When looking back earlier in the semester and comparing the beginning of Octavia Butler’s Xenogenesis trilogy to artificial intelligence, I kept returning to how the Oankali resemble AI in unsettling ways. From the very start, they demonstrate immense knowledge and technological ability, yet they seem to lack traditional human emotions. This absence of emotion leads to blurry moral boundaries—decisions that make sense biologically or logically but feel ethically ambiguous. The Oankali genetically engineer and manipulate humans in ways that can be seen as helpful but also deeply coercive. And yet, I began to question whether it was even fair to hold the Oankali to human moral standards. They are not human, after all—a bias I had to recognize in myself as I progressed through the trilogy.
Despite the logical merit behind the Oankali’s actions, I kept rooting for the humans, craving a redemption arc for a species that had destroyed its own planet not just through nuclear war, but long before that, through environmental neglect—like the unchecked spread of plastic. Even when I knew the humans were doomed to repeat history, even when the Oankali predicted failure on Mars, I still hoped they would succeed. That lingering uncertainty—whether humanity can truly change or if its self-destructive tendencies are inevitable—is, I think, the very cliff Butler wanted us to hang from. As Jdahya explains to Lilith, “You have a mismatched pair of genetic characteristics. Either alone would have been useful… But the two together are lethal. It was only a matter of time before they destroyed you.” (Octavia E. Butler, Dawn)
That blunt diagnosis of humanity’s downfall echoes my own worries about whether our intelligence is enough to save us from ourselves.
I’ve always been fascinated by space exploration and the thought of life existing beyond Earth. That curiosity is one of the main reasons I considered becoming a geology major—to study not only our planet but others like it. Space feels limitless, which makes the possibility of a species more advanced and intelligent than humans not just imaginable but likely. A major discovery was made in early 2025 that reignited that sense of wonder: on the exoplanet K2-18b, scientists detected biosignatures of dimethyl sulfide (DMS), a compound on Earth typically associated with life, especially cyanobacteria. Even if the life detected is microbial, this is still groundbreaking. I remember how excited I was when water was first discovered on that same planet in 2019. Now, we’re inching closer to confirming extraterrestrial biology.
That sense of awe and speculation is exactly what Octavia Butler captures in Xenogenesis. Her creation of the Oankali—a race of gene-trading, space-faring beings—amazed me from the beginning. The Oankali are so unearthly, yet intricately constructed, that I don’t think I’ll be able to fully grasp their complexity without another read-through. They represent an advanced lifeform with values and instincts so alien to ours, it forces the reader to confront what it means to be human in the face of a truly “other” intelligence. The Oankali don’t colonize in a traditional sense. Instead, they “trade” genetic material, believing this merging is the only way for both species to survive. Yet, from a human perspective, this trade often feels more like assimilation—or even violation.
This is where the comparison to artificial intelligence becomes even more relevant. Like the Oankali, AI is being developed with promises of salvation: increased efficiency, better decision-making, and even solutions to global problems like climate change. But the more I read and hear about AI, the more unsettled I become. Just like the Oankali, AI systems are designed to act in ways we might not always understand. They don’t feel empathy, love, or remorse, but they can make decisions that significantly affect human lives—whether it’s through algorithms in healthcare, hiring, or policing. And while those designing AI may have good intentions, we’ve already seen how bias can be embedded into machine learning. The fear is that, like the humans in Xenogenesis, we’ll be swept into a new world shaped by a logic we don’t fully control. Jdahya summarizes the danger with chilling accuracy: “You are hierarchical. That’s the older and more entrenched characteristic… That was like ignoring cancer. I think your people did not realize what a dangerous thing they were doing.” (Octavia E. Butler, Dawn)
One of the most uncomfortable things about the Oankali is how certain they are. They believe, with total confidence, that their way is the only way forward. When humans resist, they don’t try to understand—it’s seen as irrational, a flaw in human biology. This mirrors a fear I have about AI systems: that once they are deeply embedded in society, there will be no room for resistance. If a machine decides what’s best based on data, will there still be room for human emotion? For choice? For mistakes? These questions haunt me. We already see this happening in small ways—when music, movies, or newsfeeds are curated by algorithms. It makes me wonder: if AI had been in charge of Earth during the events of Xenogenesis, would it have saved us? Or would it have “corrected” us, reshaping humanity the way the Oankali tried to? As Butler writes, “A cancer growing in someone’s body will go on growing in spite of denial. And a complex combination of genes that work together to make you intelligent as well as hierarchical will still handicap you whether you acknowledge it or not.” (Octavia E. Butler, Dawn)
Butler doesn’t provide clear answers—she provides tension. The Oankali are not villains. They’re not even necessarily “wrong.” In Dawn, when Lilith learns what has happened to Earth, it’s clear the humans are to blame. The Oankali offer survival, even if it means change. As Jdahya tells her, “You are intelligent… the newer of the two characteristics… You are potentially one of the most intelligent species we’ve found.” (Octavia E. Butler, Dawn)
But that intelligence is paired with a self-destructive trait—hierarchy—that undermines it. This reflects our current moment, too. We may build smarter machines, but that doesn’t mean we’re wise enough to use them well. As Butler puts it, “Yes… intelligence does enable you to deny facts you dislike. But your denial doesn’t matter.” (Octavia E. Butler, Dawn)
One of the most powerful moments in the trilogy is when the humans on Mars attempt to build a new society—one free from the Oankali. Even though it’s likely doomed, it represents the human desire to build something self-determined. I found myself cheering for them, even knowing Butler was likely right: without change, they might just repeat old patterns. Still, it reminded me that the human spirit resists being engineered. That resistance is messy, emotional, sometimes violent—but it’s also uniquely ours. As Butler observes, “Your people contain incredible potential, but they die without using much of it.” (Octavia E. Butler, Dawn)
This tension between control and freedom, between evolution and autonomy, is why Butler’s work continues to feel relevant in a world increasingly shaped by AI. As someone who is both excited by space exploration and deeply concerned about where artificial intelligence might take us, Xenogenesis feels like a warning and a challenge. What does survival mean if we lose our ability to choose who we are? Can we adapt to new realities without giving up our core humanity?
Ultimately, Butler doesn’t suggest that the Oankali are evil, just different. But in making us feel discomfort, she pushes us to think critically about our own future. That’s what makes science fiction so powerful—it gives us space to imagine what’s coming, and more importantly, to question it. As I continue to study the Earth and look toward other planets, I carry these questions with me. I hope that if we do ever meet another intelligent species—or create one ourselves—we’ll do better than the humans in Xenogenesis. But I’m not sure. And that uncertainty is the most honest place we can start from.