Lab Room Five
N-Vorl lies unmoving on the air mattress in his formerly shared quarters. With his warrior roommate gone--and safely aboard Elder Glandis' flagship, N-Vorl is able to think clearly for the first time in days.
Despite his growing affection and admiration for Teresa, N-Vorl's hopes concerning a worthy hunt opponent have dimmed. If the ooman should eventually become heavy with his descendants, it may create serious complications. For himself, for the project, and for the clan. Some things are not done. With good reason.
What role would such a hybrid serve in yautja society? What role will Teresa serve when the project is complete? Would he be expected to hunt one of his own blood? These are questions he had not considered. In that moment, only the taste and scent of the doctor's flesh had mattered.
When he'd proposed the idea of dealing with Teresa, Elder Glandis had suggested that all things come in due time. What does that mean for the ooman scientist?
N-Vorl shakes his head and chitters defiantly. His feelings for Teresa have transformed since their first mating. Every time he holds her in the crook of his arm, he is consumed by a growing desire to protect her. As he would a female of his own kind. Despite their initial period of seemingly mutual animosity, they have shared so much of themselves with each other. Maybe too much.
For the first time, N-Vorl feels truly accepted. Not by his own kind, but by the very ooman he had once been adamant to destroy. While caught up in her embrace, his anger--at the unfairness of his youth--subsides. His shame at his father's unfortunate blunder--which cost N'bril the title of Clan Elder--no longer matters. All that matters is Teresa.
N-Vorl's mandibles draw apart and he grins his usual yautja grin. Anyone seeing the massive warrior might think him crazy. And they wouldn't be entirely wrong. Desire ripples through N-Vorl like a raging forest fire. He calms it by closing his eyes, willing himself to sleep. Only to dream of her.
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Glotis is once again seated at Bess Trainor’s old workstation when the lights flicker. The female yautja turns calmly in her chair to face Dr. Boyd. The blank expression on Glotis’ face is almost humorous. Teresa is reminded of an old Earth television show—Star Trek—and the emotionless Mr. Spock. A million things must be going through Glotis’ head, but she refuses to show it.
“It’s the front edge of the geostorm,” Teresa says. “We’ll probably experience a few systems hiccups. Even a regular thunderstorm can sometimes knock out power. No biggie. The California can handle just about anything. I can monitor some of the major systems from here. Thanks to the interface set up by our saboteur, Mr. McAvoy. Any major power fluctuations and I’ll know. I’m switching to auxiliary power for non-essential systems and rerouting power to the lab’s security network. Worst-case scenario …We may have to go out and reroute a few power conduits. I don’t foresee anything like that happening.”
“Just as you did not foresee the saboteur upon your ship? Or the rapid uncontrolled evolution of your insect creations?” Glotis counters.
There is a sharp edge to Glotis’ voice. Teresa’s eyes narrow as she studies her female companion. Glotis has never shown her even a hint of open hostility. This new behavior strikes Teresa as very odd. Is she still angry about P'taal's refusal to leave the ship? Or is there something more? The pheromones from the new blood serum. Could they be affecting Glotis negatively? This is one wrinkle she had not considered. But it makes perfect sense, biologically.
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“Glotis? I don’t understand. Have I done something to offend you?” Teresa questions.
“Everything about your fragile ooman nature is offensive,” Glotis hisses. “You travel all over the galaxy…Taking and destroying. Changing flourishing worlds to suit your purposes and mining other worlds so that you may continue to spread your ooman filth to every corner of the universe.”
“Wait…,” Teresa says, holding up a hand. “You’re the descendant of a race of superhunters…Hellbent on remaking an entire planet to slake your warrior bloodlust. And you accuse humans of changing things to suit our purposes? Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
Glotis climbs angrily to her feet. Though not as impressively armored as her male counterparts, Glotis is still equally frightening. She strides to where Teresa is seated at her workstation. The towering yautja female glares down at the human with pure anger behind her gray eyes.
“Because of you…P’taal may die,” Glotis growls in a raspy voice. “Because of you…We all may die. And there will be nothing honorable about our deaths. We will die defending the brainchild project of a fragile incompetent ooman.”
Tears well in Dr. Boyd’s eyes and she fights back the fierce words which threaten to spring from her throat. This is exactly how she had felt, watching what was left of Harold’s mutilated body fall to the ground. She had hated herself so much in that moment. However, the feeling had been even worse, watching one of her creations literally tear Bess Trainor in half. Blood and guts, from the terrified lab assistant, spraying over Teresa’s face and body.
Who would argue that Dr. Teresa Boyd is indeed a competent scientist? Even she doesn’t believe it anymore. So many failures. An entire ship full of passengers, crew, and colonial marines. All dead. That was why she had agreed to work alongside the yautja warriors. To redeem herself. To make right all that had gone wrong. To salvage some small degree of creditability. And maybe then, she could live with herself. It will be the most supreme of poetic justice, when she breathes her last. At the sharpened foreleg of a mutant Judas.
Teresa refuses to take the angry yautja scientist’s bait. She calmly returns to her work, heart beating rapidly in her chest. Glotis continues to glare down at Dr. Boyd, one clawed hand clenched into a tight fist at her side.
“P’taal is a warrior, Glotis. He does not need to be told what he must do. Certainly not by me,” Teresa says. She is careful not to make eye contact with Glotis. “I don’t know what else you want me to say. I’ve lost people too. Friends, colleagues…Lovers. I will miss them always. I never asked any of you to stay. It would have been better if you had not. I hope you can believe that.”
Some of the fire goes out of Glotis and she takes a step backward. As if on cue, the lights flicker and there is a loud banging on the main doors. Teresa hastily climbs to her feet. She and Glotis are side by side when they turn to the main entrance of the lab. Reaching down and grabbing her tablet computer, Teresa enters a command. The camera feed from the hallway appears on her screen.
The hallway leading to the lab is uncharacteristically dark. However, even in the dim light, Dr. Boyd can make out the shape of an injured yautja. One arm clearly missing, and a horrid gash across his broad chest—even the thick metal of his breastplate is damaged.
“Oh my god!” Teresa exclaims. “Glotis…Who is that?”
Teresa points at the image on the screen, and Glotis stares down at the tablet in disbelief.
“That is Mau-Nis. He is Glandis’ second-in-command,” Glotis explains. “But what is he doing here?”
Teresa stares harder at the image on the screen. It is indeed Elder Glandis' second-in-command standing alone outside the lab's main doors. The lights flicker again. This time, the lights stay off for nearly ten seconds. Teresa turns to Glotis and motions toward the door. N-Vorl and P’taal enter the lab at that very moment.
“We have to let him in,” Teresa says. “The scent of his blood will lead any nearby Judases to our position. We need to get him inside and patch him up.”