Alien: Covenant - The Official Movie Novelization

IV

Rooms and corridors inside colonization ships were sizeable out of psychological necessity. This didn’t matter to the colonists themselves, however. They slept on in their pods, dormant and oblivious, knowing they would not be awakened until the ship reached its destination.

Transitory coffins with transparent lids didn’t have to be expansive. All that was needed was enough room for a body to lie in comfort, and for the machinery and instrumentation that would sustain it in that biological dreamworld called hypersleep. The colonists could be—and were—packed together as closely as was technologically feasible.

It was different for an awakened, working crew. Whenever they were revived to perform maintenance, checkup, recharge, or other ship’s duties, it was important for them to have room to move about freely, and adequate personal space in which to relax. Otherwise, cosmic beauty notwithstanding, the fact that they were dozens, perhaps hundreds of light years from the nearest breathable atmosphere, the closest gurgling stream, the next cool falling rain, could drive even the most highly trained and well-prepared individuals quietly insane.

So Daniels’ cabin, like those of their colleagues, had been made as large as was physically and economically possible. Within reason, it included every possible creature comfort that could be included in its design. Adjustable lighting at the head of the bed allowed for easy reading, or a change of mood, or whatever kind and color of illumination its occupants desired. The bed rested against the far wall of the room, beneath a hexagonal port that featured a multipart view of the cosmos beyond.

The spectacular sight, the adjustable lighting, the wonderfully comfortable bed—none of it mattered. Because like all of the crew cabins on the Covenant, this one had been designed and built to accommodate the needs of a husband and wife. Instead of comforting Daniels, its comparative luxury only reminded her that she was now half a couple. Her life, like her marriage, had been truncated in the most abrupt, unexpected, and violent manner possible.

“Cry it out,” Oram had told her. As far as she was concerned, such advice had the emotional equivalent of going to the bathroom. She had been too deadened even to slap him. Not that she would have done so, anyway, she told herself. She was too well trained for that. Too well trained, perhaps, to cry—even had she felt like acting on his suggestion. When it came to serving on a starship, emotion was more likely than not to prove a liability.

She knew she shouldn’t really blame Oram for his clumsy attempt to console her. At least give him credit for trying, she told herself. More than an efficient drone and less than a natural leader, he had been thrust into the unwanted role of captain. Like every member of the crew he was extremely proficient at his specialty. Forced now to engage outside the realm of life sciences and biology, he had to deal with organisms more active and more contrary than his beloved specimens.

She allowed herself the slightest of smiles. It wouldn’t be too bad with him in command. Karine would always be there to give him quiet counsel and offer corrections.

Ignoring the splay of stars outside the port, she sat down on the king-size bed. It was a real bed, its reassuring mass made possible only by the wonder that was artificial gravity. There would be no sleeping while floating in nets, not for the crew of the Covenant. Yet the bed was no longer comforting, and she couldn’t bring herself to move away from the edge and toward the center. It beckoned behind her, a wide homey expanse that could no longer be filled.

Her gaze, open but indifferent, took in the rest of the cabin. Duty boots stood carefully placed beside hers inside the open storage area; left boot always on the left side, right boot always on the right. A man’s clothing hung neatly above them, his always on the left, hers on the right. Nearby rested Jacob’s prized collection of antediluvian vinyl records and their lovingly restored player, its parts cannibalized over the years from half a dozen similar devices.

Stored elsewhere, but likewise visible from where she sat on the side of the bed, was their climbing gear, brought along in expectation of being able to resume an old hobby on a new world. Neither of them would have been happy settling on a world without mountains.

“Doesn’t matter what the ambient temperature is, or the geology, or anything else,” he had told her on more than one occasion. “Anywhere the colony settles, there’ve got to be rocks to climb.”

“What if it’s a water world?” she had countered playfully. “Or what if it’s so old that the mountains are all worn down and it’s as flat as the Great Plains?”

