Alien: Covenant - Origins - The Official Movie Prequel

XII

Duncan Fields was mad. Not angry mad, not hormonally mad, not even conjugally mad, for he had been single his entire life. No, he was truly, totally, thoroughly mad.

As in crazed.

Insane.

Either that, or he was a prophet. Or perhaps simply a clever manipulator of his fellow man. Opinion among the uncertain was much divided. In contrast, to his acolytes it didn’t really matter. They believed what he believed. Among themselves they shared one thought, one conviction, above all.

“Oh-tee-bee-dee.”

To a non-initiate it sounded almost childish, something to be whispered in play to a young child or accompanied by cheerful whistling on a summer day. To those who knew its meaning, the fragment of rhythmic doggerel was a matter of utmost seriousness. For all that, the followers of Fields would have insisted they were not fanatics.

Those who believed in his revelations looked less like the members of a religious cult than the fans who filled a sports stadium. They labored at ordinary jobs, worked at a variety of businesses and public institutions. There was nothing outwardly distinctive about their physical appearances, their clothing, their choices of music, or their diets. They came from all ages and genders. Most important of all, they believed in what they were fighting for.

The future. Of all humankind. Nothing less.

For a long time the Prophet had kept on the move from city to city, town to town, even shuttling between his island home and the continent. Once, long ago, he had been a paunchy adjuster for an insurance agency. Unmarried but with prospects, pleasant to look upon in a dumpy sort of way, he had cleaved to cultural standards in dress and speech.

The nightmares had changed him.

That they weren’t normal night dreams he believed from the beginning. Nightmares did not repeat themselves over and over again, day upon day, week after week. Not long after they commenced he began to fear sleep, but while his mind was strong, his body was weak. It needed rest. So Duncan Fields slept, and dreamed, and awoke screaming.

He tried therapy. He tried sedatives. He tried exotic herbs and soothing music, good herbs and questionable pharmaceuticals. Nothing prevented or mitigated the nightmares.

It took a while, but eventually he came to a sober if extraordinary conclusion. His nightmares must reflect a reality. There was no other explanation for their exceptional clarity, for their frequency of recurrence, for the exactitude of their imagery. What they portended frightened him. To be rid of them, a weaker man might have committed suicide.

Fields decided to fight back. Not only for the sake of his own future, but for that of his fellow human beings. Such admirable conviction didn’t change the fact that he was mad, however.

But he was convincing, as well. The horrors that were recorded and interpreted convinced more than a few hesitant recruits to join the organization. Some were geniuses who could give form to the fear, creating visuals that wielded at least some of the visceral terror. That they had tapped into Duncan’s psyche so effectively was nothing short of amazing. It was enough to make him believe in telepathy.

It was enough to influence a small army of converts. Those who were reluctant were sometimes ushered into his bedroom to hear his screams for themselves. Sometimes they had to be physically restrained by fellow converts, lest they themselves try to run in terror from the bedchamber.

Perhaps it was his ordinariness that helped him persuade so many others to join him in his crusade. Perhaps it was the fact that he sought nothing for himself. Not wealth, not property, not fame, not sexual gratification, not the unblemished adulation of a multitude of followers. His cause was entirely altruistic and his rallying cry as simple as could be imagined.

“Oh-tee-bee-dee.”

The building that served as the movement’s headquarters was as unprepossessing as its founder. Much of the ancient sheep farm located in southern Hampshire featured revamped original buildings and stone walls in the pastures. No one in the area thought it unusual that the current owners, whoever they might be, had converted it into an exclusive rest home, combined with a working farm. The designation and zoning allowed for the regular comings and goings of more visitors than would have been expected at an ordinary sheep ranch. So did the conversion and updating of old ranch buildings to accommodate the steady if unremarkable flow of visitors.

What could not be seen from the country road that led to the ranch were the “refurbishments” that had been made. Much of the work had been done underground. Hardened bunkers, food and energy storage, living facilities, and much more had been quietly excavated and made ready. Of particular priority were their engineering and laboratory facilities, where their work ran parallel to many other organizations—including Weyland-Yutani and the Jutou Combine. Converts had come from many walks of life, and many brought with them data that proved useful.

Should it become necessary to refuse entry to intruders, effective defenses had been carefully emplaced. While not as threatening as the horrors portrayed in the prophet’s dreams, they were sufficiently deadly in their own right. Extremism in the defense of the planet was no vice.

Not when the future of the species was at stake. Fields lamented what had to be done. It wasn’t the fault of others that they couldn’t see what he dreamed. He was determined to save them from themselves. His resolve, in contrast to his stature, was mighty. It had to be, given the intensity and the nature of what drove him.

His followers had constructed private quarters for him that were separate from the main building, but connected to it by an enclosed walkway. The passage was well-monitored by security. The Prophet had his privacy, yet was not isolated.

The separation was as much to protect the sanity of his acolytes as to offer him some solitude. Though the nightmares were the foundation of his movement, he never ceased to find them personally embarrassing, and chose to suffer them in seclusion. Only when they lasted particularly long or were unusually disturbing did he allow his followers to intervene.

