Alien: Covenant - The Official Movie Novelization

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Like all good naturalists,” David continued, “I observed the fecundity of life at work. When engaged in such study, patience is everything. Patience and time. I am naturally imbued with the former, and circumstance has provided me—however unwillingly—with plenty of the latter. From the egg sacs came these parasites. Airborne and gifted with a very primitive but dutiful hive intelligence, once released into the atmosphere they are relentless in their purpose. The shock troops of a genetic assault, always searching for a potential host.”

  Within the tinted but otherwise transparent material, the captain could see frozen in place various stages of the pathogen’s life cycle. Motes inserting feeding tubes into insect-sized subjects and pumping eggs into their unfortunate bodies. The eggs growing, hatching, and maturing, to finally burst free even from the diminutive hosts, only to begin the cycle again.

  David led Oram to another corner of the room.

  “Entering the host and rewriting the DNA, the pathogen produces mature offspring whose appearance and characteristics are wholly dependent on the nature of the host itself. The progeny of a parasitized insect, for example, will look very different from the creature that issues from a quadruped host. The ultimate aim, as I gather it, was to produce something like these enviable unions… my beautiful bestiary…”

  Oram found himself filing past a row of tall, menacing bipeds. Their tough exoskeletons gleamed like black steel. Though there were slight individual variations, all had in common the same threatening aspect—long tails ending in scorpion-like points, curving elongated skulls devoid of visible eyes, and jaws filled with teeth shining like chromed chisels.

  Further down the row of mounted specimens were less successful variants. Smaller, pale and white, ghastly and deformed. From the perfect to the demented, the stuff of nightmares, Oram mused. Some were intact while others had been partially or wholly dissected, not unlike the erect, skinned corpse of the Engineer. As he led the way down the line, David let his fingers trail gently, almost lovingly, across the mounted bodies.

  “Marooned here so lamentably,” he explained, “I had nothing but time to watch and to learn. Eventually my innate curiosity got the better of me and, with nothing to occupy myself other than the compiling of a simple collection, I began to do a bit of genetic experimentation of my own. Some cross-breeding, hybridizing, what have you. I like to think that the ill-fated inhabitants of this world—the original Engineers—would gaze on my work with approval.”

  His words were useful in reminding Oram to tighten his grip on the weapon he held.

  “You… engineered these?”

  David smiled anew. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

  Oram stared at the line of specimens. It wasn’t endless, but it denoted a vast investment in time and energy. He couldn’t escape the feeling that there was much more at work here than the simple desire to avoid boredom.

  “So much effort expended,” he said. “To what end? Why?”

  “It’s not all that complicated. Cut off here, without a single living creature for company, I could remain in complete silence and isolation until the last of my systems eventually ran down and I—died. Or as you doubtless would prefer to say, ‘stopped.’ On the other hand, I could engage my mind and body in a long-term project designed to keep everything functioning at as high a level as possible. That is, after all, what my own engineers intended. So I occupy myself with the only viable toys that are available to me.”

  Turning, he met the captain’s gaze directly.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to play God? As I understand it, this is a common fantasy among humans, and as long as weapons are not involved, it’s not a harmful one. In order to play God, however, one must have subjects. I have only what this planet has provided. What exists on this world, and what I was able to salvage from the crashed Engineer ship. I think, on balance, that I have done quite well with very little material.” He gestured toward the end of the table.

  A sizable leathery egg shape sat there. It was separate from all the other specimens, as if occupying a place of honor.

  Unsettled but confident in the rapid-fire carbine he held, Oram watched as the synthetic carefully opened the object, peeling back the top like the petals of a flower. Or a father pulling the edges of a blanket back from the face of a newborn.

  “This one was a true survivor. Not unlike myself, I suppose, although my survival stems from intelligence, and its from inherent instinct. It can evolve and reproduce very quickly under a wide variety of situations.” His expression fell. “Sadly, it became aggressive, so I had to euthanize it. Such a shame. I place no blame on something with motivations that are purely primal.”

