Alien: Covenant 2 Page 6

  Raising his head, Lopé saw that while she was more than holding her own, the woman was having some difficulty with the bigger man. Looking in the other direction, he saw the redhead join a number of escapees in utilizing the newly blown gap in the outer wall to flee to the presumed safety of the street outside. Just before she stepped through, she turned to look back at him.

  Directly at him.

  Their respective gazes locked for a second or two—just long enough for realization to hit. She’d taken her time not because she thought he’d give up the chase, but because she’d had backup waiting for her on the ground floor. She knew he was behind her.

  He’d almost strolled into a wholly lethal ambush.

  Rising, he rushed in the direction of the grappling pair. Far more important, he knew, to get the impeller out of the unknown man’s hands before it recharged and could be fired again. While a second burst might miss him, the main floor was still filled with bewildered innocents, including several families with kids in tow.

  Seeing him coming, the man let go of the impeller to devote his full strength and attention to the woman who was all over him. Utilizing a judo maneuver, he tried to flip her over his right shoulder. She avoided his grip, dropped, and executed a double leg sweep that was as much a demonstration of gymnastic abilities as it was a martial arts move. Both of the man’s legs flew out from under him and he landed hard on the polished stone floor.

  Rising, he looked askance at the oncoming Lopé. The sergeant was still a distance off, and there was time to escape. So he pulled a knife from its sheath inside his shirt, raised it high, and charged the woman who blocked his path to the elevators and stairwell.

  The woman could have simply dodged out of his way. Instead, she stood her ground. Raising the knife high had been an instinctive move, but not a very professional one. As it descended toward her face she sliced her own forearm up into his, blocking the blow. Curling her hand around his wrist, she brought his arm up behind him and twisted.

  He let out a gasp of pain.

  “Drop it,” she growled, “or I’ll break your arm.” When he failed to comply she forced his arm up behind his back toward his shoulders. He winced, let out a groan, and the blade clattered to the stone floor.

  It was enough to get her to relax slightly. Just enough for him to kick back and up with his right leg. His booted foot grazed her thigh as she just managed to slip to one side. At the same time she took his other leg out from under him. Plunging forward, he did an awkward face plant on the mosaic floor. Blood from his broken nose and forehead splattered like yolk from a dropped egg.

  “Stay like that.” Her voice was calm but commanding. “Don’t move.”

  He didn’t. By the time the panting sergeant reached him, blood had fanned out from his face and the front of his skull where they had met the unyielding faux-marble.

  Lopé flashed his identification as three security guards drew close, weapons drawn, their attention divided between him and the slightly twitching, bleeding figure on the floor.

  “Call tower medical, get a team down here,” Lopé said. Tight-lipped, the sergeant regarded his would-be assassin. “We need to try and save this guy. Need to find out who he is, where he came, who sent him.” His gaze rose to the hole in the outer wall that was still filled with anxious visitors filing through onto the street outside. There was no sign of the tall redhead with the split do.

  One of the security personnel immediately got on her comm unit. Meanwhile Lopé took the time to study the prone assailant a bit longer. He shook his head, then rose and strode over to the center of the floor where a dark-haired young woman stood breathing hard and watching his approach.

  He halted before her. “My name is Carl Lopé. There’s a good chance you just saved my life. Why?” She didn’t appear to be injured, he noted gratefully.

  She shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me,” he replied briskly. “Call it professional interest.”

  She looked up at him. “Okay. I don’t like people getting killed in front of me. It offends my sense of common decency. So I saw the guy with the weapon, and did what I believe to be my civic duty. You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Lowering her gaze, she peered past him. “Why’d he want to kill you, anyway?”

  He considered. “I haven’t the slightest idea. Which is why I hope he lives.” He looked past her. Moving fast, a medical team emerged from a distant service lift, guiding a powered gurney between them. “It’s damn frustrating, too.” He returned his attention to his unexpected savior. “There’s no reward for saving my life, but it’s near midday. If you’ll allow me, I’d be happy to treat you to a very expensive lunch.”

  She shook her head no.

  “Much as I could do with a nice meal, I’ve got to decline.” Looking to her right, she indicated the bank of lifts. “I’ve got a job interview in half an hour—one that I don’t want to miss.”

  He studied her reply for a moment, reflecting on what he had just seen her do. “That wouldn’t by any chance be for a position on the Weyland-Yutani Covenant, would it?”

  Suddenly wary, she searched his face. “Why? What’s it to you?”

  “I’m Sergeant Carl Lopé. I’m chief of Security on the Covenant.”

  She considered him. “So you’re the one who’s supposed to interview me?”

  He sighed heavily. “No more interviews, thank goodness. The position’s already been filled.”

  She looked downcast. “Damn. I guess I showed up too late.”

  “No.” His expression didn’t change. “You showed up just in time. What’s your name—Private?”

  It took her a moment to catch on. Then she nodded slowly, suppressing a grin.

  “Rosenthal. Sarah Rosenthal.”

