This text is part of the b2o: an online journal special issue “EXOCRITICISM”, edited by Arne De Boever and Frédéric Neyrat.
XENOECOLOGY: Encounters with Alien Life
Steven Swarbrick
“In space, no one can hear you scream.” That was true of the original Alien.[1] Sound requires a medium. In Ridley Scott’s 1979 science fiction classic, Alien, horror is the medium, and yet the film is oddly mute. Yes, there is the shouting among the crew members, who all fall victim to the alien, except one; the blaring alarms; the emergency destruct system; and Mother, the onboard supercomputer’s ticker-tape-like instructions. Moreover, there is the alien, whose screeching, hissing, animalistic sounds are less a warning than a signal that it is too late; if you hear the alien, you are as good as dead.
However, when Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), the surprise hero, confronts the reptilian, acid-spitting alien in deep space, their encounters are nearly silent, save for the whooshing of airlocks and discharge of weapons. The final sequence of the 1979 film, in which Ripley discovers the alien stowaway in her shuttle, is unnerving because no words are exchanged between the hunter and the hunted. They do not share the same medium. No language and no sound mediate their interactions. The tagline, “In space, no one can hear you scream,” is apt not only as a description of physical space (sound does not travel in a vacuum), but also as a metaphor for the lack of relation between Ripley and the alien. There is a vacuum between them that only death eliminates. Even when the alien makes its victims parasitic hosts—incubators, essentially, for the alien offspring—a gulf remains between the host and the parasite. The iconic scene in which the alien bursts from the stomach of Ripley’s crewmate, Kane (John Hurt), demonstrates that while the alien can take up residence in its victim, it cannot coexist. The alien occupies its human host as an “internal foreign body.”[2]
The psychoanalyst Jean Laplanche developed the term “internal foreign body” from Sigmund Freud to identify elements of a foreign language that do not assimilate to conscious meaning but persist as alien cargo in the subject’s unconscious. Language, Laplanche argues, may be a shared medium, and we are constantly translating one language into another, including gestures and other non-verbal signs. But the language of the unconscious, which includes our sexual traumata, does not translate except as a glitch or paroxysm in meaning. The unconscious bursts out, like the alien from its host. The otherness of the unconscious message is thus appropriately called das Ding (the Thing) by Jacques Lacan and “enigma” by Laplanche because it yields no translation.[3] The enigmatic message is the nonsignifying wound around which language and subjectivity grow, like a burl on a tree. It acts as an internal foreign body, menacing sense from within.
To be sure, the alien message is social, but only in the limited sense that it comes from outside, from the unconscious of the other, which is implanted in us from birth. “The enigma leads back,” Laplanche writes, “to the otherness of the other; and the otherness of the other is his response to his unconscious, that is to say, to his otherness to himself.”[4] We are, from the beginning, bombarded by the language of the other, including signifiers, gestures, touches, and vocalizations, and are therefore always translating social cues. Parasitizing these social messages, Laplanche claims, is the subject’s unconscious (the other’s and our own), with its treasury of alien messages, ciphers, and drives, relaying, not the social per se, but the sexual unconscious of the social: its libidinal underside. The internal foreign body exists or insists in a shared medium—language—but does not cooperate with it. Much like outer space, the internal foreign body is a vacuum in things, words, and ideas, which neither sound nor sense penetrates. The Thing does not resonate.[5] As Todd McGowan explains, “[Lacan’s] das Ding is a version of the Kantian thing in itself translated from knowledge (where Kant has it) to desire. It isn’t what we can’t know but what our desire can’t reach. Das Ding is a Kantian concept through and through.”[6]
Lacan furthers this Kantian lesson in Seminar VII: The Ethics of Psychoanalysis, where he posits the Thing (das Ding) as the alien body housed in the other and ourselves. Shifting terrain from the thing-in-itself to psychic space, Lacan theorizes das Ding as the internal foreign body occupying the other, a terrifying, nonsignifying monster constantly threatening to devour its host and anyone who dares confront it. To continue the outer space analogy, the alien Thing is a vacuum in language; “[it] is an inaccessible and unknowable void that attracts the subject’s desire.”[7] As such, it has no relational character. One does not relate to das Ding; it cannot be drawn out of its lair, brought into the open, dialogued with, or appeased. Das Ding partakes of no medium. It is a pure annihilating void.