“If it’s the first, I’ll build scaling walls out of salt or calcium carbonate. If it’s the second, I’ll pile up dirt and silicate it.”

Always optimistic, was Jacob. Always showing a cheerful side. Wonderful qualities to have in a captain. Wonderful qualities to have in a husband. Her gaze came to rest on a hard-copy printout of the exterior of his pet project.

The throwback log cabin.

Her husband’s dream.

Ex-husband, she corrected herself silently. Deceased husband. Cremated hus—

The door chimed melodically and without apology at the interruption.

Now who could it be, at this hour of the night? That had been one of Jacob’s running jokes. In interstellar space it was always night. But it had never been this dark.

She stepped to the door and opened it. It was Walter. She saw that he carried a small box.

“Good evening. Do I intrude?”

Pleasant, polite, considerate. Why couldn’t he be the replacement captain? But that was not possible. Synthetics, no matter how efficiently programmed, were designed to serve. To follow, not to lead. Never to lead.

She contemplated sending him away, then decided that any company was better than being alone with her own thoughts.

“No. Come in. Good to see you.”

He entered, waited for the door to slide closed behind him, then held out the box. “I brought you something.”

She took it, opened it. Inside were three perfectly formed 4Cs—combustible chemical channeling cylinders. Or, as the remarkably persistent terminology from another time declaimed, joints. She couldn’t keep from smiling.

The personification of droll, Walter explained. “The atmospheric conditions in Hydroponics are ideal for cannabis growth.”

“I could acquire the same cannabinoids via a pill,” she told him.

“True, but I believe there are certain aesthetics attached to this mode of consumption that can augment the overall experience, and thereby add to its efficacy. Also, it will require that you focus mind and fingers to consummate the act. It is an ancillary benefit to the ingestion.”

“You think of everything.”

“It’s just my programming.”

As was the modesty, she told herself. “That’s not true.”

“If I may…” He hesitated just long enough before continuing. The pause was also a consequence of good programming, she knew, but she didn’t care. “I understand that keeping active can be an effective method in helping to process trauma. Would it be useful to go back to work?”

“Oram took me off the duty roster.” She made a face. “Captain’s orders. Bawl, don’t work.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we inform him. It’s a big ship. There is a great deal to do in places that are infrequently scanned.”

She was still doubtful. “I’ll be seen on security monitors.”

“It depends where you work. The ship’s security coverage is ample, not ubiquitous. There is also the fact that security is monitored by Security. I doubt Sergeant Lopé will care where you choose to spend your downtime. As for our new captain, he has a great many other things to do. I believe you said earlier that you wanted to check on the status of the heavy equipment in the terraforming storage bay? Considering the general damage we have suffered, I agree that area is certainly in need of closer, hands-on inspection.

“As I said earlier, I will accompany you, if you wish.”

Her expression was full of gratitude.

The terraforming chamber was enormous. Huge vehicles of all descriptions, intended to build the colony not just from the ground up but from out of the ground itself, were clamped and tethered in position. At least, Daniels hoped they were.

As she and Walter moved through the bay she was gratified to see that despite the violent, momentary unsettling of the ship’s equilibrium as it rode out the flare, everything appeared to be in place. No tie-down clamps had released prematurely, no chains or straps had come loose or snapped. Everything was still positioned as it had been when first loaded on board the Covenant.

Sometimes, she reflected, old tech worked best. Electronic fasteners were stronger and easier to maintain—unless the power went out. There was something, she knew, so basic and primitive and human and functional about a rope. She smiled to herself. In lieu of vines, mechanical clamps and carbon fiber and metal chains would have to do.

The tires and tracks of giant earth-moving and stone-grinding vehicles loomed above the two figures as they made their way down one row of machinery before turning to walk back along another. As chief of terraforming, Daniels knew the name, purpose, and cost of every piece of equipment. She could zero in on their respective operations manuals without having to sort through the ship’s computer or, if necessary, go right to a specific component or control in any of the equipment cabins. Her excellent memory was one of the reasons she had been chosen for her current position. She was also very much aware of her limitations.

