Alien: Covenant 2

by Alan Dean Foster

  Still no sign of retaliation.

  While sharpshooters watched over them, chemical specialists proceeded to slap charged packets over anything that resembled an opening. Scaling the roofs of both buildings, they didn’t overlook filtered vents. When their respective team leaders had finished, both assault teams drew back until they were under cover. Given the go-ahead by Bevridge, they activated the packets.

  A succession of muted explosions filled the air on the property. Each packet contained a concentrated anti-riot irritant that the integrated explosives blew inward through cracks, openings, and vents. It was powerful, long-lasting, and dispersed widely.

  Bevridge looked on with satisfaction.

  “Now we wait. Our ill-advised friends should be coming out soon enough. They’re going to need clean air, and they’re not going to find it inside.”

  “Unless,” Lopé pointed out, “they have filter masks.”

  Bevridge was ready for the argument. “If that proves to be the case, then we’ll have to employ something less civil to winkle them out. I’d prefer to take all of them alive, however. The dead are notoriously resistant to questioning.”

  A moment later the first goat blew up.

  Several members of the intercession team had taken cover behind a long plastic watering trough. Approaching them unnoticed, the herd detonated in programmed succession. Several of the team members went flying, and some landed with limbs at unnatural angles. It was difficult to gauge the extent of their injuries. In some instances their body armor seemed to have done its job, but two members of the team lay unmoving, their faces bloodied.

  “Medic!” one of the survivors yelled. As soon as a response team started forward from one of the vans, gunfire erupted from half a dozen locations, including the main building and the lower levels of the two barns.

  “Return fire, return fire!” Bevridge was yelling into his communicator as he half charged, half fell out of the command truck. Slugs chewed up the ground all around the vehicles as men and women rushed for better cover.

  As the intruders spread out to create a wider arc of fire, shots continued to come from within the compound. One guided heavy shell struck the middle truck in line. Empty except for the driver, it leaped skyward in a rapidly expanding ball of smoke and flame and flipped over twice before smashing into the ground.

  Continuing to take casualties, Bevridge’s team began to unleash heavier weapons of their own. One shell sent metal, concrete, and body parts vomiting skyward as it slammed into the middle of the main building. Another blew a chunk of the barn to fragments, wood mixing with blood and bone as the armed men behind it were all but disintegrated by the force of the explosion.

  In the midst of the exchange of firepower, a wild musical blaring and metallic clanging unexpectedly filled the air. As the noise blasted from concealed speakers, the doors to both barns on the property were flung wide and a horde of panicked farm animals was let loose on the startled visitors.

  What resulted was complete and bloody chaos as terrified stock rampaged among the assault team. In addition to interfering with the aim of those trying to take out the farm’s defenders, the stampeding cattle were of sufficient size to carry larger and more powerful explosive charges, all surgically embedded. Flocks of chickens and ducks detonated among the team at random intervals. Not knowing which of the panicked, sacrificial farm animals were carrying explosives and which were not, security personnel proceeded to blast away at every creature they saw.

  A sudden thought caused Lopé to lean forward to get Bevridge’s attention.

  “We need a car!”

  The security chief stopped bellowing into his comm, and looked sharply back at him.

  “What is it, man? I don’t have time for—what do you mean, you need a car?” Not far in front of him a terrified, fleeing ram hurdled a low rise to explode in the midst of several concealed security personnel. Body armor saved two of them. The third had his face penetrated by a long sliver of shattered bone.

  “I want to check something out,” Lopé shot back, glancing at Rosenthal. “We’re not doing anything useful here!”

  Bevridge didn’t have time to argue. “Fine!” He gestured behind them. “Take the second one. I’ll alert the driver. Stay down, keep out of the way, and don’t get a bunny bomb up your butt!”

  Lopé nodded once. He gestured to Rosenthal.

  “Come with me, private.”

