Alien: Covenant - The Official Movie Novelization

XVI

If they had not landed in daylight on this godforsaken world, Cole reflected, he could well believe it never saw the sun. The surrounding dead city was dark, the sky was dark, the forest and the lake and the mountains had been dark. At least, he mused, the atmosphere matched his mood.

Lopé stood nearby, idly fingering his rifle as he gazed out over the vast necropolis. Man never lets go of his gun, Cole thought admiringly. Not when on duty. Come to think of it, the only time Cole could remember the sergeant setting his weapon aside was when he had desperately tried to aid Hallet.

Dead now, Hallet. Horribly. His own buddy Ledward, too. Also Faris, and Karine, the captain’s wife. All of them, himself included, would be dead if they didn’t get help. If they didn’t get off this dark, dank, deadly world. Right then, assistance of any kind seemed so very, very far away.

The comm chose that moment to spit words at him. They were intermittent, broken, and fraught with static, but they were undeniably words. Even better, he recognized the source.

Ricks. Good ol’ Ricks.

“Expedition team. Please come in. This is Covenant. Please report. Expedition team. Are you reading me?”

Lopé was at his side in an instant. So frantic was Cole to respond that in his haste he nearly lost tenuous connection while fiddling with the field unit’s controls.

“Covenant, come in! Are you reading us? Covenant, come in… we’re here, we’re here!” He struggled to contain his excitement and follow procedure. “This is Private Cole, Expedition team. Do… you… read?”

Eighty kilometers above the boiling tops of the storm clouds, the colony ship skimmed the upper reaches of its influence. Like a ship being buffeted by a heavy sea, it rocked every time it intersected any of the occasional titanic updrafts.

On the bridge, the shuddering was magnified. As if the uncharacteristic instability wasn’t unsettling enough, their increased proximity to the Jovian bolts of lightning was enough to worry the most hardened crew member.

Despite the danger, none of that seemed to matter at the moment, now that they had re-established contact with the ground. Cole’s unmistakable voice crackled over the general comm, filling the bridge with hope.

“Covenant… we are… reading you! Please… come in… Covenant!”

“We hear you!” Ricks shouted even though he knew it was a waste of effort. The ship’s communications system would automatically modulate the volume to achieve the most suitable aural resolution for transmission. “Do you read me, landing party? Come in.”

The signal continued to fracture, but through the static they could hear enough to comprehend.

“Christ… I’m really happy to hear you guys! We need help. But we’re… not reading you… clearly. Can you boost your signal, Covenant?”

Tennessee looked over to where Upworth was fighting to get more out of the ship’s systems. “If we can’t boost any further,” he pressed her, “can you clean it up?”

She shook her head, not bothering to look over at him. “Already utilizing to max every comm buffer we have. Kick it any more, and it’ll kick back. Then we’ll just read noise.”

“Please,” Cole was saying. “You’ve got to… help us. Things have gone bad here and… we have casualties. We need urgent evacuation. Repeat, we have casualties and request evacuation. You can’t believe what…”

The feed sputtered out as the electromagnetic distortion intensified. Tennessee cursed under his breath. Upworth cursed too, as she fought to re-establish the contact.

“Casualties?” Ricks looked up from his console. “Did he say, ‘we have casualties’?” He rechecked his readouts. “They’ve shifted location. Signal signature confirms they’re not broadcasting from the lander.”

Tennessee took a deep breath. “Mother. Current distance at present position from uppermost edge of the storm?”

“Eighty kilometers from the storm proper. Currently encountering intervallic winds.”

“Consistent?”

“Intermittent. Unpredictable.”

“Bring us down to forty kilometers from the storm top.”

“Jesus,” Upworth muttered. Knowing it was futile to do so, she didn’t try to argue with him again. She didn’t need to. Her expression said everything.

“I’m sorry,” the ship’s computer responded. “Complying with that directive could exceed my structural tolerances. I am unable to abide with any order that could conceivably result in catastrophic system failure.”

Tennessee’s expression tightened. “Command override, Tennessee four-eight-nine-zero-three.”

“I’m sorry.” Mother was quietly insistent. “Orders that might conceivably result in catastrophic system failure require the corroboration of a ranking or second bridge officer.”

He looked over at Ricks. The other man wouldn’t return his gaze.

“They’re in trouble. Casualties. You heard that.” Tennessee stared hard at him. Still Ricks did not respond, did not look up. Tennessee turned to Upworth.

“We didn’t leave Earth to be safe,” he said urgently. “Anyone who wanted to live ‘safe’ stayed behind. Leaving the Sol system implied accepting whatever challenges came our way. Do we abandon our shipmates to run from the first consideration?”