  “Welcome to the Covenant security team, Sara Rosenthal.” He extended a hand. Her grip was as firm as he expected. “I’ll transfer the necessary documentation and boarding authorization to your comm unit while we’re having lunch. If you’re still up for that, of course.”

  “It’s strange, but I’ve suddenly developed a real appetite—Sergeant.” She looked down at herself. “I needed a shower before the fight. Now I really need one. I’m kind of a stickler for showering.”

  “Your personal hygiene doesn’t bother me,” he replied wryly. “You can take your time dealing with it, but later. First we need to have a chat. Get to know each other.” His own smile widened considerably. “After all, we’re going to be sleeping together for years.”

  “I never sleep with a man until after lunch.” She no longer tried to hide her gratitude and delight. “You’re paying, of course.”

  “Weyland-Yutani is paying. Although somehow I feel I should. Where would you like to eat?”

  Displaying surprising taste, she named a restaurant nearby. It was moderately famous and notoriously expensive.

  “Is that okay? We can go somewhere cheaper if you like.”

  “It’s fine.” His expression was pure what-the-hell. “Might as well spend some of it here. I don’t think I’ll be able to access my account from Origae-6.”

  VII

  If someone set out to build an utterly innocuous-looking human, they couldn’t do better than the man driving the repair van. Just under medium height and slightly overweight, he was dressed in company worker overalls, boots, and cap with appropriate identifying insignia, all of which were sorely in need of cleaning.

  Having recently gobbled down a quick meal, he smelled distinctively of synthetic tuna bento. The dark stain on the right side of his shirt pocket was a mixture of overcola and green tea. He was chewing something indistinguishable that could have been anything from bubblegum to khat.

  Taller but equally filled-out, his partner rode silently in the van’s passenger seat, oblivious to everything except the typically salacious manga being projected half a meter in front of his eyes. A single blink was sufficient to turn the page, while a blink of the left eye gave the signal t
o animate.

  Around the van, the towers of Tokyo blazed in the darkness of early evening. They defied the night, any glimpse of the moon, potential earthquakes, and a population that—save for the rich—could no longer afford to live there. Special dispensation allowed critical personnel to sleep and all but live in their offices. At the base of each tower flared a visual cacophony of shops, restaurants, full-immersion pachinko parlors, tattoo studios, coffee houses, shoot-up stalls, and atmos lounges where one could pay to inhale everything from flavored air to straight oxygen.

  The driver and his passenger stoutly ignored all such temptations as their automated vehicle made a left turn, entered a private service alley, and slowed to a stop. As security scanners mounted on opposite walls played over the van, an armed human emerged from a guardhouse and approached the driver’s side of the vehicle. Polite formalities were exchanged as he gave the interior of the van a cursory visual inspection that lasted only a couple of minutes.

  Had the van contained anything suspicious, it never would have been allowed entrance into the alley in the first place. The human inspection was just a follow-up.

  The driver complained, mildly, at both the delay and having to work at night. His companion never looked away from his manga projection. After a final exchange with the driver, the guard tapped the van’s open windowsill and stepped back. In front of the vehicle, a barrier not unlike a modern portcullis rose to allow admittance.

  Upon entering the covered multi-level garage, the driver assumed manual control, taking it from his vehicle’s AI. He brought the van to a halt in an empty parking spot beside one of the gigantic columns that supported the hundred-and-one-story building.

  Like many of the structure’s supporting columns, the one beside which he had halted was hollow. Some columns carried utilities up or down. A few, like the one beside the van, housed service lifts. The main access was through the heavily monitored building. Secondary access was via a locked external service door. Like every other entrance to the building, the metal portal was monitored around the clock.

  Exiting on opposite sides of the van, the driver and his no longer laconic partner quickly went to work. The first thing they did was erect and activate a high-tech mirrormask in front of each of the two security pickups mounted above the column’s service door. While these would display the normal view of the garage, including any passing traffic, they would not show the parked van.

  Having installed and checked the two screens, driver and companion set to work on the access door. They didn’t try to override the entry code. Any effort to do so would set off alarms at the building’s security station. Instead, they deftly removed the hinges from one side and swung both doors—still locked together—away from the wall, just far enough to admit one person at a time.

  Still hidden from detection by the pair of mirrormasks, a trio of figures crawled out from beneath the van via a screened and camouflaged false floor. Unlike the driver and his associate, the newcomers didn’t wear worker’s overalls. Clad from head to foot in light-absorbing black, they carried an assortment of devices that had nothing to do with electrical repair.

  Once they had slipped through the gap, the driver and his helper shoved the heavy unhinged barrier back in place, took down the mirrormask screens, and set to work replacing several perfectly functional electrical outlets that lined a nearby wall.

  * * *

  The three black-clad figures who had entered the column found themselves standing at the edge of an elevator shaft that ran through the core of the pillar. They unfolded the largest of the devices they had brought with them. Two of them positioned a portable graphene lift over the gaping shaft, then the third snapped a self-powered loop over one of the main elevator cables. All three then stepped onto the unfolded sheet of graphene, taking care to balance themselves, since the platform was only attached to a single cable. The elevator’s actual cab remained parked below and, according to their research, would stay there until the morning rush of saririmen and women.