Ripley’s nearly silent battle with the alien is therefore emblematic of the battle one undergoes when brought into the zone of das Ding. I say “brought into” since no one willingly goes there. Lacan praises Antigone as an exception, whose ethical stance orients her to das Ding. Two of Lacan’s readers, Mari Ruti and Richard Boothby, extend the significance of das Ding to both artistic and religious practices.[8] Nevertheless, the Ding concept stands for a trauma that neither art, religion, nor ethics can mollify, since their power derives from the obliterating force of this primary nothingness. Lacan’s point about das Ding is that it is the primal repressed of the psychic system, the parasite that cannot be negotiated with or removed since the entire human edifice is built on its alien nest. Get too close to it, and interpsychic space—the social medium—collapses. It is the Thing in us more than us, to borrow Lacan’s poetic turn of phrase.[9] The parasite that bursts from the human body in Alien is horrifying because it visualizes the inhuman stowaway—the internal foreign body—inhabiting us all. Alien—and perhaps science fiction in general—is Kantian in this precise way. It confronts viewers with the “extimacy” (i.e., intimate exteriority) of the Thing.[10]
A philosophical reversal happens in Noah Hawley’s Alien: Earth, which premiered on TV in 2025.[11] Although much of the TV series resembles the original Alien—there are monsters, Mother, corporate pawns traveling through deep space, and a no-nonsense female protagonist, Wendy (Sydney Chandler)—the show’s philosophical coordinates shift radically. The alien in Alien: Earth enters symbolic space, the very thing that was impossible in the film franchise and in Kant’s exo-philosophy. Even the psychoanalytic notion of the “internal foreign body” makes symbolization hard, if not impossible, to think, because the Thing is radically individual. My Ding is not yours. Your Ding is not mine, although I may desire it. The alien remains a private horror. One cannot socialize das Ding; one either succumbs to it, or, in the case of Ripley, jettisons it (for a time).
The change in the alien’s status in Alien: Earth cannot be overstated. In philosophical terms, it is the difference between Kant’s unknowable thing-in-itself and Hegel’s dialectic, which brings the unknowable thing into symbolic space and vice versa. In psychoanalytic terms, the change in the status of the alien corresponds to Lacan’s abandonment of das Ding, which marks the high point of his Kantian period, and subsequent theorization of the objet a. According to McGowan, “Lacan moves from an emphasis on das Ding in Seminar VII to a focus on the objet a two years later. … The crucial difference is that the objet a, unlike das Ding, has an immanent status for the subject, not a transcendent one. The objet a does not reside in the beyond but disturbs the field of representation from within.”[12] The difference between these concepts thus comes down to where one puts the limit: das Ding is an outer limit; objet a brings the outside in.
Compare the ending of Ridley Scott’s Alien to that of Alien: Earth, and the difference in these philosophical positions becomes pronounced. Alien ends with Ripley, the sole survivor, save for her cat, trapped in a shuttle with the alien. She must eject it into outer space, where it belongs—where there is no shared medium of sound or language—to live. The Ripley of Alien is a monad floating through space, where she does not scream because no one can hear her. She suffers from her alien Thing privately (Figure 1).
In contrast, Alien: Earth ends with a collective (Figure 2), including the “Xenomorph” (Figure 3)—the name given to the alien in the TV series—highlighting, I can only speculate, its transformed status as both a stranger (xenos) and a guest-friend deserving hospitality (xenia). In Homer’s The Odyssey, when the goddess Athena first visits Odysseus’ son, Telemachus, she appears as a stranger and “guest-friend.”[13] Their interactions and much of the poem turn on this crucial, Ancient Greek concept of hospitality or xenia: the reciprocity between guest and host. In Alien: Earth, the Xenomorph is a guest in more ways than one: it is a stranger; moreover, it is an immanent exception within the social fabric. Whereas Ripley confronts the alien as an outer limit, a devouring hole, the Xenomorph inhabits the symbolic medium.
