Peter Watts, hard SF writer, in his short story, "The Things", has his alien protagonist try its level best to annihilate the biped biomasses (human scientists) that have freed it from its icy grave.
The creature finally realizes that the answer to the age-old question "Who Goes There?" are beings that simply aren't worth killing. More to be pitied actually, as "The Thing" sadly concludes the following about Earth's beastly kings:
"A whole planet of worlds, and not one of them--not one--has a soul. They wander through their lives separate and alone, unable even to communicate except through grunts and tokens: as if the essence of a sunset or a supernova could ever be contained in some string of phonemes, a few linear scratches of black on white. They've never known communion, can aspire to nothing but dissolution. The paradox of their biology is astonishing, yes; but the scale of their loneliness, the futility of these lives, overwhelms me."
Of course, one would have to suspend belief in God and/or Apple to concur with this monstrous assertion.