We’re all just backups to computers, anyway, she told herself.

It could have been done remotely, she knew, checking to ensure that each piece of machinery remained fixed in place. But it wouldn’t have provided the same personal satisfaction. And as she knew as well as Walter did, that having something to do physically as well as mentally kept her from thinking about…

“It wasn’t even my idea,” she told the synthetic as he effortlessly kept pace with her. “At first I thought it was silly. A waste of time we probably wouldn’t even have, since as crew we’d first have to help the colonists get settled in. But Jacob had this dream of building us a cabin on a new world. One just like those built by the old pioneers on parts of Earth. Only with modern climate control and appliances and other contemporary conveniences.

“Log cabins were found on every continent with trees, he’d tell me. One of mankind’s first structures not made of stone or earth, and according to the pictures he showed me they look pretty much the same no matter which culture built them. A real part of human history.” Bending, she double-checked a wheel clamp the size of a small vehicle. It helped to hold in place a giant, bladed excavator. Still locked down tight.

“So that’s what he wanted to do,” she continued. “Both for his own enjoyment and as kind of an homage to early ‘colonists.’ A cabin next to a lake. Real romantic. It didn’t even matter to him if the lake was natural or artificial, but there’s a huge one in the zone chosen for initial terraforming on Origae-6.” Walking around the front of the excavator, she checked the clamp enfolding the lower portion of the massive front wheel on the opposite side. “Secure.”

“Secure,” Walter confirmed, performing his own quick check. They moved on to the next massive vehicle in line. “I do not entirely understand. We are carrying ample prefabricated housing for the crew, as well as for the colonists. There are plans for future modifications and additional, more permanent structures, as well as the means to erect them once suitable raw materials are found.” He seemed genuinely perplexed. “Yet Jacob wanted to build a log cabin?”

“Yes,” she answered. “A real cabin, made of real wood. Constructed entirely according to historical precedents. So in ship’s stores, along with all the prefab materials you just mentioned, in our private container there’s all these saws and axes, and metal nails.”

Walter turned thoughtful. “Metal ‘nails.’ Truly a historical reference. What if there are no trees, as we know them, on Origae-6?”

She let out a single, small chuckle. “Jacob said he’d use a plastic pre-former to make them and then have them sprayed and textured to look like the real thing. I always assumed he knew what he was doing and how to go about it. Me, I don’t have the slightest idea how to build a log cabin.”

She paused, her voice trailing away. Looking up from the pipe extruder he was inspecting, Walter turned his light on her. Saw the sadness creep into her eyes as she let her gaze rove over the enormous, silent equipment that would be used to build the colony. With a slight wave of her hand she encompassed the extruder and the rest of the machinery that was locked down in front of them.

“All of this, the best gear Earth can provide, to help us make our new life. For the rest of the crew, it makes sense. And of course for the colonists. But for myself, now I find myself wondering—why bother?”

“You have no choice.”

Frowning, she looked over at him. “You mean because I signed a contract to take part and contribute, as a member of the crew?”

“No. Because you promised to build a cabin on a lake.”

She felt a sudden tightness in her throat. “That was Jacob’s promise. Jacob promised to build the cabin.”

Walter peered back at her, his expression open, his tone compassionate. “All crew were assigned to the Covenant in pairs. All human crew.” He corrected himself without the slightest hint of resentment. “The ship’s crew functions in pairs. As teams. If one half of the team becomes unable to carry out their duties, then the other…”

“Is obligated to take over and handle those duties in addition to their own,” she finished for him. “I’m not sure building a cabin by a lake on Origae-6 qualifies, but I appreciate the sentiment. Who knows? Maybe when we get there and I have a chance to breathe unrecycled air again and eat something besides rehydrated food, I’ll take the time to educate myself in the art of cabin building. Maybe—just maybe—I’ll do it.”

“You will do it.”