  Ducking out her side of the armored vehicle, Rosenthal stayed low and kept close to its side as the two of them made their way back to the second vehicle in line. As they ran, the trucks that had disgorged troops left the road and spread out in order to bring their heavier weapons to bear on the bedlam.

  Reaching the car, Lopé threw himself into the passenger seat Rosenthal dove into back. As eruptions of blood and viscera continued to splatter the area and the chatter of gunfire filled the morning air, the driver looked over at his passenger. He was very young, and his eyes were very wide.

  “Sir?”

  “‘Sergeant’ will do.” Lopé pointed. “Turn around. Go back out the way we came in, then circle around to the west and follow the fence line.”

  “No road there, sir… Sergeant.”

  “So noted.” Lopé lowered his gaze slightly. “That a problem?”

  “Not in this machine, Sergeant.”

  As the electric motors rose to a whine the car backed up sharply, threw gravel as it spun, and headed in the direction of the access road, bypassing the scattering trucks along the way. Passing through the open gate, the driver engaged the suspension to lift the car’s chassis half a meter before tackling the sloping, off-road mix of rock and grass. Though the vehicle’s suspension smoothed out the worst bumps and dips, Rosenthal still had to steady herself as she leaned forward.

  “What’s the idea, sergeant?”

  He turned slightly toward her. “There’s chaos around the complex. I think that could be intentional. In combat, what’s the reason for inducing chaos?” She didn’t reply, shook her head. “Diversion,” he told her flatly. “It’s the triple ‘C’ of combat—chaos causes confusion. When you’re trapped, your options expand under chaos.”

  They were in a surviving patch of forest now, the driver weaving a course among the trees. Off to their right and increasing with distance, explosions and smoke marked the continuing assault on the farm complex. A few small animals could be seen running in their direction. As they approached the second security team, which had taken up positions inside the fence line, the frightened but lethal creatures were quickly put down, most before they could detonate.

  Halfway between the positions established by Bevridge’s group and team two, they encountered the horses.

  XXIII

  Shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Team One’s command vehicle, Bevridge found himself dealing with a mix of determination and disgust as he continued to give orders.

  The trucks behind Bevridge’s car began employing heavier weapons. Very soon now the last scattering livestock would either be taken down by a team member or would have destroyed itself in the fanatics’ desperate attempt—whatever the goal. It was just a matter of waiting until the Earthsavers ran out of “ammunition.”

  “Mr. Bevridge, sir?” The driver leaned forward and pointed. The security chief joined him in looking toward one of the two large structures on the property that wasn’t a barn.

  The clamshell roof was opening, the two halves rising to swing apart. The instant there was sufficient clearance a sizeable vehicle appeared. Truck-sized, flat-bottomed, with a domed cargo compartment, the four powerful props mounted at its corners aimed groundward and lifted it into the sky, the sound of the motors rising even above the weakening but continuing gunfire. Seeing it ascend, members of the assault team turned their weapons in the craft’s direction. The small arms fire pinged off the vehicle’s sides. Meanwhile, truck-mounted ordnance had to realign itself to take aim.

  The craft and its occupants might have suc
ceeded in escaping if not for the cloud of drones. Programmed for both observation and intercept, they immediately swarmed the hovercraft as it rose above its shielded hangar and turned northward. Dozens of the tiny flying machines sought out vents and air intakes. For an instant it seemed as if the hovercraft was starting to pick up speed. Then it shuddered slightly and paused in midair before moving forward again. It was nearly obscured from view as hundreds of drones swarmed its exterior.

  From its stern came a loud, metallic cough, followed by the sound of breaking things, as if the glass had suddenly been removed from the top of a pinball machine, allowing everything inside to break for freedom. The hovercraft backed up, swayed to the right, then angled sharply to the left. It maintained that trajectory until it slammed into the ground.