  A small but powerful electric motor attached to the cable loop hummed to life beneath the fingers of one of the unauthorized visitors, and the three of them began to rise. Since nothing related to the actual elevator had been activated, it would appear to be out of service. The folding portable lift wasn’t fast, but its relatively slow pace did not trouble its riders.

  The gradual ascent gave them time to unlimber, and prepare a variety of weapons.

  * * *

  Outside the tallest tower of the Yutani complex, the lights of Greater Tokyo lit up the night sky as far as the eye could see, as steady as the sararimen who toiled within. Off to the northeast, a rainbow of colors marked the frenzy of the Asakusa entertainment district.

  The tower’s precise height had been carefully calculated by its builders. It was exactly one floor and seven meters taller than the Weyland Tower at The Docks in London. Had Peter Weyland lived, and had Weyland Industries taken over Yutani, it was entirely possible that a couple of floors would have been added to the top of the Greater London location.

  Even giants of industry could be petty.

  As it was, the Yutani Corporation had emerged the victor. The complex’s prime location beside the Sumida River was more significant than the height of any of its buildings. In Greater Tokyo’s rarified real estate market, such a site proclaimed corporate wealth and success far more meaningfully than a building’s height.

  With the top three floors of the central structure reserved for climate-control equipment and a nest of communications electronics, the most important corporate offices were located on the ninety-seventh floor. There, flanked by a glass wall that provided an unobstructed view of the great city on one side and a second inner wall that bordered a wide hallway, an emergency meeting of the Weyland-Yutani corporate hierarchy was in progress. Due to the lateness of the hour there was no one else on the floor except automated cleaning devices and several bored bodyguards, so the inner wall was not opaqued.

  Though the meeting had been called at short notice, all eight of the suehirogari were present, seated around a long table of exquisitely polished Hinoki cypress. Neatly set out on the table were carafes of glacial water from Siberia, small bottles of Yamazuki 24 whiskey, and appropriate glassware. Three Weyland representatives sat on one side, while four from Yutani on the other. Presiding at the head of the table was the president and chief executive officer of the combined company, Hideo Yutani.

  He was not happy.

  Yutani opened the proceedings by looking sharply at the two men and one woman representing the British side of the company. In deference to their presence, the lateness of the hour, and the general confusion, he addressed them in English that would have impressed any graduate of Eton.

  “You all have had sufficient time to process the report from our representatives to the Covenant. On the way here you will have followed up with the news of the incident in London. Clearly there were failures of security. I would like an explanation.

  “Now.”

  The resultant silence indicated that the head of Weyland-Yutani expected a response. Although all present at the table were executives commanding huge salaries, every imaginable kind of executive perk, access to private aircraft, and much more, at that moment the seven of them looked like so many schoolchildren caught having forgotten their homework.

  “Well,” he said. “Anyone?”

  The daughter of the company’s president spoke up. Now in her thirties, Jenny Yutani had inherited her father’s drive, intelligence, and—some said—his temperament. She was also quite beautiful, whereas he was not. An intriguing mix of genes, she could stand up to her father where others would hesitate.

  “What troubles me is the subtlety of it all,” she said.

  The silence broken, one of the British executives felt compelled to comment. It was a woman, albeit unrelated to the CEO and older than his daughter. Time had changed Japan.

  “What is subtle about an assassination attempt?” she
countered, looking around at her fellow executives. “London was clearly an attempt to take out the head of Security for the ship and the colony.”

  “Then why go through the charade of luring the sergeant out of the interviewer’s office?” asked one of the Japanese executives. “Why not kill him there and depart quietly? Why involve a second interloper in an assassination attempt on the main floor of the building, in full view of a hundred witnesses as well as the armed security personnel stationed at the main entrance?” The shortest person present, Takeshi needed a booster to sit properly at the table. While small in stature, it was generally considered that fully half of his body mass was brain.

  The smartly dressed executive on his right concurred. “Plainly, the effort to kill the sergeant was secondary.”

  “To what?” asked the woman from London.

  The exec was ready with a reply. “To get the red-haired woman hired as a member of the Covenant security team. To get her on board.” He paused for effect. “Presumably so that she could then wreak far more havoc, once safely on the ship.”

  Jenny Yutani nodded in agreement. Though heir to one of the most spectacular jewelry collections in Japan, she wore only a pair of austere—though very expensive—earrings. Flash was considered inappropriate at a board meeting, especially one that had been convened to discuss an emergency.

  “First we have the incident on board the ship,” she said. “The avowed goal of the protagonist? To halt the departure of the Covenant. Next we have the noisy intrusion in London. Its purpose?” She nodded toward the executive who had suggested the explanation. “To get someone else aboard the ship, since her predecessor’s efforts had met with failure. Had this…” She consulted her multiunit. “Meryem Tadik succeeded in boarding, what would she have done with her unwarranted access?” She paused for effect. “Almost certainly to follow in the footsteps of her deceased predecessor. In other words, to find a means of sabotaging the Covenant in order to prevent it from departing on its mission.”