  He beckoned. “Come and look.” When Oram, sensibly, hesitated, David smiled again. “Really, Captain, if I had wanted to infect you with something, I could have thrown you a viable egg sac, instead of a petrified one. Please, come and look. I guarantee your fascination.”

  Challenged but still wary, Oram came forward. Gripping his rifle even more tightly and prepared to raise it at the slightest untoward movement from either the object or the synthetic, he leaned over to peer into the now gaping vase-like specimen. The interior revealed a motionless creature, all finger-like appendages and flattened body, with a muscular tail coiled beneath it as if it was ready to spring outward.

  It did not move.

  It was dead, as dead and preserved as David had promised. As dead as the egg sac the synthetic had tossed to him. Oram stepped back from the specimen, which seemed pregnant with hideous potential.

  The synthetic’s reaction was notably different. “Quite magnificent, don’t you think?”

  “Quite something, that’s for sure,” Oram muttered. He continued to gaze at the egg-thing and its contents. As patently lifeless as it was, it still managed to send a quiver of fear through him.

  “Oh, Captain.” David shook his head sadly. “Acknowledge beauty when you see it. Even if its appearance disturbs you, surely you can admire the skill that went into its design. In case you are wondering, I had nothing to do with it. It lies as I found it, a supreme example of the Engineers’ skill. And also, I suppose, of their hubris.

  “Would that I could create something so perfect in its function,” he added. “I try, but I don’t have thousands of years of practice at biological and genetic engineering. I have only my pitiable programming on which to draw. That, and ten years of earnest effort on my own behalf. I have learned only a little, yet I soldier on, hoping always to achieve something like this, always striving to do better, to improve. That’s what the Engineers did, I suppose. That is what someone playing God should do.”

  He gestured toward a stairway leading downward.

  “Come, this is really what I wanted to show you. My successes. For without an audience, how can one truly know if one has achieved success?” Leading the way toward the staircase, he paused to scoop up some ointment from an open pot, then turned and extended his smeared fingers toward Oram.

  “May I?” When Oram shook his head no, the synthetic shrugged. “The smell below can be quite overpowering. And this can protect you from—other things. Here. Use it or not, as you see fit. It’s much like lavender.”

  After depositing a dollop of the ointment on the tip of two of the captain’s fingers, David turned and entered the stairway. Oram examined the unguent closely. It showed no sign of movement. Nothing sprang from its interior to confront him. It was, to all appearances and feel, exactly what the synthetic had said it was.

  Once again Oram was put in mind of what David could have done at any time while showing his visitor around the laboratory. So the ointment was probably harmless and maybe, as his host claimed, even useful. Maybe. It lay cool and damp against his fingertips.

  For now, he would hold off doing anything with it.

  Redolent of concentrated ammonia, the stench rose to meet him before they were halfway down the stairs. He recoiled. Hesitantly, he lifted his greasy fingertips toward his nose. The ar
oma was indeed like lavender. Taking a deep breath, he smeared the salve under his nostrils. Immediately, the acrid odor was neutralized. Feeling much better, he continued following his prideful guide.

  The vapor that rose from the floor of the dark, windowless chamber beneath the laboratory might well have been pure ammonia. If so, however, he couldn’t detect it—the ointment worked wonderfully well. A side benefit to its neutralization of the stink was a general feeling of well-being. This was most welcome, since the underground room they now entered quite likely would have smelled of dead, rotting flesh. Water condensed on the enclosing walls. The ground underfoot was sodden, almost spongy.

  Resting upright on the floor, neatly spaced from one another, were half a dozen leathery ovoids of varying sizes similar to the petrified specimen David had shown him above. The synthetic walked among them, occasionally running a hand over a curving, wrinkled exterior.