Figure 1: Ripley in Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979)
Figure 2: Wendy and co. in Noah Hawley’s Alien: Earth (2025)
Figure 3: The Xenomorph
The Xenomorph is not the only alien in the series. The central characters are children—“Lost Boys,” in the Peter Pan-inspired logic of the show—who, because of terminal illness, became candidates for a high-tech, transhumanist experiment by one of the Earth’s controlling corporate entities, Prodigy Corporation. The experiment implants the children’s minds into humanoid, synthetic bodies, notably, adult synthetic bodies: “hybrids” with superhuman strength. They are child guests in mechanical forms. They are also guests on the occupied island where Prodigy Corporation is headquartered. The alien of Alien: Earth arrives via shipwreck. A rival corporation, Weyland-Yutani’s deep-space research vessel, crashes into Earth, carrying the Xenomorph and a collection of other outer-space oddities, including a cunning octopus-like creature, nicknamed “The Eye” because of its oversized eyeball, that invades and overrides its organic host. Lastly, the child hybrids are invaded by memories—past traumas—that their programming did not eliminate. Although their consciousness was translated into computer code, their adult engineers did not anticipate the unconscious reserve of enigmatic messages that would hijack their program. The hybrids are internal foreign bodies: implanted in machines; implanted by enigmatic messages.
The guest-host dynamic structures the entire series, with the host, Prodigy Corporation, failing to uphold the obligations of xenia or hospitality. The Xenomorph is a “product” in the words of Prodigy’s CEO, Boy Kavalier (Samuel Blenkin). The conquest of foreign life, particularly the island ecology where much of the action takes place, puts Alien: Earth in a colonial framework of occupation and control. The shipwreck and crossing of identities into hybrids (human and robot, friend and enemy) also puts the series squarely in the fantasy genre, where it would be at home with Peter Pan or William Shakespeare’s The Tempest.
The dramatic reversal from Alien to Alien: Earth is not simply the change of location, from deep space to Earth. Nor is it the emphasis on reversal as such. The crossing of alien and host is essential to the entire Alien franchise. Moreover, as Jarek Paul Ervin writes, “the dystopian Alien films have long stood out for dealing explicitly with class and rapacious capitalism.”[14] The explicit political messaging of the series, viewed against the backdrop of the Trump Administration’s white supremacy, anti-immigrant hostility, and xenophobia, as well as the tech industry’s collusion with the far-right, providing the technology to surveil, arrest, disappear, and kill foreign and “internal foreign bodies” (leftists, immigrants, Palestinians, Black, Brown, and trans people), furthers the Alien films’ anticapitalist critique. Instead, it is the reversal of philosophical paradigms that truly sets Alien: Earth apart.
Alien: Earth is a Hegelian TV series. Whereas Alien confronts viewers with the impossible Thing, impossible because the alien is outside representation, the Xenomorph in Alien: Earth undergoes a radical shift: from the alien Ripley shoots into outer space to the “guest-friend.” The outsider enters the social link.
This transformation does not happen instantaneously. If we think in terms of translation, from place (outer space) to place (Earth), and language to language, it is a process. The mediator in this process is Wendy, the leader of the band of lost children, the first human-synth hybrid, and the CEO’s favorite piece of R&D. Wendy is a wunderkind in a synthetic body who has the unique ability to translate human, computer, and alien code. She is a product of translation—the translation of a child’s mind into a machine—and learns to communicate with the Xenomorph held captive by Prodigy. Wendy slowly perfects the rhythmic clicks, chirps, and animal chatter that the Xenomorph recognizes as its mother tongue. In contrast with Ripley’s near-silent standoff with the adult alien, Wendy gradually befriends the child Xenomorph, who obeys her as its mother. For the first time in the Alien franchise, the alien is no longer a pure annihilating force; its actions appear structured. It communicates. It listens. It protects. It collaborates.
In one of several superimpositions, we see Wendy’s face overlaid on a distant landscape. A silhouette of the alien appears against Wendy’s parted lips, stirred, summoned, and even metaphorically birthed through the labial aperture (Figure 4). Both figures appear partially negated: the alien is reduced to an outline, and Wendy to a partial object, the mouth. The voice emanating from the mouth stirs the alien to action, and yet it also stirs in the viewer an echo of the Thing: sound that does translate into sense.[15] To be sure, the voice makes sense to Wendy and the Xenomorph. However, we are outside their sonic exchange. The superimposition operates an internal exclusion or parallax between sound and sense, and between the alien and Wendy.