The chorus of howls and screams that sounded over the speakers at three o’clock on a Tuesday morning were both unceasing and unsettling. On night duty, Earle from Site Monitoring was the first to respond. Satchel in hand, Bismala from Dispensary met him at the entrance to the covered concourse. Dina, her assistant, hauled an additional basket of medications and medical devices.

As they walked quickly toward the single structure at the terminus of the pathway, the doctor was already preparing a hypush.

Windows punched in the walls of the covered corridor offered a view of the Hampshire countryside. At night and on bad days, the pollution drifting down from Britain’s northern industrial cities could be thick enough to obscure the moonlight. Thankfully, the miasma that enveloped Greater London usually went in the other direction. Inhabitants of the French coast had long since resigned themselves to tolerating the permanent brown cloud.

At the far end of the concourse the watchman, doctor, and doctor’s assistant halted before a double door. The twin barrier was intended as much to keep sound in as it was unauthorized intruders out. Earle passed a hand over the integrated sensor, then leaned forward so a lens could scan his right retina. As he stepped aside, Bismala took his place and repeated the actions, followed lastly by the diminutive Dina. Accepting their identification, the outer door slid aside.

They stepped into an alcove where they were scanned again, this time by full-body instrumentation. That completed, the inner door opened and they strode quickly through the pleasantly decorated antechamber. By now, they were close enough to hear Fields’s screaming and moaning, even though the next door was closed.

“It sounds bad,” Dina offered, but she got no response.

Once inside the darkened bedchamber, Earle moved to a communications panel to assure his comrades in Security that he and the medical personnel had arrived. Having heard it all too many times before, he forced himself to ignore the screaming coming from the figure lying in the oversized bed nearby.

Laying her satchel down, Bismala sat on the side of the bed and took the loaded hypush from her assistant. The device’s internal light allowed her to double-check its contents.

He lay in the center of the bed—tossing, turning, and howling, kicking at unseen sights, his arms flailing at the empty night air. Though he was not yet fifty, his hair had turned completely white. His closed eyelids flickered wildly. Bismala didn’t know what he was seeing. No one did. It was enough for her and for the others that they were real to him.

She glanced at a monitoring device mounted in the wall to the side of the bed. Everything was recorded and available for later playback. In some ways, the recordings were more powerful than Fields’s waking presence. Freeze-framing the tormented expressions on his face yielded a profound effect, and had proved to be an effective recruitment tool.

Pressing the loaded hypush against the upper part of his right arm, she depressed the red button at one end. The pharmaceutical cocktail contained in the device passed immediately and painlessly into Fields’s body.

It took about a minute for the drugs to take effect.

The kicking and flailing slowed, then ceased. The sleeping man’s moans grew less distressed. Finally, they stopped. Bismala took a deep breath and turned to her companions.

“He’ll rest now,” the doctor said. “I’ll stay with him for a while. You two can go back to your stations.” She gave them a sympathetic look. “I know you both must be tired.”

Dina left reluctantly. Earle followed with a cursory nod. Once they had departed, Bismala turned back to the man on the bed. Thermoreactive bedding kept him comfortable, sucking away any body sweat before it could turn clammy. As one of his doctors, she made it her job to attend to such details. Not everyone was allowed such an intimate personal glimpse of the Prophet.

As she watched him in his sleep she noted yet again what an unimpressive physical specimen he was. Not obese, but definitely overweight. Soft from a lifetime that had shunned suitable exercise, he more put her in mind of the corner pharmacist than some biblical herald bestriding the land. Yet it wasn’t his body that drew others to him, but the horrors that materialized in his mind.

When awake, he struggled to manage the organization that had grown up around him. He could be awkward with words, unsure of what to say or how to say it. In contrast, his nightmares possessed a dreadful eloquence. None could deny their veracity, or resist the truth they predicted.

If only he could describe exactly what he sees in his dreams, she mused. Though perhaps it was fortunate he could not. Oh-tee-bee-dee, she recited to herself. That was enough for her. That was enough for every one of his followers.

She stayed until morning, occasionally drifting and dozing while sitting on the side of the bed. It was large not because Fields indulged in company—his condition rendered him effectively celibate—but to prevent him from hurting himself. Tying him down in a smaller bed would have resulted in him breaking his bonds or breaking himself against them. The larger bed allowed him to thrash about unencumbered without fear of injury.

The arrangement had worked well save for one night when a visiting nurse had leaned too close during one of his dreams and had suffered a broken cheekbone as a result. When told of the incident upon awakening, Fields had apologized profusely even though he hadn’t been responsible for what had happened. The nurse didn’t press the matter. It was hard to blame a nightmare.

They awoke almost simultaneously.

“Dr. Bismala?”

Jerking awake and turning to him, she was instantly alert.

“How do you feel, sir?”

Struggling, pushing down against the mattress with both hands, he winced as he sat up and felt his left arm. “Another injection?”

She nodded apologetically. “I thought it appropriate. You were having a difficult time.”

He smiled humorlessly. “When do I not? Sometimes I think I’d prefer permanent sedation. At least then I would be free of the damned dreams.”