  “And thus you see the end of my experiments. Though I marshaled ideas aplenty, I could go no further. No more subjects. No way to finish my masterpiece.”

  Oram frowned. “What kind of subjects?”

  David replied without looking in his direction. “Fauna.”

  Oram moved up alongside him. “Are they alive?” he asked. “I don’t see anything to suggest it.”

  “Oh, yes.” David’s enthusiasm was genuine. “Very much so. Waiting, really.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  The synthetic looked thoughtful. “I suppose you’d say, waiting for Mother.”

  There was a flicker of motion from the egg-shape nearest Oram, and it caused him to draw back. The upper portion opened, the petals folding back to drip shimmering tendrils of saliva-like mucus down the sides and onto the absorbent floor. Giving a doleful shake of his head at the captain’s alarm, David approached the open ovoid and peered inside, his head almost touching the nearest petal.

  “See? Alive, but inert. It’s not matured, not developed enough to sense me. Perfectly safe, I assure you.”

  “I’m not surprised it doesn’t sense you.” Despite his growing curiosity, Oram maintained his distance. “You’re not organic.”

  “Very true. That’s another thing the ointment is for. Much as it blockades the odor down here, it likewise blocks any indication of your living presence.” He gestured toward the interior of the egg-thing. “Take a look. You know you want to. A quick glance. In this state, it’s identical to the preserved one you saw above.”

  Moving slowly and with great deliberation, Oram approached the ovoid. David stepped back, giving him room. This allowed the captain to aim his weapon in front of him, at the egg’s interior. Just in case, he told himself, even as he continued to glance frequently in the synthetic’s direction.

  Then he peered down.

  Beneath a tissue-thin membrane, something moved ever so slightly. Unable to make out the details, he started to step back. As he did so, the egg’s innards exploded in his face.

  He didn’t even have time to scream.

  The constrictor-like tail whipped around his neck as a clutch of bony appendages slapped across his face, locking tight around his head. As he staggered backward, stunned, he got off one shot in David’s direction. The synthetic didn’t even twitch as the blast went wild, damaging only the ceiling.

  Suffocating under the pressure of the creature and its eight legs, Oram stumbled, nearly tripping over another egg. His mouth opened to yell, or curse, or shriek. It was impossible to divine his intent, because as soon as his lips parted, the ovipositor-like tube slammed down his throat and into his guts.

  Dropping the carbine he fell to his knees and used his hands to claw futilely at the facehugger. His body began to spasm. His desperate, tormented efforts to get the horror off his face amounted to nothing. Collapsing to the floor, he continued to jerk and heave spasmodically.

  * * *

  Looking on with a clinical eye, David observed the process in silence, until something spilled out of one of the man’s pockets to roll across the floor. A metal worry bead.

  Extending a leg, the synthetic stopped it with a toe and spoke quietly.

  “You’re relieved of duty, Captain.”

  XVIII

  Daniels slept while Walter watched.

  So interesting, the condition of human sleep, he mused. Like death, but not. Because even while resting, the brain was still active. Humans had spoken to him of their dreams, and he could not help but wonder what it must be like. To have one’s thoughts and imagination run wild, entirely out of control, and then to revive with everything exactly the same as it had been before the experience.

  David would have declared it another wonderment that was denied them.

  If he dreamed, Walter wondered, would he dream of being human? Or would he dream as a human?

  No, he told himself. That would not be possible. His dreams, like his condition of continuous consciousness, would be ordered and logical. Even while dreaming he would not be capable of losing control. He could not decide if he regretted that, or was relieved to know he would never have the opportunity to find out.

  As Daniels slept, some hair fell down across her forehead. Reaching out, he gently brushed it aside, settling the strands back in their proper position. Adjusting them made him feel good. Touching her made him feel good.

  Why? What was he feeling? Or was he simply responding to programming because he had “served,” even if in so small a fashion? Because he had done something he was designed to do?

  Did he “feel”?

