not free even in death.
“That’s barbaric.” Nyota recalled the tortures curious scientists were capable of. Seeing how deep their black skin went; the repeated burning and flaying to investigate. Her fingers trailed along the metal sarcophagus, but she didn’t allow Dr. Saenger out of her sight.
“Not every treatment can be considered an unethical medical experiment. Even the word stems from the Latin ‘ex’ meaning ‘out of’ and ‘periculum’ meaning ‘a dangerous trial.’ That’s what we do here. Trial studies. To harvest whatever knowledge we can glean and use it for the betterment of—”
“Weyland-Yutani.”
“I was going to say ‘humanity,’ but to-may-to, to-mah-to. Things might be painful or risky, but as long as the effect is more beneficial than harmful, we all reap the rewards. Besides, the Predators are nothing compared to my real prize.”
With a gesture, a bay door opened, revealing a creature standing about five meters tall. Its body had the metallic sheen of an armored insect within the foot-thick walls of an ALON cage. Nearly machine-like in construction, the creature’s two pairs of arms and appendages—like massive insect legs acting as struts—locked into its containment structure. Rippling scales on its large head protected by what appeared to be a bony extrusion, almost a crown. And oddly human lips. Its external mouth was separately segmented. It rested within a biomechanical throne, made of the same material as her crown, which also supported her. Her.
“Internecivus raptus, from the Latin meaning ‘murderous thief.’ I nicknamed this one Queen Hottentot.” Dr. Saenger’s eyes locked in a medical gaze.
A huge sac extended from the Queen’s abdomen, perhaps ten meters in length. The tip of its ovipositor like a prehensile trunk. Beneath it were malformed versions of the pods Nyota saw in the cavernous chamber. A scorched line trailed along the tender underside of the sac, a laser-guided vivisection having been interrupted. The aperture of its ovipositor had been eroded into a series of tears.
“I had to scarify the edges of the opening to attempt repair,” Dr. Saenger said.
“That sounds unnecessarily cruel.” The Queen’s smooth bulbous head turned toward Nyota. She angled her head toward the creature. It might have been her imagination, but the Queen seemed to mirror her movements.
“Not by their standards. It does not feel pain like we do, certainly not enough to justify the trouble and risk attendant to the administration of anesthetics.” Dr. Saenger no longer hid the edge of glee in her voice. Tales were told of white physicians, “Night Doctors,” who would kidnap, dissect, and perform a variety of experiments on black people. Lost in the rationale all such night doctors gave for how they treated their patients, she continued. “Next I want to introduce radiation to their bodies to measure the amount that lingers in their tissues.”
Something hissed off to Nyota’s left.
Three cages lined the wall behind her, an array of surgical instruments spread out on a table in front of them just tauntingly out of reach. Creatures stirred within them, a series of parts caught in glimpses that her mind struggled to connect into a whole. Black bodies. A flat ridge of spines. Elongated cylindrical skulls. Hands with sharp claws. A segmented, blade-tipped tail. One turned and edged its face to the clear partition and snapped at Nyota. An inner set of jaws served as its tongue. Smaller versions of this species, they were still much taller than Nyota. But these creatures were hobbled. Plates of their armor missing, sectioned off. Their insectile joints a collection of odd angles and jutting bits.
They’d all been altered, tampered with. Some were missing limbs. Hard light projections of the creatures, what they were supposed to look like if whole, were cast about the room. Each of the test subjects reduced to abominations of what they were supposed to be. A data stream ran alongside the images, including a three-dimensional rendering of a DNA strand revolved about a central console.
“These creatures are pure. Primal, predatory creatures.” Dr. Saenger’s face beamed, caught up in her beatific vision. “These Xenomorphs exist solely to propagate and eliminate threats to them. Their skin is made up of polarized silicon cells; their blood is akin to acid. They’re… magnificent.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Nyota said.
“Ah, it all starts with a simple story. There once was a species some military minds imagined could be used as a biological weapon. For a long time, the evidence of this weapon was studied. One phase of the creature’s development, what some people colloquially call their facehugger stage, delivered a version of a pathogen called Plagiarus Praepotens. It causes the host DNA to rewrite itself and develop the creature’s next stage, the, uh, chestburster. We have been studying the effects of the creature over the course of its gestation.”
“This is all about making weapons.”
“We’re farther along in our research than just militarizing Xenomorphs.” Dr. Saenger marveled at the DNA model before swiping along the console to pull up the image of one of the pods. “As a pathogen, this genomic parasite took many forms. Its life cycle was simple enough: waiting for a host to come around, eggs… forcibly implanting itself, not just rewriting the host’s DNA to allow it proper growing conditions, but through morphic resonance, allowing a two-way gene transfer as part of its gestation within its host that allowed it to take on some of the physical characteristics of the host. That way, it is genetically pre-programmed for adaptation into whatever environment it finds itself in. A miracle of cross-breeding, hybridization, and engineering. Its final phase is to develop into whatever kind of drone the species needs most by—”
Miles coughed. The raspy bark came on so suddenly, he didn’t have time to stifle it with his hand. It turned into a choking gasp. The sheen of sweat had thickened on him. The capillaries in his eyes swelled, the vessels rupturing, leaving his pupils swimming in red. He clutched his chest, struggling to breathe.