Her husband didn’t look at Upworth, either, leaving the decision to her. She swallowed, angry at being put in this position. Like Tennessee, she had friends, good friends, on the expedition team. According to Cole’s broken communication, some were injured. Some might be dead.

But the others, the rest…

She tried to imagine what it might be like to be marooned for the rest of her natural life on an alien world. Even if those remaining on the Covenant managed to get a message through to Earth, explaining what had happened, every survivor of the landing team would be long dead before a relief ship could arrive. Even assuming anyone, or any company, on Earth would think it worth the bother and expense to put together a rescue mission.

What if she and Ricks had been the ones down there? Struggling to survive beneath the interminable storm under who knew what conditions? She knew what protocol would dictate. But right now it wasn’t up to protocol, or to those bureaucrats who had written the rules. It was up to those of them on the ship. It was up to her.

She spoke in a clear voice. “Corroborating command override, Upworth one-four-eight-nine-two.”

Mother could be obstructive, but she never delayed. “Unlocking command override ports.”

A pair of hitherto dark stations illuminated. For security purposes, they were located on opposite sides of the bridge from each other. Rising from her seat, Upworth went to one, Tennessee to the other. Ricks stayed where he was, unhappy at the decision that had been made, but unwilling to make a fight of it.

“Enter command codes,” Mother instructed. “On my mark. Now.”

Separately, Tennessee and Upworth each entered a private sequence of numbers into their respective stations. Upon completion, the hidden image of a lever appeared on each console.

“Activate command override,” Mother instructed them. “On my mark. Now.”

Across the length of the bridge, Upworth and Tennessee manipulated their respective controls. A corresponding sound echoed to signify that each electronic switch had been fully thrown.

“Command override successful,” Mother informed them. “Descending to forty kilometers from uppermost perimeter of the storm.”

Ricks held his breath. It was an instinctive reaction and it did not last long, but he could not have kept from doing so had he tried.

The great ship started down. Invisible, relentless, and hungry, upper atmospheric winds reached for it.

Outside the cathedral’s sloping, impenetrable walls, on the flat pavement of a vast plaza speckled with decaying Engineer bodies, a bipedal white figure sat poised. The neomorph had been sitting like that, staring at the huge building with the enormous doors, for some time.

Now it tilted its head to one side, studying, pondering. Wordlessly it rose and bolted across the plaza, moving at incredible speed, up the giants’ staircase and off to one side.

Locating the entry without difficulty, it slithered inward. Though numerous corridors led in multiple directions, it seemed to sense which way to go. Occasionally it would pause as if listening, or perhaps utilizing some other, far more esoteric alien sense. Then it would move on anew, always fast, always checking the way ahead.

Beyond the balcony window the ghostly metropolis lay brooding in the moonlight, devoid of movement but full of secrets, her only active inhabitants sadness and desolation. Empty and deserted save for countless scattered corpses, wide boulevards stretched toward distant vanishing points.

Within the city and the only building currently occupied by natural organics, all was calm. High above, the storm continued to tear at the ionosphere. Gazing out upon the ruins, David murmured softly to himself.

“‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings. Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair.’”

Walter moved to stand beside his twin. “‘Nothing beside remains. Round the decay, of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.’”

David nodded once without taking his gaze from the silent city. “Byron. Early nineteenth century. An eon ago. Magnificent words. To compose something so majestic, one could die happy. If one died.”

Smiling to himself, he turned away from the panorama to move back into the room. To a casual bystander it would have seemed an offhand bit of poetic recital. Wistful, perhaps, but nothing more. Yet something about it bothered Walter.

It continued to bother him as David led him to a raised shelf near the back of the chamber. It might have passed for an altar, of sorts. Sitting on it was a beautiful, hand-carved urn. Walter did not have to inquire as to its origin. In its shape, polish, and especially the incredibly faint turnings that would have been invisible to a human eye, he recognized the handiwork of one like himself.

Letters and numbers were carved into it.

Bits and pieces of the late doctor’s life were arranged carefully around the urn. There was a simple folding hairbrush, part of a uniform, ID tags, a tattered old-style two-dimensional photograph, even a lock of hair carefully secured with wire. Walter studied it, then looked questioningly at the other synthetic.

“It’s comforting having her near me,” David explained. “Her remains, anyway. Her DNA, you could say. I relish her presence in death even as I did in life. This is all that binds me to her, and to my own origins. We were only able to bring a few little things with us. We needed only a few little things. Beyond what was necessary for survival. She, of course, needed more than I.” Reaching out, he ran two fingers slowly down the smooth side of the urn, then drew them back.

“I loved her, of course. Much as you love Daniels.”

Walter hesitated before finally responding. With the truth. A simple statement of fact. There could be no prevarication between them. Even had he attempted it, David would have known immediately.