“Ah,” she chided him, “but then we would lose you as our principal motivator. People would leave the cause, and we cannot have that, because… oh-tee-bee-dee.”

“Oh-tee-bee-dee.” He nodded tiredly. “I’ll watch the recording another time. Anything unusual?”

She considered. “Not really. You were suffering the usual nightmares, high intensity, until I dosed you. Nothing coherent.” Her tone turned less professional, more personal. “Are you still unable to describe exactly what it is you see?”

He buried his head in his hands and dragged them down his face, then looked up again. “Monsters. Horrible clawing things. Waiting for me. Waiting for all of us.” With his right hand he waved at the ceiling. “The same as it has been for months, for years. I see them, hear them, smell them. You’re not supposed to be able to smell things in a dream, but I do. It’s unmistakable and sharp and very distinctive.

“They know I am among them, and yet they don’t,” he continued. “When they strike blindly in my direction I instinctively try to dodge. Sometimes I succeed, other times their blows make contact. Make contact yet pass through me. The pain is real, as real as if I were to stick myself with a knife.” He held up both hands, palms upward.

“Yet there are no wounds.” He eyed her imploringly. “Why me, Dr. Bismala? Why are these nightmares foisted on me? If I could, I would gladly pass them onto someone else. Someone stronger and better equipped to fight them back.”

“You’re doing as well as anyone might be expected to do, Duncan.” Her voice was soothing. “A lesser man would have caved long before now.”

“Then you don’t think I’m mad?”

She smiled. “I didn’t say that. From a clinical point of view, no—but there’s no precedent for your condition that I or any of the other medical staff have been able to discover. Everything about your nightmares, the few specifics you’ve been able to describe, is unique. If it weren’t, we wouldn’t be drawn to you and to the cause—as noble and righteous a cause as mankind has known for thousands of years.” She paused to gather her thoughts.

“You’re a living alarm,” she said. “A warning of what may come, of what will happen to us if we go… out there. Something allows you to see the cosmic horrors that are hidden from the rest of us. We owe you, Duncan. The world needs to see what you see, and to understand why we need to remain here, on this world, safely at home. Until we can accomplish that, we have to take whatever steps are necessary to ensure that the actions of fools, interested only in fame and money, don’t cause the death of every human being on the planet.”

“You flatter me,” he mumbled. “What’s left of me, anyway.”

She rose from the side of the bed. “We all bend beneath our burdens, Duncan. Yours is to be a prophet. To foretell what might happen if we dare to stray from our home. From our Earth. Thanks to you, that won’t be allowed to happen.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Looking away, he gazed out a window. There were trees out there, and hedgerows, and small warm-blooded things with fast-beating hearts. There were other people, wind and rain, life. To save what remained of his sanity he had withdrawn from all of that. Because if he were to be caught outside at night and look up to see the stars…

He shuddered, as if reading her thoughts. That would be the end of him. The nightmares would close in around him permanently and he would never wake up again.

“I know that the staff has set in motion a number of plans to stop the departure of the Covenant.” He turned back from the window, downcast. “The first attempt within the ship itself, then the effort to get one of our own onto the ship’s security team, and now the failure of the abduction attempt.” He shook his head. “We’re running out of time.” His gaze met hers. “It may be necessary to actually kill some people. I don’t want to have anyone killed, but Weyland-Yutani may leave us no choice.”

She nodded as she fiddled with her satchel. “Better to sacrifice a few than the entire species.”

He nodded without hesitation, though his expression was still morose. “What if our efforts are doomed to failure?”

“Fear of racial extermination is a powerful motivator. If the authorities would believe you—”

He shook his head sharply. “You know what would happen if recordings of my dreams were shown to them. They’d be shrugged off and shunted aside, because there’s money to be made in colonization. An entire industry has sprung up around it. When that’s set against the ‘nocturnal ravings of a little madman from Hampshire,’ the response is obvious.”

“Not to those of us who believe, Duncan,” she replied. “We know what is at stake. We’ve pledged our lives to put a stop to this dreadfully misguided colonization of deep space.” It was her turn to shudder slightly. “No one knows how you see what you do when you’re asleep. No one understands the cause or the science—if it is science. But for those of us who have gathered around you, for those who see truth in your nightmares, there can be no other choice. What are the lives of a few against the survival of the human race?”

He looked away. “I didn’t ask to be given this burden, you know. This responsibility. It was thrust upon me. I’d abjure it if I could.” He raised his gaze toward the ceiling. For just a moment, sitting up in bed like that and striving to peer beyond the roof, he did look like a prophet. Mad or sane, it really wasn’t important, she knew. In the end, all that mattered were the nightmares.

She had always considered herself a rationalist, yet she believed—as did hundreds of others. How could she not, once exposed to the horrors innate in Duncan Fields’s dreaming? All of which led to one conclusion, which was encompassed in the simple acronym that had become the hallmark of the organization.

“Oh-tee-bee-dee,” she murmured to herself. Exiting the bedroom, she left him staring at the ceiling.

“Out There Be Demons.”