Alien: Covenant - Origins - The Official Movie Prequel

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 succeeded 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 lasted 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.