Life will find a way

One cocoon twitches; my screaming must have disturbed it. It’s followed by a sound like the shaking of a cobra’s tail. A dry rattle sends a shiver down my spine. The rest of the cocoons respond the same way, as if communicating with one another; the cave fills with rattling. The glow becomes stronger as they vibrate and bathes the cave floor in an eerie blue light.

My mind flashes back to Laura’s caterpillars she kept as a child. If you disturbed a cocoon, they would start to twitch and move, a kind of built in defence mechanism to protect from predictors such as birds.

“The sweet wrappers! Of course.” I whisper to myself.

Before caterpillars go into their cocoon state, the pupae grow at an astounding rate. They need enough energy for both the growth and then the metamorphosis. The teenagers must have been carrying rucksacks full of sweets when they entered the cave. The webbing on the cave floor was indeed silk, and the decapitated heads weren't the remnants of a massacre but discarded body parts. After the teenagers entered their cocoons, they didn’t need them anymore.

The cocoon nearest me shakes more violently; a shape inside wriggles like a contortionist trying to free himself from a straitjacket. A single talon breaks through the black, shiny membrane; a gush of red, transparent liquid splatters to the floor below. The claw continues its journey down the leather casing, which clings to the life form's body like wet clothing. The creature emerges glistening and slimy like a newborn baby and falls into the puddle of liquid where it lies in a foetal position, shivering.

Its skin is a greyish colour, its body covered in fine scales, hands and feet replaced with clawed talons. A ridge of spines runs along its back that continues into a long thin tail curled into a tight spiral. Black-and-white striped spines follow the outline of its backbone, its rib cage expanding and contracting as it pants. I'm horrified and fascinated in equal measure.

Opening an eye, it looks directly at me. Something primitive in me recognises the human intelligence behind the stare and the features of Dr Cho’s daughter from the photograph. Slipping like a foal on ice, she attempts to rise. Slimy residue clings to her body until she shakes herself in ripples. The black and white spikes standing to attention like the quills of a porcupine. She is terrifying. She is magnificent. She is alien.

I pace around her cautiously: she pants, her eyes follow me around the room. Scales glow iridescently like thousands of tiny solar panels. I expect that’s exactly what they are. Reptiles on Earth use the power of the sun to warm their cold blood, but with the sun much weaker here on Mars, the rays would need to be intensified. She turns her head, and I see the outline of a third eye on her forehead. As she blinks, two membranes cross her elongated pupils, like a camel’s, enabling her to navigate easily through sandstorms. She crouches on four incredibly well-muscled legs as she observes my movements.

My research tells me that iguanas can run at phenomenal speed across sand and are excellent climbers; those attributes will be essential on the unforgiving Martian surface. This iguana-human hybrid is a creature equipped to defend herself. I expect the tips of her spines are poisonous and her skin, almost impenetrable. Her claws have elegant, elongated fingers, each capped with a razor-sharp claw. She unfurls two massive, bat-like leather wings and shakes them out to dry. This creature isn’t just a ground-dweller.

So, this is what Dr Cho was trying to protect, and why she was drugging me. The relationship between the dome and its residents has become symbiotic, they need to keep it secret from Earth to protect their children. Who knows how Earth would respond to the threat of a new race of beings, especially when they are so well equipped for the new environment of Mars?

Having recovered from her hatching, she opens and closes her mouth as if trying to speak but soon realises nothing is as it was. I see the realisation in her expression as she looks down at what used to be a hand. She lets out a bloodcurdling screech.

It's a cry of frustration that signals the other cocoons around me tear open and release the beings. Soon I’m staring into the eyes of dozens of hybrids, of different shapes, sizes and colours, but I'm not afraid. They look to me for guidance. Like ducklings imprinting on their mother duck. They aren’t threating me; they need my help.

The new species of tree growing in the crater requires a new animal that's adapted to its specific needs, that can live in an environment of low oxygen and extreme weather phenomena. Pollinate its flowers and survive on its poisonous fruit.

As much as I long to return to Earth and back to Laura, I know this new species will die if they don’t get out of the Dome and to the Manchineel tree to feed. The mother in me just can't abandon them.

Humans came to Mars, but it made us, into Martians.

I’m going to help them claim their planet.

The End