They feared it. They feared it for what it was. For what it could become.
For what it already had become
It knew the fear, as it sensed it, even within its cell, even within the restraints put on his body, and also its mind.
It knew, through a haze of un-knowing, that it would not be allowed to live for a long time.
Dr. Schulz stared at the creature.
It was restrained in a steel frame, clamps around all of its appendages.
Schulz was worried. They had stuck needles into his chest and neck, long needles.
It was being drugged so hard, the academic did not know how long it would survive.
This thing, it was a considerable effort, consuming many years of his career.
But the experiment, was, after all, a failure. A failed effort, basically.
As head of the Xenobiology Unit on Sigma-44, it was his job to create a weapon of unknown lethality, from humanity's worst enemy.
Schulz' gaze fell on the elongated, domed head of the Xenomorph, the alien suspended in front of him, and knew he had failed.
"Dr. Schulz?"
It was the voice of his personal lab assistant, Dr. Paul Cromwell.
"What is it?"
The young scientist stepped beside his superior. "It's failing. Number 13 is dying."
Schulz stared at the creature again. He did not want it to die. He didn't want so many years of work in vain.
But they couldn't lift the medication.
"Do with it whatever you like, Cromwell. I'm done with it. We worked together on it for such a long time, and in the end, we reached nothing. I'm done."
"Dr. Schulz, we are-"
"Listen, Paul." He used his assistant's first name. They were on good terms, private as well as in the Lab. "I've got a family back on Earth. I'm tired of failing over and over again. Number 13 now slipping away is the last straw. I'm leaving."
Paul looked at the older man's face. He had almost seen in Dr. Schulz a father, at least a very close friend.
"Paul, you can see this as your chance. Stand on your own feet. Get further, where I could not go on. My work is done here."
The assistant nodded. "We will stay in contact. I will inform you."
Schulz nodded in agreement. "We will.
Paul Cromwell stood in front of the Xenomorph known as Number 13.
Dr. Schulz had left, and now his only superior was the Weyland-Yutani executive on Sigma-44, Frederic Bishop Weyland.
He knew from the report that the creature was not taking the drugging kindly.
It was dying, Cromwell knew as much. It was dying at his hands. Schulz never had second thoughts. Schulz saw this as a job they had to do, a job that had failed.
Cromwell was different. Whilst old Dr. Schulz saw the creature as an experiment, a thing, the younger man saw it as a creature.
I just can't let it die. I just can't. We created it. I carry a responsibility for it, Cromwell though
They had taken the Xenomorph larvae and had stimulated it with a drug that Schulz himself had invented.
A drug, or so it was said, that changed the brain. Valaraoin.
Schulz had realized, that a xenomorph would never follow orders. A xenomorph's only drive was to survive. If it could do so by following orders, it would, but once it found a way, it would get out.
It couldn't be controlled.
The old scientists plan was to remove that drive. It was to create a programmable creature, akin to an android. Intelligent yet incapable of disobedience.
The perfect soldier. The perfect weapon
It had never worked. Xenomorph's rejected the drug, and died off, one by one.
Number 13 was the 13. Xenomorph Schulz had tested the drug on, refining the formula. And he, Cromwell, made it possible.
And Number 13 was the only xeno who had survived.
But it could not be deemed a success.
What Valaraoin had turned the xeno into was even worse.
The beast had not turned into an obedient dog, but into a thrashing malice, into a nightmare.
A nightmare that was not without intelligence.
Because of the effect it had on people around the creature, Schulz was forced to keep it sedated. Its mind and body restrained, they were able to find out more about its brain.
But even in sedation, the creature proved dangerous, and resisted each of their attempts to find out more about it.
Now, it had no use anymore. It was a failed experiment, and he, Cromwell, should just allow it to die.
He'd do it a favour, so he told himself. It was a mutant, something that nature never wanted to exist.
If you hate it so much, just turn up the medication. It doesn't need much. Just a few milligrams more, and it won't survive the night.
Paul Cromwell headed over to the dispenser, and set his finger onto the dial.
Just turn it up.
His hand fixed around the dial, and he, casting one last look at the creature, let his hand fall to his side.
He just couldn't do it. He couldn't kill. He was a biologist for heaven's sake, not a butcher.
If only he could find a way to put the creature out of its misery.
To make it happy….
The thought bobbed up in his mind, and even though his scientific, calculating self pushed it away, far far away, nagging doubt started to fester in his mind.
A doubt he could not allow himself to have. Not for the sake of his career. Not for the sake of his life.
Oh fuck it!
He pulled the plug on the dispenser, and left the room.
It felt the veil part.
Slowly the tiredness that had so long swathed its mind, fell, and it felt alive once more.
Alive!
Flexing its muscles, and raising the only part of its body that was not clasped in restricting iron, it let out a bone-piercing shriek
But the shriek didn't arrive. Only a gurgle. A gurgle was left of its former strength.
It hated them. It hated the fleshy, soft prey. The prey that had turned him prey.