“You know that’s not possible.”

His double turned to him. “Really? Then why did you risk your life, your existence, to save her? Yes, I saw that, from a distance. What is that if not love?”

“Duty,” Walter replied as matter-of-factly as always.

Coming close, very close, David slowly examined the face of his duplicate. A face that was exactly, down to the smallest faux pore, identical to his own. Reaching up, he grasped it gently, holding it in one hand. Seeing no reason to back away and sensing no threat, Walter permitted the contact.

“I know better,” David whispered. Leaning in, he kissed his other self on the lips. It was a long kiss, almost fraternal… but not.

Releasing Walter’s face, he stepped back, considered the consequences of his action, and then quietly handed his double the finely wrought flute.

“Create.”

Turning, he walked away. A concerned Walter watched him go. He looked down at the instrument he held. Was it a loan, a gift, or a hint of something more? He found himself confused. That was unusual.

Even more unusual, he found himself worried.

Hydrated, nourished, and rested, Rosenthal discovered that against all odds, she was bored. Wandering over to one wall of the domed chamber, she found herself running her fingers over a long row of hash marks that had been carved into the otherwise immaculate stone.

Each hash mark was exactly the same height, width, and depth as the one next to it—all three thousand, eight hundred, and some odd. No human could be so precise, and there was nothing about them to hint that they had been made by the Engineers. The marks had to have been inscribed by David.

It was conceivable, perhaps even likely, that each mark denoted a day of his sojourn on this world. She couldn’t imagine why it should be necessary, or even a matter of artistic interest, for a synthetic to denote its presence in such a manner. Not when each and every day was automatically committed to its eidetic, non-human memory.

She would ask David about it the next time she saw him.

The line of marks continued through a portal and into an adjoining hallway. Would there be an explanation, a revelation of some kind at the end of it? Had he marked the arrival of the expedition team in a fashion different from the thousands that preceded it? If so, that would be a small discovery, but one that would belong to her and her alone. Following the line of inscribed marks, she resolved to find out.

Behind her and out of sight now, Oram and Daniels continued debating their prospects. The fact that they essentially had none didn’t dissuade them from discussing options, few of them realistic, many of them fanciful.

“And if Lopé and Cole can’t make contact with the ship?” Oram muttered aloud.

“We’ll think of something.” It was all Daniels could come up with. They were stuck. Even if they could make contact with the Covenant, there was a good chance they would remain stuck.

It was simply too awful to contemplate.

Oram, at least, seemed to take heart from Daniels’ response. “You’re awfully confident, considering the present state of affairs.”

She shrugged. “Leap of faith. I’m an optimistic realist. Or the other way round. Take your pick.”

He smiled, but it didn’t linger. “You were right about this place. Right all along. I should have listened to you—and to some of the others. We should have stayed with our original itinerary. We never should have come here. If we hadn’t, then Karine and…” He trailed off, choked, unable to finish.

“It’s not your fault, Chris.” What else, she mused, could she say? “Suppose you’d been right, and this world had turned out to be as promising as it appeared when we first touched down? You’d be feted by both the crew and the awakened colonists. You’d go down in history.”

He straightened slightly. “History celebrates the successful explorers, not the failed ones. I’m the captain. I made the decision. It’s my fault. That’s how it will be recorded.”

“Maybe for risking a landing based on preliminary indications that were favorable,” she continued, “and for trying to rescue two survivors of a lost ship. It won’t impact the mission. Regardless of what happens to us, the Covenant will still continue on to Origae-6 and the colonists will settle there. Also, back on Earth, they’ll finally learn what happened to the Prometheus. There are descendants of that crew who will finally gain closure because we set down here.”

“If,” he reminded her, “we can re-establish contact with the ship.” His expression reflected his continuing inner torment—and his guilt.

Walter returned to join them. Daniels immediately noted the flute he held in one hand but did not remark on it. Time enough later for an explanation of how he had come by it. They both eyed the synthetic expectantly.

“I spent some time with David,” Walter told them. “We discussed a number of things.” Anticipating Daniels’ curiosity, he held up the small but beautifully fashioned instrument. “Music, among them. There’s a sort of intensity to him I don’t understand. One moment he is what I would call perfectly normal. The next, he wanders off onto one strange tangent after another. I think he expects me to connect all the links he keeps dropping, but I have yet to discern a pattern. Observing my uncertainty I believe he is disappointed, yet he remains friendly. I would not say confused. It is something else.”

Oram inquired point-blank. “Dangerous?”

“Disturbing.” Plainly mystified by the recent encounter, Walter made no attempt to hide his ambivalence. “He’s been alone and without scheduled maintenance for ten years. While he and I are self-sustaining, there are aspects to our existence that benefit from regular conservation. Abilities can wear out as well as parts. Neglect can lead to… aberrations. Uncertainties.”