“Miles!” Nyota yelled, trying to clear his airway as he thrashed about. She could barely pin him down by his arms.
“You may want to back away for this part.” Dr. Saenger skimmed her hand across her table. The pixelated image of Miles enlarged alongside the rotating DNA image, his vitals streaming as data points beside it. His temperature spiked. His heartbeat sped up. “There’s a considerable amount of cardiovascular damage at this point.”
With his next shuddering convulsion came the wet snap of brittle kindling. Miles’ body jerked, seizing into a locked spasm. Red splashed his shirt. Nyota couldn’t hear much over the sound of her screams. The material bulged. Something punched through his chest, seeking to escape. The fabric ripped. A bloody, serpentine fetus emerged. Rows of glistening teeth, reared, pausing as if getting its bearings.
Nyota snatched a blade from the table and ran the creature through before it could move. A spray of dull yellow blood splashed on her containment suit. An acid of some sort, it burned through the material. Nyota tore off her glove before the fluid reached her skin.
“No!” Dr. Saenger screamed. She rushed to its side, knocking Nyota out of the way as she cradled the dead newborn. She reached for a tool reminiscent of an awl. Making incisions in its scalp, the doctor pried the skull bones, prizing out the edges into new positions. She added the remains to the nightmare cache of alien parts. “What a waste. There was still perfectly good data to collect. You don’t understand what we’ve accomplished here in New Allensworth. The Xenomorph incubation period is normally somewhere between hours and days. But we’ve been able to stave off the parasite; halting its development, if not outright rendering them essentially stillborn. They then are broken down and cleared by the body. We were hoping to keep Mr. Byfield under observation. We wanted to study the progression of his particular… infection. To perfect a treatment against xenomorph implantation. Think of it, being able to unleash the Xenomorphs without fear of them infecting us. We’re so close…”
“Using the whole colony as lab rats.” Nyota stared at her brother. His face frozen in fractal agony, his eyes staring blankly off into the distance. She had no room or time to grieve, as rage began its familiar swell, threatening to overtake her. “You don’t even realize the monster this has twisted you into. The blood on your hands.”
“There’ll be more blood if my work doesn’t succeed.” Dr. Saenger carried the remains to a nearby tray, Miles a forgotten and discarded package waiting for Chad to clean up and remove. “There are still shortcomings we have to study.”
“Why didn’t this… treatment work on Miles?” Nyota’s throat tightened.
“His underlying condition left him immunocompromised in some way. It allowed the pathogen to adapt. It acquires whole clusters of mutations. We need to study this more to prevent the Xenomorph from this kind of adaptation. We’ve never seen anything capable of such specialized mutations before. But those mutations seem especially receptive against someone of this genomic type.”
“I have the same underlying condition.” Nyota’s voice trailed off. Her condition, her DNA, was valuable to them. A new Henrietta Lacks, whose cell line would be used for decades after her to advance who knew what kinds of abhorrent technologies.
“And the way you’ve preserved yourself within your suit, against so many conditions of this planet, you are a perfect control subject.”
Chad stalked toward her.
Still frozen between grief, terror, and unbelief, Nyota staggered backward. This was the way history too often worked. The circumstances of cruelty not allowing time for her to reel from her loss. She needed a distraction. She needed to draw everyone away from the Predators. Her fingers danced along the console panel. The chambers unlatched. The Xenomorphs were free. Their sleek, black bodies moved with a jungle cat’s speed, ready for the opportunity. They scattered into the shadows. Nyota ducked behind the operating theater. Chad started after her.
“Ignore her! Contain the beasts!” Dr. Saenger yelled. “They are the real threat.”
The low lighting created pockets of shadows, illusions of shapes difficult to discern. Nyota doubled back to the previous corridor. Skittering erupted from her left. She jumped at the sound. Scanning for threats, she inched along the passageway. The medical bay echoed with strange chitterings and a dull scrape of nails against the floor. Nyota reached the chamber with the Predators.
Pressing her face to the Predator’s chamber, the one she had encountered before, wanting him to take in her face. Her fingers tapped a code into the control, its symbols reflected on the clear partition. The chamber hissed as its cover released. The Predator slowly rose from it. Barely able to stand, he steadied himself against the chamber. Nyota stepped toward him but paused. Not knowing what else to do, Nyota bowed to the Predator. “I’m tired of folks pitting us against one another to support their self-interests.”
