Chapter 3 #2
As they discuss, I step closer to Ramsey, lowering my voice. “Why Mulford?”
He blinks, startled by the question. “What?”
I nod my head toward the viewing window. “Why do you think the alien imitates Mulford?”
He hesitates before responding. “Mulford and the subject had a unique bond. It would speak with him more frequently than with the rest of us.” He grimaces.
“Though it may have all been a ruse for him to get close. As soon as it got a chance, it grabbed him.” Catching my look, he says, almost guiltily, “We were less careful, back then. It hadn’t been violent toward us.
We never entered the cell itself, but we’d get a lot closer than we do now. ”
I consider that, pursing my lips. Maybe it was a ruse by the alien to get someone close enough to hurt. Or maybe…maybe Mulford accidentally triggered its predatory response, just like the rabbit did.
“And it hasn’t been speaking or eating since then?”
Ramsey nods.
My thoughts whirl. If I assume the incident with Mulford was an involuntary predatory response like this one, then it displayed an emotional response afterward in both cases. Some sort of rebellion, or anger. But is it angry at itself for its instincts? Or angry with us?
“Have you tested its response to a human scent?” I ask.
The room goes quiet. I hadn’t realized that Tabs and Akimov stopped speaking, and now all three pairs of eyes are locked on me.
“You’re suggesting we send a human in there?” Tabs asks.
My face heats. “No! Obviously not.” He frowns at the obviously, and I swallow.
I push my glasses up my nose, trying to recompose myself and state my idea before this moment of attention slips through my fingers.
“But a human scent. A sweat sample, or a blood sample. We could see if that provokes any reaction.”
Silence lingers after my words. My eyes dart between the men. Tabs looks skeptical. Akimov is impossible to read. But Ramsey’s forehead is creased in thought.
“I think it’s worth a try,” he says before either of the others speak up. “I mean, it…” He glances at the others and trails off. “I mean, given our size, we could be suitable prey for it in its natural state.”
“I agree,” Akimov says, surprising me. He gazes through the window at the subject. “Let’s see how it responds to us.”
Since time is of the essence, I gather samples from those of us who are already in the lab, swabbing underarms, pricking fingertips, and collecting saliva. Then Tabs sends in another lab rabbit doused in one of our scents.
The rabbit takes two steps into the cell. What happens next is little more than a blur of motion. One moment the alien is facing away from the small animal, and the next, a tentacle is whipping out to grab it.
I don’t see precisely what the subject does—its limbs distort into tentacles for a moment before returning to humanoid hands—but soon the rabbit is little more than a splatter of blood and bone and fur. Half of it disappears down the alien’s throat in one big gulp.
The other scientists cheer. But I stand at the window with my arms folded over my chest, hugging myself, watching as the alien picks up the remains of the rabbit and brings them close to its face.
It inhales deeply, eyes flashing silver in the light, and looks toward the window.
Then it snarls and tosses the remains of its meal at the glass, leaving a splatter of gore obscuring my view.
I flinch back while the men erupt in laughter. Unease slithers down my spine. It seems to have answered my question. The alien is angry at us. And if a hint of human scent was enough to provoke that behavior, what would it do if it got its hands on one of us?
Over the next few days, our use of human scents continues to provoke more activity from the alien than I’ve seen since I began working here.
More than it’s displayed in months, judging from Mulford’s notes.
Even though I came up with the idea, I’m not convinced it was a good one at this point.
We’re giving this monster information about who we are behind the glass, and it is ripping apart anything with a hint of our scent.
What exactly are we teaching it by doing this?
After its kills, the alien seems restless.
It walks back and forth along the walls of its cell, shoulders tense and head down.
Its long, smooth strides remind me of a jaguar pacing the walls of its cage.
I think again of zoochosis, of trapped and stressed animals, and feel a twinge of odd sympathy.
I wonder how impressive this alien predator must be in its natural form, in its natural habitat.
Now it’s nothing more than a lab rat, taken far from home.
“X-11, will you speak with us today?” Ramsey says into the intercom. “This will be easier if you cooperate. If you tell us what you want, we can negotiate.”
The alien doesn’t respond. It never responds, even though the scientists try to speak to it every day.
“Are we sure it understands English?” I ask.
Ramsey nods. “It used to speak with us,” he says. “Mulford especially, like I told you. He would ask it questions about its home planet and its people. It wouldn’t always answer, but it would usually engage in some way.”
And then it attacked Mulford. I suppress a shiver. It liked him, and then it attacked him, and now it refuses to eat.
Is it possible that the alien feels guilty? The scientists seem to treat it as an animal, but if it can feel complex emotions and speak, perhaps there’s more to its behavior than I thought.
Before I can suggest it, Tabs and Akimov wander over to speak to Ramsey, and I fade into the background once more.
On the third day, the alien reacts differently to its prey.
It lunges for the rabbit, wraps its powerful hands around it—but then it freezes.
Its pupils dilate. It slowly brings the terrified but still living creature to its nose and inhales deeply.
Once, then again, pressing its nose into the creature’s fur.
It tilts its head, confused, and then opens its mouth, tongue flicking at the air in a lizard-like motion that is deeply disturbing from something that appears human.
Getting a better scent, I expect, like most animals do.
Its entire body shudders, skin rippling oddly.
Then the alien blinks and seems to get a hold of itself, as if overcoming a powerful automatic response. It unhinges its jaw and devours the entire creature, whole and wiggling.
Usually, it seems angry after its feedings. But today it stands quietly, occasionally running a longer-than-usual tongue over its lips, as if trying to recapture a hint of whatever it smelled and tasted.
I’m dutifully recording notes when I realize the rest of the lab is oddly silent. The three men are exchanging glances that I can’t distinguish. My skin prickles in sudden alarm; they know something I don’t.
“Whose scent was that?” I ask as neutrally as I can. But I suspect I know the answer even before it comes.
“Yours,” Ramsey says.
I nod, suppressing a shiver, and record it in my notes. Reaction to Ms. Wright’s scent markedly different. Due to difference in female hormones, or other reason? Further testing required to be sure.
As I finish writing, I can feel Akimov watching me.