A feral growl slipped into the night.
Cromwell slept badly.
Nightmares haunted his head. Xenomorph's attacking him, impregnating him, dying in front of his eyes.
He was glad when his alarm clock woke him, and stopped his mind on tormenting him.
Fully wakening, he felt something tug at him. Not tugging at his body.
Tugging at his mind.
It was an alien force. An alien mind.
Cromwell sensed its anger, and unfathomable hate. And he knew what it was.
It was the creature he had freed. The alien.
Quickly he reached for the clothes he had deposited on his desk, and slipped into boxers and trousers. Splashing water over his face and naked upper body, he brushed his hair down, and put on a shirt and a lab coat.
He left his quarters, not without first making sure they were locked and then proceeded to make his way down the corridor.
He entered the lab, and found it almost deserted save for a few of his fellow researches picking up their papers and instruments.
A man stood in front of the glass that separated the cell containing Number 13 from the laboratory.
He wore a brown overcoat, and seemed to stare intently at the specimen contained.
But as soon as Cromwell entered, he drew his attention away from the creature.
"Ah, Dr. Cromwell". Turning around, and walking towards the scientist at a swift pace, he realized who it was. For the first time on Sigma-44, Paul Cromwell stared into the eyes of Frederic Bishop Weyland.
"It seems, there's been an accident with your experiment..."
Cromwell met the gaze of the Weyland-Yutani official. "What sort of accident?" he asked, putting a tone of professionalism in his voice.
Weyland waved his hand "The creature Dr. Schulz and you created is not sedated anymore. You know the effect it has. You know I ordered it to be sedated at all times. "
"Mr. Weyland, for the advancement of my research it is necessary that the creature remains fully conscious.-"
"Dr. Cromwell, I'm not having any discussion. Not over the subject of this creature. I will have it gassed."
"It is unique! If we could control this one, it might hold the key to create the weapon you want. It might be our only chance!"
Shit, why am I telling him this? I don't, I wouldn't, never!
"Well, Cromwell, in that case you have two months. After that, it is either success, or the project is over. And you're doing this alone. I need my researches on other projects." Weyland stepped closer. "Listen, son. I believe you're beating a dead horse here. You are one of our brightest minds, here in this facility. Don't waste it."
Cromwell nodded "Don't worry, sir, I won't..."
"Good."
And with a flutter of his brown coat, Weyland marched off.
Weyland had reached his office. It was a grand office, as he thought himself of being a grand executive.
He sat down in his leather armchair, and stared at the wall.
Pressing a buzzer on his desk, a bland-looking secretary entered.
"Send Dr. Schulz a Message. Tell him that the appropriate actions have been taken. It has been set in motion. His project has begun."
Whatever Schulz' intentions were, whatever he had in mind, Weyland would not ask. He had received his payment, and went on with his usual office work.
He was left alone in the laboratory, facing the glass wall that separated the xenomorph and he, looking at the black form of the creature, suspended from its metal frame. Large iron bands were fastened around his ankles and its wrists. Its neck was restrained and so was its tail.
It must be uncomfortable for it. But the creature wasn't wriggling. Only its head moved.
It was utterly quiet, Cromwell had the feeling of being in a church. A church, and this was his memorial service.
He had an argument with Weyland, and that left him alone, utterly alone in the facility.
Looks like I fell from grace, he mused.
He closed his eyes once more, and rubbed his temples.
The tug on his mind which he had felt earlier had increased into a maelstrom of hate and anger. The Xenomorph was aware of its situation.
Cromwell concentrated on the Alien mind.
Their research had already deduced that a xenomorph communicated with the hive through means of mild telepathy.
But the Valaraoin had increased that effect beyond reckoning.
Hate washed over Cromwell's mind, alien hate. The hate of a creature which never knew anything else than hate.
If he only had a way of communicating...
Opening his eyes again, he looked at the xeno, who was still restrained.
Its big head swivelled from side to side, and it hissed angrily.
Cromwell closed his eyes again.
The brain scan he had done earlier showed the Alien's brain was awash with activity.
It was thinking. Not following an instinct, or adapting to a situation at hand, but really thinking.
It was using its brain in a way that was almost human.
As if it could. The Valaraoin might have increased its intelligence but no xenomorph could ever behave human. It was beyond their nature. They couldn't do that.
Could they?
Shit, Paul, what are you thinking? You risked your career for that thing. It's not like it's a pet. It isn't for you to save. You can't save it. Hell, it will kill you if it got half the chance.
But it hadn't. It was restrained. A prisoner. Prisoner?
He needed a closer look. He definitely did.
Opening up the door to its cell, Cromwell entered the room.
Harsh light blared from above onto the glinting form of the Xeno. The light was much harsher than it looked from the lab. Cromwell blinked. Harsh and very bright. The creature raised its head, and looked at the scientist.
More hate radiated from the consciousness, now sow close to Cromwell, he felt he could almost touch it.
But with the hate came something else.
Something that puzzled Cromwell.
Fear.