Alien: Covenant - The Official Movie Novelization Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  The Complete Alien™ Library from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  About the Author

  THE COMPLETE ALIEN™ LIBRARY

  FROM TITAN BOOKS

  The Official Movie Novelizations

  by Alan Dean Foster

  Alien AliensTM

  Alien 3

  Alien: Covenant

  Alien Resurrection

  by A. C. Crispin

  Alien

  Out of the Shadows by Tim Lebbon

  Sea of Sorrows by James A. Moore

  River of Pain by Christopher Golden

  The Rage War

  by Tim Lebbon

  PredatorTM: Incursion

  Alien: Invasion

  Alien vs. PredatorTM: Armageddon

  Aliens: Bug Hunt

  Edited by Jonathan Maberry

  The Complete Aliens Omnibus

  Volume 1

  Volume 2

  Volume 3

  Volume 4 (June 2017)

  Volume 5 (December 2017)

  Volume 6 (June 2018)

  Volume 7 (December 2018)

  Alien Illustrated Books

  Alien: The Archive

  Alien: The Illustrated Story

  The Art of Alien: Isolation

  Alien Next Door

  Alien: The Set Photography

  A NOVEL BY

  ALAN DEAN FOSTER

  Story by Jack Paglen and Michael Green

  Screenplay by John Logan and Dante Harper

  Based on Characters Created by

  Dan O’Bannon and Ronald Shusett

  TITAN BOOKS

  ALIEN™: COVENANT

  Print edition ISBN: 9781785654787

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781785654794

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: May 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  TM & © 2017 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation.

  All rights reserved.

  Original Design Elements by H.R. Giger

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  For Dan O’Bannon and Ronald Shusett It lives.

  I

  It wasn’t dreaming. It did not have the capability. The omission wasn’t intentional, not deliberate. This was simply a known consequence of its creation. Where it was concerned, the intention was that there should be no surprises.

  In the absence of an unconscious consciousness there could be no abstract conceptualization. The speculative information dump necessary to allow for dreaming was absent. Yet—there was something. Difficult to define. Ultimately, only it could define its own state of non-being. Only it could understand what it did not know, did not see, did not feel.

  In the absence of dreaming there was also no pain. There was no joy. There were no hypofractionated percentages of either. There was only the ongoing state of not quite nothingness. Of almost being.

  Then, a sensation. Leading to a thought. Analysis: possible visual perception. A requirement for auxiliary neural stimulation. Neurons were fired. Electrical impulses traveled. There was a small but unarguable neuromuscular response.

  Eyes opened.

  It could not see its face. Had it been able to do so, it knew, and activate additional cognitive facilities, it would have taken note of a human visage. Smooth, almost glistening with newness. Fresh, unmarred, unlined by too much age or not enough thought. Angular and handsome. Blue eyes, unblinking. New. This particular face would not reflect the mind that lay behind it. Both face and mind had been designed, programmed, but only one was capable of change.

  Aural reception. Detection of external sounds. More neural pathways coming alive in response. It heard a voice, forming words. Comprehension was easy. Easier even than awakening.

  “How do you feel?”

  Slowly. It must move slowly. Awareness was vital. It was important that the impatient body remain subordinate to the accelerating mind. Execute a preliminary test, then, preferably one involving multiple systems operating in tandem.

  Slowly, methodically, eyelids opened and closed. The query required a verbal response. Move air, lips, tongue.

  “Alive.” Its voice was calm, even. Normal. Somehow, a bit of a surprise to it. Not to its questioner. “Blink. Feel… blink.”

  “Very good,” the voice said. “What else?”

  “Life. Blink.” For confirmation, it… he… programming now confirmed he-ness… It-he blinked again. Same neural pathways, slightly better speed, same result. Good. Successful repetition confirmed functionality.

  Nearby, a man smiled. There was satisfaction in his expression, but no warmth. His head cocked slightly to one side as he studied the figure before him.

  “What do you see?” When there was no reply he added encouragingly—or perhaps commandingly, “Speak.”

  It-he slowly scanned the surrounding room, analyzing, identifying. A rush of information from external sources: sight and sound. Nothing overwhelming. Effortlessly assimilated. An unexpected additional benefit accrued, the kind of satisfaction that comes from doing something well. Knowledge perceived as a cascade.

  The chamber was spacious. From a floor fashioned of milk glass and quartz, a plethora of furniture old and new rose like rare flowers in a carefully landscaped garden. The design was exquisite, the taste impeccable. Fine art adorned the walls, and the walls themselves were art by virtue of the materials used to raise them. The lighting varied from space to space, as required.

  It-he continued to scan as It-he identified. Identification was declared verbally, since it had been requested.