He turned away from her. She moved to each stasis unit, releasing the rest of his pack. At the same time, he began to don his armor. As the last of his people rose from their chamber, he slid his helmet into place.
A Xenomorph sprang from the darkness. Its mouth open, thin strands of a mucousy saliva dripped from its jaws. Nyota barely had time to raise her hands before a spear stabbed into the creature. It sailed across the room, slamming into the wall behind her. Pinned next to the dissected bits of its brethren as if it had been added to the gruesome collection. The spray from its wound sizzled where it landed.
Nyota glanced over at the Queen. She could feel the creature studying her. Curious, hungering assessment. They were akin to competing animals after a drought who arrive at a watering hole at the same time. There was a conversation in the room only those in the moment could have. An eerie silence settled, each one waiting for another to make the first move.
“On our own, we’re all weak, but we all want to be free,” Nyota said. “Now’s not the time to be focused on fighting one another. Or eating one another. Let’s save that until we’re out of here.”
The Queen struggled against her supports but remained bound by Dr. Saenger’s containment. Its thrashing weakened. The Queen was dying. She opened her mouth. A second set of jaws jutted out, snapping several times at her.
The Predator stalked away, probably to deal with the remaining Xenomorphs.
More shapes scuttled about. The sinister scratching of their movement reverberated from all around. Nyota remained near the examination table. She knew that she couldn’t outrun them, any of them, not without cover. She’d be ripped apart before she made it halfway across the medical bay. The Xenomorphs didn’t seem to understand fear, only the singular instinct to attack. They moved as a pack, testing her defenses and resolve.
Chancing a peek from behind the console where she hid, she saw a Xenomorph creep around the corner, locking its gaze on the distracted Predator. Nyota glanced up. The mounted dissection laser hovered over her. Rising slowly, to avoid drawing attention, she swung the laser around. The Xenomorph began to close the distance between it and the Predator. She aimed the targeting beam at the creature’s thorax. Stroking the keyboard, she blasted it. The creature’s carapace ruptured open. It thrashed under the burn of the beam, and then dropped.
Dr. Saenger rushed her. Nyota shoved the woman away from the console. The Company’s experiments couldn’t be allowed to stand. Nyota pulled up the facility schematics. On the monitor, the chamber of organic pods focused into view. Each one representing an experiment awaiting her people. She opened the security protocols. These weapons couldn’t be allowed to fall into anyone’s hands. But her hand hovered above the switch. No one gave her the right to make such a decision either. Nyota turned to the Queen.
“All of your young have been taken and experimented on. Not the life you wanted for them. Better for them to end than continue their lives bound, tortured, and enslaved.” Many were the stories of members of Nyota’s people who were enslaved who chose, as the Igbo did, to walk in unison into the ocean singing “The Water Spirit brought us, the Water Spirit will take us home.” Nyota hoped that in some way, the Queen understood.
The Queen’s ovipositor released one last egg. Hope for their future. On some level, Nyota perceived an unspoken promise. And nodded.
Nyota activated the failsafes. The chamber of eggs erupted in a series of flames.
“All my work! What have you done?” Dr. Saenger screamed.
Chad returned to the room, his clothes in ruin, scored by dull yellow splatter. The snarl returned. The guttural clicking signaling the nearby presence of the Predator. This time, Chad froze. His head swiveled about, scouring the shadows. From the darkness, the Predator shot what appeared to be some sort of bladed frisbee. It landed in the android’s chest. Chad stopped and stared at the weapon lodged in his chest as his fluids sprayed. When he looked back up, the Predator sprung at him. His spear plunged into the synthetic’s side, then ripped upward. His head splintered from his chest chassis, the pulpy spray of his internal lubricant splashed about.
“Stop! You’re ruining everything!” Dr. Saenger grabbed a surgical blade and charged Nyota. A long tail lowered behind her. The words “Watch out” died on Nyota’s lips. With a quick twist, the tail plunged into the doctor. Raising her like a skewered side of beef. The doctor’s head lolled to the side as the Queen brought her to eye level with the last of her strength. The creature dashed her against the wall.
As the doctor’s body slid to the floor, Nyota turned to the creature. The rest of the Predator’s pack slowly closed ranks around her. She locked her eyes onto their leader, unflinching, despite the pounding within her chest. The Predator paused for a heartbeat in careful appraisal.
“We all want to be free.” Nyota’s voice played back from the Predator’s helmet.
The creature took its talon of a finger and etched a mark into her forehead. A trickle of blood issued down her face. The other Predators took note and began to don their gear.
Nyota picked up the Queen’s final egg, securing it within a lockbox before stuffing it into her pack. Fulfilling her unspoken promise. Then she turned to the screen. “We’re coming for you, Weyland-Yutani, and we’re going to bring this whole system down.”