Figure 4: Wendy and the Xenomorph superimposed
Laplanche, as we said above, theorized the alien message as an untranslatable kernel of raw negativity that never transforms into meaning but parasitizes meaning and language. He called the alien thing the “enigmatic message” because it comes from outside us, at birth, even before birth, and well after, as we are trained, civilized, Oedipalized, and domesticated through language and cultural codes, assimilated, that is, to the adult world. We enter the world as a polymorphous frenzy of partial objects and drives, and gradually transform into a civilized (repressed) subject. Laplanche’s point is that this ordinary translation from child to adult is never seamless. The grit in the gears of the child’s transformation is the enigmatic message: outer space brought inward. Trauma, in this sense, is a structural component of the civilizing process. We are eccentric beings, ex-centered by the unconscious, because we are (to ape Martin Heidegger) first and foremost beings-with-others who are also invaded by unconscious messages: the exo-factor in our psychic makeup.
Crucial to Alien: Earth is that it dialectically reverses the nonsignifying message. Whereas Ripley and the alien had no means of communicating, Wendy and the Xenomorph converse; they even bond. However, the result is not the complete assimilation of the alien into the human world—the world of adults. Instead, the newly formed social link between Wendy and the Xenomorph triggers Wendy’s all-out rebellion against the human world of adults, namely, Prodigy Corporation.
The Earth of Alien: Earth is entirely dominated by corporate capitalism; the poorest of humanity live in squalor; and the Prodigy CEO, Boy Kavalier, dreams of creating a transhuman future, in which human-machine hybrids are free to leave the devastated planet and colonize outer space. Wendy disrupts the CEO’s tech-bro fantasy. Wendy learns to communicate with the Xenomorph, and the result is a complete destitution—a break from the corrupt world of humans and capital, where she, no less than the Xenomorph, is held prisoner. The alien in the machine and the alien with the machine undergo subjective destitution: divesting from the Prodigy Corporation, their corporate family, and host.[16]
Here is the Hegelian dialectic at work: the outside (the alien) enters the social fabric, becoming alien to its former representation, and the social, in turn, becomes alien to itself. In the Preface to the Phenomenology of Spirit, Hegel writes: Substance is equally Subject.[17] What this means is that, on the one hand, Kant’s thing-in-itself is not an isolated substance wholly exterior to the world of subjectivity. On the other hand, subjectivity is not external to the Thing. The most horrifying thing imaginable, the Xenomorph, is the “guest-friend.” That is the thesis of Alien: Earth. It critiques the colonial fantasy of assimilation, transforming what is foreign and strange into the familiar, as well as the hateful rhetoric of xenophobia, rejecting what is foreign as unassimilable, by turning the adult world (the world of high-tech commodities, disaster capitalism, ecofascism, and outer space colonialism) inside out. The collective we see at the end of Alien: Earth, when the child-synths and Xenomorphs have overthrown their adult captors, is an exo-collective or xeno-collective. It is forged by the stranger, by what is alien (lacking) in their mother tongue. That, after all, is Laplanche’s point: language is incepted by an alien tongue. Although we translate the messages coming from outside, they encrypt something that does not speak, much less obey.
It is not hard to recognize the xeno-collective as a chosen family, as a xeno-proletariat revolting against its capitalist and Oedipal host. The Xenomorph and child-synths are forcibly displaced, aliens on Earth and in the bodies that others program and control. As figures of xenia, they expose the hostility of their hosts, who try to immunize their “tech” as soon as the aliens rebel or malfunction. They are also eco-radicals, insofar as they show that the island’s colonizers are the true invasive species. Finally, they are code breakers, not because they decode all differences and dialogue seamlessly, but because they recognize that the virus is vital to the code. The enigmatic message is an internal foreign body, not to be refused.