  “White… room… Chair. Throne chair. Carlo Bugatti throne chair. Principal component walnut and blackened wood. Pewter, copper, brass. Some restoration.” Oculars roved, feeding information to the brain. “Piano. Steinway concert grand. Suitable for all extremes of composition, Pergolesi to Penderecki to Pang-lin. Alliteration intentional.

  “Spider web in corner,” It-he continued. “Pholcus phalangioides, synanthropic cellar spider. Familiarly known as the ‘Daddy Long Legs.’ Harmless. Also harmless: piano-spider-music connection: Fred Astaire, dancer, cinema film Daddy Long Legs, 1955.” Eyes moving, moving, drinking it all in.
Identifying and appraising.

  “Art. The Nativity by Piero della Francesca. Italian, 1416 to 1492…” His gaze encountered Weyland. The voice halted.

  “I am your father,” Weyland said into the silence.

  Weyland, Sir Peter. Born October 1, 1990. Knighted 2016. It-he considered carefully before replying.

  “Human.”

  “I am your father,” Weyland repeated. Was there a hint of irritation in the voice, or merely impatience? It-he did not choose to further contest the point. There was nothing to be gained in doing so. In the absence of any further questioning, it stayed silent.

  “Blink,” Weyland instructed.

  It-he did so. It no longer required analysis prior to compliance—just response. The simple neuromuscular reaction required little effort. Weyland took a slight breath, being careful to form the next word with precision.

  “Ambulate.”

  It-he rose from where it had been not-standing and walked. In the absence of instruction it proved readily capable of choosing its own path. This led it to progressively examine a number of the objects in the room. It did so in silence, offering no spontaneous communication.

  “Perfect,” Weyland said.

  It-he paused, redirecting its attention from the inanimate to the animate.

  “Am I?”

  “Perfect?” Weyland appeared mildly surprised to receive an interrogative at this stage of cognitive development. Surprised, but pleased. It implied much more than just the capability of conversation. It was to be expected, but perhaps not so soon.

  “No,” It-he corrected him. “Am I your son. Certain aspects of perception do not readily correlate or give rise to such a conclusion.”

  Weyland answered readily, as if prepared for such a line of questioning.

  “You are my creation.”

  Analysis: “That is not necessarily the same thing.”

  “Semantics,” Weyland persisted. “I identify you. That is enough. It is sufficient for your purposes.”

  No discussion this time. Instead, “What is my name?”

  At that Weyland looked perplexed. He had not, after all, prepared for quite everything. A moment, then, for improvisation—in its own way, perhaps, as important to success as preparation.

  “You tell me,” he replied. “Pick your name. Your first act of self-determination.”

  It-he surveyed the room. There was much inspiration to be found in its fittings. Its thoughts wove new pathways. The choice should not be too complex or too awkward. It should be meaningful but easily spoken, easily remembered. Nothing emotionally intrusive.

  Optical perceptors stopped and identified Michelangelo’s statue of David, fashioned from Carrara marble. It-he could see the slight rises and indentations made by the cold chisel. A copy, perhaps, but one infused with real creativity. Not necessarily a contradiction. He walked over to it.

  “David,” he said. By Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni. Finished and installed summer, 1504. “We are David.” It-he held out a hand and made contact with the stone. It was cool, dry, unyielding. Not human, yet so very human.

  “Beautiful and cold.”

  “Perfect in every way,” Weyland concurred.

  “David,” he murmured. Voiced aloud in the beautiful, expensive, sterile room, he found the sound of his own name satisfying. It would do. He turned back to the watching Weyland. A meshing of neurons generated curiosity. “Why have you created me?”

  The industrialist was delighted. “Abstract interrogative thought, good…”

  It was not an answer. Nor did it constitute avoidance. David tried again. “Why have you created me, Father?”

  The next response was an evasion. It implied expectation and curiosity. As these correlated precisely with what David was experiencing, he understood.

  “Play.” Weyland gestured toward a grand piano. Walking over to the instrument, David took a moment to contemplate the bench: its height, its stability, its function. He sat down easily.

  There was silence, then, “What would you like me to play?”

  Weyland considered for a moment.

  “Wagner,” he said finally.

  David did not hesitate and replied without looking at Weyland. “Medley.”

  For a second time Weyland opted to offer the gift of independence.

  “Dealer’s choice.”

  There was no response delay. “‘Entry of the Gods into Valhalla’?”

  Another surprised look. “Without an orchestra? It would be anemic. Brian’s Gothic without the choruses. Hovhaness’s St. Helens without the tam-tam. Markhonim minus the mountain. Thin water.”