His gaze shifted from Oram to Daniels.

“No one can predict what the ultimate consequences might be of zero contact with other intelligences, be they synthetic or human,” he said. “Because synthetics have not been around long enough for such an isolation trial to be carried out. I don’t know what happens when a synthetic loses his mind, if that is indeed a correct description of such a possibility. We might be finding out.”

There was silence while Oram and Daniels digested Walter’s report. It was then that the captain, showing that his thoughts were not entirely lost in anguish and regret, thought to look around.

“Where’d Rosenthal go?”

Daniels quickly scanned the chamber. “I don’t see her,” she replied. “Walter?”

“Nor I. She is not here.”

“I’ll find her.” Daniels started to head in the direction of the portal that led to the multiple storage alcoves. Oram put out a restraining hand.

“No, you stay here with Walter and wait for Lopé and Cole. I’ll go. I need to think.” He smiled. “And gather my stray flock.” She sat down. After checking to make sure his carbine was in working order, he started off in the direction of the corridor most likely taken by Rosenthal.

Walter sat beside Daniels, and she noticed anew his repaired arm. As they were designed to do, his internal systems had repaired themselves. The epidermal sheath had healed over quite nicely in the interval since the neomorph had torn his arm during the battle in the tall grass.

“I never thanked you,” she told him. “You could have been killed. You saved my life, intervening the way you did.”

“I’m here to serve.” His tone was perfectly neutral, if a bit more diffident than usual.

She chuckled softly to herself. “Considering some of the lines I’ve heard from guys, that’s not bad.”

Reaching out she touched his face, feeling the synthetic skin. Collagen-based, it was crafted to feel exactly like that of a human. There was indisputable affection in the gesture. Equipped as he was to instantaneously analyze human expressions, vocal tones, and gestures, the effect on Walter could almost have qualified as embarrassment. Designed to deal with almost any conceivable situation, he had no idea how to react to a moment of genuine intimacy.

He drew back silently.

Recognizing the effect her gesture had on him, she pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unsettle you.”

“I am not unsettled,” he replied. “Uncertain perhaps, but not unsettled. Sometimes a non-response is the most sensible one.” He smiled—that seemed innocuous enough, he thought. “You should get some sleep.”

She let out a short, sharp laugh. “Not likely. I’ll sleep when I’m back on the Covenant.”

They sat like that, conversing idly. They also listened for voices, or at least echoes. Hearing none and wondering what he should do, it occurred to Walter to try the flute. Remembering the extraordinary hand-mouth counterpoint of his exchange with David, he made an attempt to reproduce a few notes. They emerged softly from the instrument, but awkward and incomplete. His embarrassment was evident.

Surprised by the unexpected and previously unsuspected skill he demonstrated, Daniels looked on with interest. “Not bad.”

“No. That was terrible.” Walter eyed the instrument in disgust. “It was not even original.”

“It was not terrible,” she insisted, “and music doesn’t have to be original to be enjoyable. If that was the case, there’d be no such thing as recordings. Only improvisations.” She gestured at the flute. “Keep going.”

Still he demurred. “I cannot reproduce accurately what I wish to reproduce. It is not a fault of memory.” He struggled to explain what he meant. “It is a lack of something else.”

“Then try something of your own,” she urged him.

His voice was tight. “I was not programmed with the ability to create.”

“Maybe not,” she admitted, “but you were programmed with the ability to learn. You know the procedure. Trial and error. Retain what works, discard the rest. Experimentation leads to discovery. So—experiment. If it helps, pretend I’m not present. I’m not here to judge you.”

“I cannot pretend you are not here when you are sitting beside me.” He smiled anew. “That too would require creativity that I do not possess.”

She sighed. “Just try again. Don’t worry about my reaction.”

Given her encouragement, he complied. Hesitant initially, then with the first signs of increasing confidence. A few gentle notes sounded in the vast open chamber. They hung together. More than a little astonished at this small triumph, he made a second effort. This time the notes formed a recognizable melody. It was not like anything he had heard before, either in the course of the encounter with David, on the ship, or anywhere else. It was new.

It was his.

Thus emboldened, he continued. Though he would not have recognized it as such, the gentle tune formed a perfectly serviceable lullaby. Watching and listening, the exhausted Daniels seemed unaware when her eyes began to close. Her head slumped toward her chest, rose once, then fell again. A moment later she was sound asleep, sitting up.

Walter continued to play, his eyes fixed on her as his fingers waltzed over the holes in the flute. Continued to play, and experiment. The simple instrument was not powerful enough to fill the chamber with music, but he tried.