  As the gunfire from within the compound’s buildings slackened off considerably, security personnel emerged from cover and ran toward it, weapons aimed and at the ready. One of the craft’s rear-mounted engines blew, sending a shower of shredded metal and nanofiber flying. The personnel dropped instantly to the ground, and the shrapnel passed over. Body armor easily protected them from any that struck home. As they rose and resumed their approach, smoke began to rise from the rear of the craft.

  Veering off of the road, two of the Weyland-Yutani trucks prepared to provide covering fire for the personnel who were advancing on foot. This left three vehicles in position to stop any ground-based vehicles from fleeing the complex. Climbing out of his car, Bevridge jogged toward the downed hovercraft as a diverse group of passengers were emerging from within.

  Hands in the air, several of them displayed bruises and bloody scratches. Though plainly in pain, one man struggled to affect a normal posture, as if surrendering to the discomfort would constitute a personal insult. A very rotund blond man helped a plump and only slightly smaller woman to exit through the hovercraft’s damaged portal. They were followed by a final survivor who was notably darker-skinned than his companions.

  Four in all, Bevridge counted as he dispatched personnel to check the downed craft’s interior. They didn’t look at all like a circle of evil capable of sabotage, kidnapping, and assassination. They did not look like fanatics. But that was the great danger of such groups, he knew. The most dangerous ones didn’t look evil. There were no uniforms, pins, insignia, medals—nothing to indicate a hierarchy or chain of command.

  “Which of you is the pilot?” he called out to them.

  “No pilot.” Wincing as he willed himself to stand straight, the man who’d shown signs of having difficulty presented himself before Bevridge. There was blood staining the front of his shirt. Despite his injuries, he managed to stand almost perfectly straight. “Autonomous vehicle.”

  Bevridge nodded, then found himself gaping in surprise at the speaker.

  “I recognize you,” he said. “From the media. You’re—”

  “Baron Josiah Letbridge Ingleton, not at your service.” Looking around, he gestured with one hand. “I assume you have suitable documentation to justify this militaristic invasion of a harmless rural retreat?” He turned back. “Please present it now, old boy.”

  A grim-faced Bevridge was in no mood to play nice. Not with a dozen or more of his people dead and many others needing medical care.

  “The presence of armed resistance, jumping mines, automatic miniguns, and exploding farm animals gives me all of the ‘documentation’ I need,” he said, adding, “Old boy.”

  “Requirements for self-defense.” Behind Ingleton and now under guard, his companions submitted to medical attention.

  The security chief was tired. “Now, why would people living at a ‘peaceful, harmless retreat’ need military-grade means of self-defense? Or any kind of self-defense at all, for that matter?”

  Ingleton ignored the medic who tried to address a cut on his left leg.

  “We are members of a religious organization,” he replied. “We mean no one any harm, yet there are always those who will react with prejudice and suspicion. We commune out here”—he indicated the complex, several of its buildings now badly damaged—“because we find the peace and quiet conducive to our devotions.”

  Bevridge glared at him. “By ‘devotions,’ you mean, devoting yourselves to murder, kidnapping, and attempts to sabotage the Covenant colonization mission.” The man’s self-possession was becoming infuriating.

  “Tch. I mean nothing of the kind. We are committed to seeing that mankind remains safely within the bosom of his home. This world, this Earth.” Raising a hand, he pointed skyward in a deliberate imitation of ancient biblical prophets.

  “Out there be demons,” he continued. “Here there is safety—so long as we are not discovered. Scattering vessels and colonies out into the wider cosmos is an invitation to those horrors that lurk in wait for guileless prey to announce themselves.” He lowered his arm. “We stand firmly against such foolish announcements of our existence. That is all.”

  Bevridge made a disgusted sound. “There’s nothing out there. No intelligences, inimical or otherwise. We’ve looked for them, and found nothing—organic or otherwise. There’s just us.”

  From behind the Baron the big man spoke up, still wheezing from the effort required to escape the crash.

  “You are looking without the right eyes, and in the wrong places!”

  “Shut up, Pavel,” the grandmotherly woman growled.