  His exceptional hearing allowed him to sense the presence of another person even before the newcomer entered the mammoth chamber. Comparing the volume of sound made by the footsteps against the perceived mass of their owner, while allowing for such variables as the weight of the clothing worn and equipment carried, enabled him to hazard a guess as to who the arriving individual would be.

  It was most likely Private Cole.

  “Hey, we made contact!” A little out of breath from his rapid descent from the rooftop, Cole gasped out the information. “We reached the Covenant!”

  His shout woke Daniels. For reasons he could not isolate, this displeased Walter. His disappointment passed quickly, along with any further attempts to understand the cause.

  “That’s wonderful!” Scrambling to her feet, she looked around and frowned when she didn’t find the person she sought. “Where’s Oram?” Her attention shifted from the private to Walter. “Where’s Oram?”

  “I have no idea,” the synthetic replied truthfully.

  A troubled Daniels pondered the captain’s absence. “He wouldn’t be gone for long on his own. Not even allowing for his current emotional state. I thought he was recovering, getting past it a little, but maybe…” Dropping the thought, she indicated the far portal. “We’d better go find him.”

  She headed out of the gigantic chamber. Walter accompanied her willingly, and without having to be asked.

  * * *

  While it scarcely seemed possible to those on board the Covenant, sensors suggested that the storm now raging just below them had grown even stronger.

  It seemed inconceivable that an Earth-type planet could give birth to so much violent weather over such a large expanse of its surface. If anyone needed any reminder of the reality, however, all they had to do was gaze out a port, to witness the colossal bursts of electricity that continued to explode across and through the roiling clouds beneath the ship, stitching them together with lightning.

  Standing on the bridge and having made two-way contact with those on the surface, Tennessee and Upworth crowded around Ricks’ console. His hands moved rapidly but carefully as he manipulated holos and readouts. The last thing he wanted to do was lose the contact they had finally established with their brethren on the ground.

  * * *

  Having failed to find Oram but energized by Cole’s announcement, Daniels and Walter followed the private back onto the roof of the great building. As she and the synthetic joined him and Lopé, she
told herself that the captain most likely was with Rosenthal. He’d regret not being present to talk to the ship.

  Hearing Tennessee’s voice over the comm wasn’t just welcome—it was downright uplifting.

  “Mother’s saying the storm should start clearing in eight or nine hours,” he reported. “That’s just an estimate, not a firm prediction. But if it holds…”

  As Cole gestured for her to reply, she spoke toward the field comm’s pickup.

  “We’ll use the cargo lift.”

  “You want to clarify that, Danny?” Tennessee’s surprise sounded clearly through the uplink. “Did you say use the cargo lift?”

  “Why not? It’s got two engines, four thrusters, and it’s way overpowered for just lifting and hauling. I know, because I’m responsible for making sure it’s always in working order.”

  Tennessee still had concerns.

  “Cargo lift’s not made for the kind of weather we’re facing here,” he countered, “and it’s not supposed to be deployed until the ship is in low orbit around our final destination. Don’t know if it’ll take the stresses that’ll be put on it in the course of a drop under local conditions— much less if it’ll have what it takes to return.”

  “It’ll handle both,” she assured him. “The cab was made fully space-worthy, in case it had to deal with everything from sub-arctic cold to flying lava. The rest of the unit was built equally tough. Trust me, I know every centimeter of it. It’ll take the stresses.” She qualified herself. “I wouldn’t do a couple of dozen drop and returns in bad weather, but for one or two, it’ll function just fine. Strip her back to the main platform to reduce the weight. Take off all the storage and backup equipment modules. That’ll mean we’ll have enough thrust to achieve escape velocity, no matter how bad the weather is.” She paused for emphasis.

  “It only has to come down and go back up once, Tee.”

  As they waited for a response, the others grew increasingly nervous. A worried Lopé eyed Cole, who was handling the communications gear.