Reaching over, she patted him on the arm. It felt exactly like real flesh, as it was intended to feel. “You’re a good friend, Walter. And if you tell me that’s ‘part of your programming,’ I’m going to slap you.”

It was a testament to the skill with which that programming had been devised that he did not say anything else.

There was no one on the bridge except Mother, and she wasn’t visible. Mother was the bridge. On the Covenant she was everywhere and nowhere, immaterial yet always available to carry out a command or answer a query.

The questions that were dogging Oram as he wandered onto the instrument-filled room could not be answered by the ship’s computer. If asked, she would of course try to answer. Sometimes he was tempted to voice his concerns just to see what kind of replies might be electronically forthcoming. He never did. First, because they might make sense, and second, because they might contradict his own.

The lightweight blanket wrapped around his shoulders was as unnecessary on the bridge as it was in his cabin. Though the temperature and humidity in individual cabins was widely adjustable, most of the crew were content with whatever Mother deemed appropriate for their particular ages, physiologies, and predesignated personal preferences. Sleeping on a starship was a private matter—one of the few—and Mother rarely interrupted with suggestions.

A blanket, or for that matter bed linens of any kind, were an extravagance, but they were a small one, and had been deemed important for the crew’s psychological health. So if someone slept better under sheets, or a comforter, or a blanket, or a faux wool sheepskin, if it was determined that this would enhance efficiency and preserve sanity, the company was willing to provide it.

His old-fashioned print Bible was tucked under one arm, as much a comfort as Mother’s capable presence. In his other hand, metal worry beads click-clicked rhythmically against one another. He could have requested medication to sate his anxiety. He much preferred the worry beads. Unlike drugs, they were familiar and non-invasive. An argument might have been made as to whether or not they were equally habit-forming.

Shrouded like a pilgrim, he wandered absently through the bridge, glancing periodically at one console or set of readouts after another. In the absence of any human crew, all was calm and everything in working order. He knew it would be; otherwise Mother would have alerted him. Still, he was brought to a halt by a readout on one panel. It indicated that there was activity in the main disposal bay. Curious, he activated the relevant visual feed.

A projection emerged from the console, bright and colorful in front of him. As he looked on in silence, his quiet disapproval grew. Not because of the activity that was taking place, but because of what it implied.

Daniels stood beside Walter in the disposal bay, their attention on a monitor. The screen showed a pod-like coffin that had been moved into the facility’s outer lock. The coffin-pod was rigged and ready to go—out into the vacuum.

It was utterly quiet in the bay, until Walter finally broke the silence. “Would you like me to say something? I’m programmed with multiple funerary services in a variety of denominations. I am also equipped to improvise, based on my personal knowledge of the deceased.”

“No, thanks,” Daniels mumbled. Silence resumed, briefly.

“If you don’t need or wish a funeral service,” Walter continued, “may I ask why you wanted me to accompany you?”

She looked over at him. “As you pointed out when we were inspecting the terraforming bay, the crew is made up of couples. That was the whole point of—” She broke off. “I thought you might know something about being alone. I didn’t expect you to speak to it, exactly, I—I don’t know what I was expecting. I do know that I didn’t want to have to do this by myself.”

Digesting this, Walter felt touched, in his way. From a programming standpoint, the situation was… complicated.

He was not necessarily relieved when the access door slid open to admit Tennessee and Faris, but he was pleased. Unsure whether just his presence was sufficient to mitigate Daniels’ aloneness, he knew that the arrival of two of her friends was more likely to do so. Just as he knew that the addition of the bottle of whiskey and the four shot glasses Tennessee was carrying was likely to further ameliorate her mood.

Tennessee managed to envelop her in one of his bear hugs without dropping either the bottle or any of the glasses.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said softly. “How you holdin’ up?” He released her, then glanced over at his wife.

Daniels smiled up at him. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. Thanks for coming. Both of you.”