  Ingleton threw his own warning look in the fat man’s direction, then smiled again as he turned back to Bevridge.

  “We believe otherwise. Belief is not just cause for this kind of hostile invasion. I can assure you that Weyland-Yutani will be sued up, for trespassing, for invasion of privacy, for assault, for physical damage, and for any other reason our solicitors can envisage.”

  Bevridge was indifferent to the threat. “Not my department.” He swept a hand down across his front, then jabbed a thumb in the direction of his car and the nearby trucks. “I’m only wearing a nametag. Our vehicles bear no company identification. What makes you believe we’re from Weyland-Yutani?”

  Baron Ingelton started to reply, hesitated, and looked momentarily and uncharacteristically unsettled. Before he could regain his composure, Bevridge interrupted him.

  “You know we’re from Weyland-Yutani because you’ve been attacking Weyland-Yutani property and personnel. I don’t know if your unprompted knowledge constitutes a confession, but it has been duly recorded. I’d wager our solicitors can use it as a starting point.” He gestured to a couple of his team members. Responding, they came forward and began to bind the wrists of the quartet of survivors from the hovercraft crash. Looking on with satisfaction, Bevridge raised his voice.

  “You’re all under citizens’ arrest. We’ll take you into the city. From there you’ll have the opportunity to contact your legal representatives. At that point I’m done with you. If you want to file individual complaints, you may start with me. For the record, I am Colonel Kyoka Bevridge, chief of Weyland-Yutani security for the British Isles. I am operating, and have been operating today, under corporate instructions to defend the company—and in particular the Covenant colonization—from incidents of sabotage and assassination, which the company believes your group… What do you call yourselves, again?”

  “Earthsavers,” the Baron and the dark-skinned man declared simultaneously.

  Bevridge continued, “Believes your group, the ‘Earthsavers,’ to be guilty of. The company intends to prosecute you for multiple acts of violence against its interests and its personnel. Please co-operate with those watching over you. It will be difficult for you to defend your positions if you end up getting shot on the way back to the city.”

  The heavyset woman cast a homicidal glare his way. “Is that a prediction, Colonel?”

  His attention switched to her. “A warning only. Cooperate, and no harm will come to you on the trip back. Much,” he could not keep from adding, “as I might wish it could be otherwise.” Bending suddenly, he reached under her skirt. Her outrage last
ed only as long as it was necessary for him to remove the automatic pistol from the holster that was strapped to her left thigh. She glared at him.

  “Too much bulge.” He examined the weapon. “You should’ve opted for something smaller.”

  “I like large caliber,” she all but snarled at him. “Makes bigger holes.”

  Ignoring the image this conjured, Bevridge rested his closed fists on his hips and regarded the eclectic quartet. “Now then, which of you can tell me where we’ll find this self-proclaimed ‘prophet’?”

  “Oh-tee-bee-dee,” the four battered detainees chorused as one.

  Trying again, Bevridge was rewarded with the same solemn response. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and gave up. Then he gave instructions for his men to search the compound. They would find Duncan Fields.

  What mattered was that the threat to the Covenant mission had been neutralized. Despite the violence no one had been killed—none of his people and none of the fanatics, thus far. Of the potentially irksome media there was still no sign. His immediate superiors would be pleased. Old man Yutani would be pleased. Even the gruff Sergeant Lopé would have to admit that the intervention at the farm qualified as a success.

  The security chief blinked.

  Where is Lopé, anyway? he thought suddenly.

  XXIV

  At a glance, the stampede appeared evenly divided between riding animals and heavy horses. On traditional farms, especially those specializing in organic produce, the latter still found ample work in the fields. As the mixed herd thundered through the increasingly dense patch of forest, dodging trees and jumping fallen boughs, Lopé noted that not one of them exploded. Still, the driver of their armored vehicle exercised caution as he picked a path through the woods.

  The sergeant was watching the last of the herd vanish into the distance when Rosenthal let out a shout.