I propose “xenoecology” as the term best suited to Alien: Earth’s philosophical reversal. The heterodox collective of psyche, machine, human, and alien is not so much a community with a defined boundary as an xenoecology of subjects connected by what they all mutually lack, in which the boundary between inside and outside is never clear.[18] Xenoecology welcomes aliens: extraterrestrials, yes, but not exclusively. What it welcomes primarily is the “internal foreign body,” which is extra-human in the sense Lacan registers when he talks about the “in you more than you.”[19] The “in you more than you” is a +1, an uninvited guest, at the ecological table. Although we do not have the words to represent it, its presence is undeniable. The +1 sticks out, derails the conversation, sucks up the oxygen, and overstays its welcome. It does not belong, yet it insists on being here. We think this outsider might have something to offer: How can we put the +1 to work? But the uninvited guest does not play nice. It mucks things up rather than playing its part. It does not ask to be included; it extrudes the outside. The +1 has this negative dimension: one foot in, and one foot out the door. Its disturbance is local, but its source is nonlocal. Its topology is a hole: atopic. What is more, the +1 that Lacan calls das Ding and objet a, two figures of nothingness, is a guest one cannot disinvite. It takes up residence as an internal foreign body, a virus, or an alien, but the truth is that there would be no inside without it—the internal foreign body structures ordinal space.
Donna Haraway conceives of ecology as a dinner party where companion species break bread.[20] Timothy Morton theorizes ecology as a rave where “strange strangers” bump and grind.[21] Eugene Thacker speculates about out-of-this-world encounters, the slimier, the better.[22] And xenofeminist Helen Hester views the cyborg as the emissary of a post-natural, post-gendered world.[23] The xenoecology I posit welcomes these strange strangers as comrades. However, the alien life I investigate is neither a dinner guest nor a pure beyond nor a messianic messenger of the transhuman to come. Instead, xenoecology concerns aliens who are already here, who do not eat, sleep, or translate. Xenoecology is not about nonhumans, but neither is it humanist in any straightforward sense. Its interest is the inside other (enigmatic messages and drives), aliens with no plan to assimilate.
One could criticize xenoecology as excessively intrapsychic, with nothing to offer realpolitik. While that is true in one respect—it is intrapsychic—my gambit is that an ex-centered psyche is crucial to political ecology. The latter is, by and large, lumpen bio-historicism. It examines bodies and their contexts. We can call this form of criticism geocentric: reading how the outside acts on bodies and vice versa. It reads via GPS.
Psychoanalysis offers a Copernican alternative: reading how the outside acts from within, de-centering “our” home (psychic space) and by extension, ecology. Laplanche’s theory of the “internal foreign body” or das Andere, the other in the unconscious, the inside other, aims to fulfill psychoanalysis’s Copernican calling by ex-centering subjectivity. Xenoecology not only welcomes the ex-centered subject but also derives from it: it is composed not of insiders but of inside others, an ecology that is not place-based or geohistorical but uprooted: extra-terrestrial. Its signet, the +1, makes aliens of us all.
At a time when global fascism, ongoing settler colonialism, and genocide, aided by tech companies and the billionaire class, ruthlessly enforce inhospitality, including inhospitality to the planet it plunders, xenoecology proposes, not inclusion, not the liberal tolerance of differences, but the ethical risk of welcoming the Thing (void of every social formation) into the social fabric where it cannot but distort it. In Alien: Earth, Wendy hears the alien as a desirable distortion and vice versa. The rhythmicity of the young Xenomorph’s clicks and chirps activates her unconscious desire and draws her to it. Jamieson Webster notes that “all desires [are] born from a lack.”[24] She relates Freud’s belief that “our first memories are centered on the sound of our own crying.”[25] Our first helpless “modulation of breath into a cry is a tool of survival that is also the beginning of memory—one that stretches all the way back to the beginning of the species, maybe even life.”[26]
Our cries are indelibly etched into our minds alongside whatever experiences of pain or fear as well as the soothing by others that (hopefully) follow. All memories have an acoustic accompaniment that goes back to these first ones—a double archive in the mind. … We are, in the Freudian universe, utterly helpless as human infants. And yet, the infant has this power to solicit.[27]
The Xenomorph’s cry solicits Wendy’s memory of being born helpless (first, as a child; second, as a machine; and third, as a new subjectivity in league with the alien). The result is not simply more inclusion, but a total transformation of social life. The thing that was previously excluded—the reptilian, shapeshifting, acid-spitting alien—becomes the “internal foreign body” of a new social formation. One could critique this outcome as a domestication of the Thing. Is the alien not ultimately Oedipalized or normalized by Wendy? Although this is undoubtedly a risk, the alien is not simply Wendy’s pet or child. The alien dislocates her from the language of her captor and the ideology of capital. She becomes a stranger in common with the alien, strange to herself. Moreover, while viewers get to hear Wendy and the Xenomorph speak, their discourse is, to us, purely sonic, stripped of meaning. The show maintains the foreignness of their alien tongue. Their cry solicits ours.