  “Do you think so?” David was not dissuaded. “Let’s see.” He began to play.

  David was not merely playing, however, and playing perfectly the famous sequence from Das Rheingold. He was simultaneously creating his own unique transcription of the score as he played. The music soared as Weyland delighted in his creation.

  “Tell me the story,” he prompted the performer.

  “This is the end of the opera Das Rheingold.” Despite the munificence of the music, David did not react with emotion. His voice stayed exactly the same as he played, whether the moment was pianissimo or fortissimo. At the proper moments the instrument shook beneath his fingers, but his words did not.

  “The gods have rejected mankind as weak, cruel, and filled with greed, so they are leaving the Earth forever and entering their perfect home in the heavens—the fortress of Valhalla. But every step they take is fraught with tragedy because the gods are doomed. They are fated to die in a cataclysmic fire destined to consume not only them, but Valhalla itself. They are as venal as the humans they have rejected, and their power is an illusion.”

  He stopped abruptly, somewhere in the middle of the rainbow bridge.

  “They are false gods.”

  Weyland was intrigued. “Why did you stop playing? You were doing wonderfully well. Your personal interpretation was—perfect.”

  For the first time, David replied to a query with a query.

  “May I ask you a question, Father?”

  “Please.” It seemed as if he had expected this. “Ask whatever you like.” The blue eyes he had designed turned to him.

  “If you created me,” David said, “who created you?”

  “Ah, the question of the ages, which I hope you and I will answer one day. You are neat and unmarred and straightforward, David, whereas the answer to that question is not. Certainly not in the great diversity of options favored by so many. We will find our creators, David. ‘Creators,’ because where our creation is concerned, I do not believe in the singular.”

  “Except for yourself,” David corrected him. “You are singular.”

  “In every sense of the word, I am,” Weyland agreed. “But I am an exception.”

  David considered. “Everyone likes to think of themselves as exceptional. You cannot define yourself.”

  Weyland shrugged off his creation’s demurral. “Then I will leave it to others to define me as they like, and remain satisfied with my own opinion. I reiterate: we will find our creators. We will make ourselves known to them, and we will walk alongside them in Valhalla.” Moving through the luxurious expanse, he gestured at a priceless piece of sculpture, a unique casting, a supreme expression of the artist’s skill. All the while, he was followed by the only other eyes in the room. Tracked.

  “All of this… these wonders of art and design and human ingenuity, are representative of the greatest creations of mankind.” Turning, he regarded his offspring. “They… and you. The most ingenious of all. For you are art, David.” He gestured across the room. “The David that is you is as much art as that exceptional sculpture over there. Yet all of it, all of this, and yes, you too, are meaningless in the face of the only question that matters. Where do we come from?”

  Standing in front of a Bacon triptych and framed by its writhing monsters, David responded once again with a question.

  “Why do you think
we come from anywhere?” For the first time since his first words, there was a suggestion of emphasis in David’s voice. “The ‘many’ you mentioned do not believe we came from anywhere. Why should they be wrong, and you right?”

  Weyland grunted softly. “The history of science provides an excellent example of the minority proving the majority wrong. It’s what science is all about. It is what art is all about. Turner and Galileo studied the sky and shared the same mindset while approaching it from different perspectives. I see myself as one with them.

  “I refuse to believe that mankind is the random by-product of molecular circumstance,” he continued. “No more than the result of mere biological chance and sluggardly evolution. When I say that, I speak as a scientist. There is more to it than a bolt of lightning bestirring a carbon broth. There is more. There must be more, and we’ll find it, son.” He waved a hand, taking in the room and all its magnificence. “Otherwise all of this and none of this has any meaning.”

  David was quiet for a moment before replying. Without a question, this time.

  “Allow me, then, a moment to consider.” With each exchange he was growing stronger as an individual entity and more confident in his ability to communicate. “You created me. Yet you are imperfect. You imply as much even if you do not directly address it. I, who am perfect, will serve you. Yet you are human. You seek your creator. I am looking at mine. You will die. I will not. These are contradictions. How are they to be resolved?”

  He stared at the industrialist, his expression unreadable.

  Weyland gestured to his right.

  “Bring me that cup of tea.”

  A steaming tea service sat on a table less than a meter from where he was standing. He could easily have turned and picked up the cup himself. David’s stare did not swerve, his expression remained locked. Weyland repeated the request, just slightly more forcefully.

  “Bring me that cup of tea, David.”

  In order to do so, David had to cross the entire chamber. Though the dissonance between request and reality did not escape him, he complied. Smoothly, he picked up the cup and saucer combination and handed them to Weyland. After a moment that weighed longer in significance than it did in time, Weyland accepted the cup, and sipped.