Credit: Justin Randall

I find myself glancing at my own hands, flexing them.

"My official findings as to the cause of four of the deaths are inconclusive. Doris Marshall had a similar raw patch on her skin but had died of multiple wounds similar to someone who had been mauled by a bear.

"Tests of Ingrid's blood reveal a significant departure in composition from typical human blood. Five vials sit before me on my desk, thick bands of an unusual serum settled in each one.

"Unfortunately, though I am always very careful in my procedures, I've cut myself. The wound on my knuckle looks like a small red mouth and I've disinfected and covered it. It was unexpectedly difficult. I dropped the bandages three times before managing to cover the wound.

"The pain in my hands and face is similar to that of arthritis and grows sharper by the quarter-hour. I can no longer hold a pen to write. Perhaps it is my imagination, but the pains seem to be spreading. I've taken three ibuprofen tablets and refuse to take more.

"The centrifuge holding my own blood has a minute and 40 seconds remaining in its cycle and, in spite of a growing burning sensation spreading across my back and over my left hip, I will wait. In spite of the blotchy markings appearing under my skin, I will wait. In spite of the pain, I will wait.

"Using materials at hand, I've prepared to end this outbreak. Every door is locked and sealed with layers of metallised tape. The entire morgue has been disinfected should I fail. The oxygen tanks I took from other departments wait, readied with other incendiary components.

"As I record this, I am filled with a deep terror. I don't want to commit suicide and burn the morgue, and very likely the hospital, over a paper cut."

His voice dribbles to a halt; the empty sound following it fills the room. After several heartbeats of skipping hiss there is a harsh sob and an echoing click as the button goes up on the noise machine. I sit still, mouth open, in shock. Our history has changed shape in an instant.

Scrabbling through the papers, I'm unable to read them, claws ripping the delicate film of organic material. Our ancestors lied to us! Our first contact had been neither diplomatic nor friendly. Then my eyes fall on words I can understand, the only ones. Characters in my own tongue, written at the end of the last document in a spiky hand in rusty red:

This blood burns in our veins be it of heroes, of gods, of demons. Tremble, for this hour is ours.

We weren't symbionts at all. We were parasites. We were conquerors.