Holding up the bottle, Tennessee favored it with an appreciative glance. “His favorite. Man with taste.” Exhibiting remarkable dexterity for one so large, he juggled bottle and glasses while pouring for all of them. “Straight up. ‘No ice, no water, no chase, no shit.’ That’s what he always said.” He eyed the remaining figure standing nearby. “Walter?”

“When in Rome.” Extending a hand, the synthetic took a glass. While the liquor would do nothing for him from a physiological standpoint, it was the gesture of camaraderie that was important.

“Amen, brother.” Faris acknowledged him by briefly raising her own glass. “That’s what I call proper programming.”

Following ceremonial sips, both to appraise the bottle’s contents and to loosen the atmosphere, Tennessee offered a more formal toast.

“To all the good people, gone too soon. Remember them.”

The response from those around him sounded in unison. “Remember them.”

More consumption followed the toast. Daniels drained her glass quickly, then turned to Walter. He said everything he could with his eyes, knowing that any additional words would be superfluous and inadequate. Or worse, wrong.

Finally Faris asked gently, “Want me to do it?”

“No. Thanks.” Daniels stepped forward. “My place.” Favoring the coffin with one final look, she reached out and pressed a button. Aural pickups conveyed the singular whoosh as air fled the disposal lock. It accompanied as well as propelled the coffin.

An external vid showed the pod shooting away from the Covenant. Very, very small against the overwhelming blackboard of the cosmos, it was swallowed up by the dark immensity almost immediately after being ejected. Together with her friends Daniels watched as it, along with the bright future she had envisioned, vanished into the void.

From his position on the bridge a silent Oram took it all in, from the solemn first moments to the improving mood engendered by the alcohol. He was not pleased. There had been no attempt to involve him in the funeral, brief as it was, nor even to inform him about it. Technically, no regulations had been broken, but it was bad form. As captain, he ought to have been told in advance and his permission, or at least his concurrence, ought to have been sought.

Instead, they had gone ahead without him. Nothing had been concealed, exactly. What had taken place and the manner in which it had been carried out was more in the nature of avoidance.

He had only been captain a short time and by accident. If the rest of the crew didn’t respect him enough to apprise him of a funeral, it suggested that he was going to have a hard time running the ship. Mulling over possible ways to improve the situation, he found little inspiration.

The worry beads clicked a little faster in his hand.

In the silence of the bridge they sounded preternaturally loud, but not so loud as to override the voice that now spoke behind him. Familiar though it was, he was still surprised to hear it.

“Come to bed, Christopher.” Clad in a one-piece suit of lightweight material that would not do for work, but was perfectly suitable for an occasional stroll, his wife admonished him gently.

“How long have you been standing there, Karine?”

She yawned and smiled. “Long enough.”

Instead of looking at her, he nodded toward the projection. “Then you see what’s going on there? You saw how she disobeyed my orders?”

“You mean she buried her husband? And without asking your permission? Tch. Shame on her.” When he continued to evade her stare, she came forward until he could not avoid her eyes without deliberately ignoring her.

“When we get to Origae-6,” she reminded him, “these people aren’t going to be your crew anymore. Once the Covenant is decommissioned so that everyone can participate in developing the colony, they and we will revert to being colonists, just like everyone who’s currently in hypersleep. They won’t be under your command. They’re going to be your neighbors. Remember that. Because they certainly will.

“So tread softly. Once the colony is up and functioning, you’re going to need them a lot more than they’re going to need you.” She searched his face. “So pissing them off now for some perceived slight or minor infraction of the rules probably isn’t the best way to proceed. Okay?”

His reluctant shrug was barely more perceptible than his reply.

“Yeah.”

She made perfect sense, of course. Karine always did. He hated that, but he loved her.

She touched his face affectionately, then dropped her hand and held it out toward him with the palm facing upward. He didn’t need to ask what she wanted—they had been down this path many times before. With a resigned sigh, he handed her the worry beads. As she folded her fingers around them she leaned forward to bestow a kiss on his cheek, then turned.