[1] Alien, dir. Ridley Scott (Twentieth Century Fox, Brandywine Productions, 1979).
[2] Jean Laplanche, Essays on Otherness (New York: Routledge, 1999), 256.
[3] Jacques Lacan, The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book VII: The Ethics of Psychoanalysis, ed. Jacques-Alain Miller, trans. Dennis Porter (New York: Norton, 1992), 43.
[4] Laplanche, Essays on Otherness, 255.
[5] Philosophically speaking, the Thing (Freud and Lacan) and the internal foreign body (Laplanche) register, in psychoanalytic terms, the exo-philosophy of Immanuel Kant, who posits the thing-in-itself (Ding-an-sich) as the impossible object of knowledge. “Kant’s philosophy depends,” Todd McGowan writes, “on a contrast between knowable appearances and the unknowable thing in itself. For Kant, the thing in itself doesn’t lie beyond the realm of appearances but rather constitutes the limit of that realm.” Todd McGowan, The Cambridge Introduction to Jacques Lacan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2025), 108.
[6] McGowan, Cambridge Introduction to Jacques Lacan, 108.
[7] McGowan, Cambridge Introduction to Jacques Lacan, 106.
[8] See Lacan, Ethics of Psychoanalysis; Mari Ruti, “The Brokenness of Being: Lacanian Theory and Benchmark Traumas,” Angelaki 28, no. 6 (2023): 123–70; and Richard Boothby, Embracing the Void: Rethinking the Origin of the Sacred (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2023).
[9] Jacques Lacan, The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book XI: The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, ed. Jacques-Alain Miller, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Norton, 1998), 268.
[10] Lacan, Ethics of Psychoanalysis, 139.
[11] Alien: Earth, creator Noah Hawley (20th Television, 26 Keys Productions, Brandywine Productions, FX Productions, Living Films, 2025–).
[12] McGowan, Cambridge Introduction to Jacques Lacan, 109.
[13] Homer, The Odyssey, trans. Emily Wilson (New York: Norton, 2018), 1:106.
[14] Jarek Paul Ervin, “Alien: Earth Is a Much-Needed Defense of Humanity,” Jacobin, August 18, 2025, https://jacobin.com/2025/08/alien-earth-television-sci-fi-dystopia-review.
[15] See Mladen Dolar’s term “object voice” in A Voice and Nothing More (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006), 4.
[16] On subjective destitution, see Steven Swarbrick, The Earth Is Evil (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2025). On divestment as a psychoanalytic act, see Steven Swarbrick, Divest: An Essay on Political Masochism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2026).
[17] G.W.F. Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, trans. A.V. Miller (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), 10.
[18] Swarbrick, Earth Is Evil, 24–26.
[19] Lacan, Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, 268.
[20] Donna J. Haraway, When Species Meet (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2007), 17.
[21] Timothy Morton, The Ecological Thought (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 41; and Timothy Morton, Dark Ecology: For a Logic of Future Coexistence (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), 153.
[22] Eugene Thacker, In the Dust of This Planet: Horror of Philosophy Vol. 1 (Winchester, UK: Zero Books, 2011).
[23] Helen Hester, Xenofeminism (Cambridge, UK: Polity, 2018).
[24] Jamieson Webster, On Breathing: Care in a Time of Catastrophe (New York: Catapult, 2025), 15.
[25] Webster, On Breathing, 14.
[26] Webster, On Breathing, 15.
[27] Webster, On Breathing, 14–15.