“Coming?” she asked. “You need your sleep, Christopher. It will make you a more responsive captain. And it always makes you a better person.”

“There’s one more thing I have to do. You go along, Karine. I’ll be there in a moment.”

She waited until he had shut down the visuals from the disposal lock, then gave an approving, satisfied nod, turned, and left. He lingered until she was gone. Then he composed himself, knelt, and began to pray.

There in the middle of the high-tech bridge, surrounded by a rainbow of bright telltales and the occasional whispering readout, he closed his eyes and steepled his fingers. A casual onlooker would have said there was no one to notice the gesture.

Oram would have disagreed.

Daniels was drunk. She knew it, didn’t care, but did not revel in the condition. What she had hoped to obtain from the excess of alcoholic consumption wasn’t nirvana but anesthetization. Despite her strenuous efforts in that direction, she had not succeeded.

She was dazed but still capable of feeling.

Dammit, she thought through the liquor-induced fog. Why am I still conscious? Is there no justice in this universe?

The antique music player was currently emitting the dulcet vocalizations of Nat King Cole singing “Unforgettable.” A favorite tune of Jacob’s, and one they enjoyed listening to in quiet, intimate moments. It was quiet enough, she mused, but there could be no intimacy. You needed two to be intimate.

Two to tango, two to travel, two to… to…

Despite her wishes, her vision was clearing. She had removed his clothes from the closet, along with everything else that had been his and not theirs. Socks, a crude shell necklace she had made for him, shirts, pants, boots.

Knick-knacks, paddy-wacks, give a girl a break…

She’d had no problem laying claim to the remnants of the whiskey in the bottle Tennessee had provided. Momentarily fortified by the additional dose of liquid backbone, she commenced tying the assorted attire into neat bundles. It was only when she had finished dealing with the last of the clothes that she felt able to move on to the more personal items.

The aged still photographs shared space on the floor with more contemporaneous examples of the visual reproductive process. Having spread them out in a semicircle she knelt among them, studying the mosaic they formed of her previous life. Occasionally she would touch a hard copy or run a fingertip through a projection, sampling the images both by sight and through physical contact. She didn’t look at any of them more than once, drinking in each image for one last time before moving on to the next.

One especially favorite projector tab stared back at her. She considered avoiding it, but it just sat there, demanding activation. So she thumbed the unit and sat back to watch the resulting imagery it contained. Imagery she knew all too well.

Backed by the vast jagged sweep of the Grand Teton mountains that cut into the pure blue sky like one of his beloved antique wood saws, Jacob stood looking back at her. Smiling, always smiling.

“Hey, when are you getting here? I miss you!” Half-turning, he gestured at the rugged range looming behind him. “Look at those mountains. I know, I know, I said I wouldn’t climb without you, but—come on, look at that! I can feel the granite under my fingers from here. Get your ass up here or I can’t promise…”

Reaching out, she froze the image. Though the audio continued, her sobs drowned out the words. She knew them by heart anyway.

When she could not cry anymore, with her eyes aching and throbbing, she forced herself to pack everything away. Pictures, clothes, climbing gear, everything. It was all ready for storage, along with her dreams. All that was left was the small memory box she kept on the dresser. It held little things, silly things, fragments of a life already lived. Items that would be meaningless to anyone except her.

Opening the box, she tenderly fingered the contents one by one: a class ring, a strip of old-time solido photos of the two of them, a button she had salvaged from the ridiculous suit he had worn to a costume ball celebrating the fashions of the mid-twenty-first century, a couple of old metal nails he had lovingly salvaged from a collapsed miner’s shack in backcountry Wyoming.

Taking one of the nails, she found a piece of string—even string had a place on a starship, she reflected—and tied one end just under the head of the nail. He’d had his old shell necklace, now she had the nail. She put the makeshift piece of jewelry around her neck. The sliver of old iron was cold against her chest.

The fingers of one hand closed tightly around it as she shut her eyes.