Alan Dean Foster

ALIEN: COVENANT

ORIGINS

The Official Movie Prequel

For Frank and Barbie,

With thanks and in friendship.

A NOVEL BY

ALAN DEAN FOSTER

TITAN BOOKS

PROLOGUE

They were all dying, and there was nothing they could do.

Dying in their sleep would not have been so bad. Dying of old age, or an inability to reproduce, or even of disease would have been tolerable. But the cosmos was a cold, uncaring place, and did not care what would have been preferable. At that moment, at that time, it was colder than ever.

Bodies were ripped apart, exploded, sundered, until dismembered skeletons began to pile up against the sides of buildings like white foam from a wave. A tsunami of blood ran down first one street, then another. The inhabitants of the city tried to fight back, and the more they fought, the faster they died. The shapes—the things that roved and raged and ravaged among them—were imbued with an implacable urge to kill.

This they did with an efficiency and soulless resolution that knew no satisfaction. The proponents of the interminable slaughter could never be sated. They killed and would keep on killing until nothing remained that could be called a victim.

* * *

Throughout it all the Prophet slept, and screamed, while around him a select gathering of acolytes shared his visions and shuddered. Shared, and grew ever more resolute in the knowledge of what it was they must do. The fate, the visions the Prophet was unleashing among them, could not be allowed to come to Earth.

If they had to die to ensure that this was so, they would not hesitate. Nor would they hesitate to kill on behalf of the greater good.

I

On the ground, the ship would never have been able to lift off. By contrast, its mass wasn’t a problem where it drifted in Earth orbit, like a sleeping whale in an endless dark ocean.

Its deep space drive was unmatched, its sustaining technology state-of-the-art, its life support systems backed up by back-ups, its purpose… its purpose was noble. To found a colony. To spread the seed of humankind beyond the single small blue-and-white globe on which the species had evolved.

It also would allow those selected to travel to a new world the opportunity to escape the corruption, exploitation, overuse, and sheer grime that had overtaken the home their criminally indifferent predecessors had carelessly fouled.

Secure in his jump seat on the shuttle, Jacob Brandon continued to admire the Covenant’s lines as he gazed out the nearby port. He was her captain, she was his ship. His future. Serving as an adjunct to Mother, the ship’s remarkable all-seeing, all-knowing AI, he would have little to do except estivate in deepsleep until they reached the distant chosen world of Origae-6.

En route, they would emerge from faster-than-light travel a set number of times in order to recharge the ship, but those were preplanned and routine. He looked forward to a command that, assuming all went as intended, would involve as little actual intercession as possible by him and the crew.

He knew Indri Mithun was watching him. The whip-slender dark-skinned man sitting in the opposite seat made repeated pretenses of fiddling with the computational lens that was affixed to his left eye. In reality, he was studying the captain. Having begun in the launch lounge, paused during liftoff, and continuing throughout the ensuing flight, the constant scrutiny was beginning to wear on Jacob.

“Look, Mithun, if there’s something you want to ask, if you have something on your mind, just come out with it. I’m not going to prompt you.”

Visible through the port behind the Weyland-Yutani representative, the curved edge of a lambent Earth rotated in concert with the shuttle as the compact vessel lined itself up for docking. While the other man fidgeted, he did his best to look and sound authoritative, but only came off as patently embarrassed.

“I didn’t ask to be assigned to watch you.”

Jacob pursed his lower lip and nodded sagely. “And I didn’t ask to be assigned a watcher, so we’re in agreement.” When Mithun offered no comment, an irritated Jacob forced the issue. “So, said the watched to his watcher, if you don’t mind your subject asking—what exactly are you watching me for?”

The company rep swallowed and, having fiddled with his eyepiece beyond reason, switched to adjusting the collar of his shirt beneath his dress jacket. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Jacob’s narrowed stare from across the aisle only made them fumble faster. Outside, beyond the port, a mesmerizing cosmos swung like the view from a carnival ride.

“You must understand, Captain, that as adept as our people and machines are at assigning values and squeezing parameters, selecting a crew for so momentous an undertaking will inevitably be subject to a lot of second-guessing.”

Jacob smiled pleasantly. “I wish you wouldn’t use the word ‘undertaking’ when talking about the mission.”

This time there was some rationale behind Mithun’s adjusting of his eyepiece. His expression twisted as realization followed understanding. Jacob was disappointed. He had hoped for a response in the form of a chuckle, or at least a smile. But then, he had already decided that the company rep wasn’t readily amused.

“A joke. I see,” Mithun replied, without seeing at all. “I suppose I should have used a different term to—”

“Just get to the point, Mithun.” Ahead of the shuttle and visible on the heads-up, the extraordinary bulk of the Covenant drew near. The representative nodded, appearing relieved at no longer having to play at tactfulness.

“To put it bluntly, there are some who are not sure if the company chose the right couple to put in charge of the mission.”

Jacob met the other man’s now steady gaze without flinching. “Mother is in charge of the mission. I’m just the human captain, and my wife is the supercargo. Oram’s my number two, not her.”

“We aren’t as concerned about Daniels,” the representative replied firmly, “as we are about you.”

“I see. And what is it about me that concerns your unidentified ‘we’?”

Now Mithun did smile, however slightly. “There are those who think you’re too ‘flighty.’ Insufficiently serious to be entrusted with command of such a vast and complicated enterprise.”

The shuttle slowed as it approached the main docking bay. A slight shiver ran through Jacob’s body as the much smaller craft began to fall under the influence of the Covenant’s artificial gravity field.

“On what basis did they arrive at the scientific determination that I am ‘flighty’?”

“Certain correspondence.” Mithun looked away, uncomfortable once again. “Between yourself and others. Correspondence that reflected an excess of enthusiasm for non-project-related matters. There are those in the company who feel that your enthusiasm for participatory sports, for example, might detract from your attention to duty.”

“Sports.” Jacob leaned so sharply in the representative’s direction that the other man flinched. “Listen, one of the reasons I was given command of the Covenant was my demonstrated empathy for the interests of the colonists. Once we get to Origae-6, I have to supervise the establishment of the colony. That requires a completely different set of skills from those needed to captain a starship.” He pressed back into his seat. “The company wanted someone who could incorporate both poles of experience. They chose me. The unnamed ‘those in the company’ can go hang.”

There was a soft bump as the shuttle settled into the docking bay. Jacob was grateful for the return of full gravity. It was hard to kick someone in zero gee, and he was feeling more and more like delivering such a message to the company representative’s backside.

Take it easy, he told himself. Mithun may make more in a week than you do in a year, but he’s just a glorified errand boy. You— you are the captain. Rise above the pettiness. You know what you’re capable of, and what lies ahead. Be confident in your abilities, in your knowledge, in your skills.

Be confident in the fact that it’s almost certainly too late for Weyland-Yutani to fill the position with someone else.

“It’s just that there have been some rumblings on the board.” Mithun kept talking even as they disembarked. “Most of the board is content with your appointment. So is Hideo Yutani himself, but there are some among the Weyland contingent who still feel the need to assert themselves.”

“You’re kidding,” Jacob said. “It’s all been one company for a while now. Weyland-Yutani.” He led the way out into a major corridor. “I thought that sort of nonsense was over and done with.”

“Corporate takeovers are never easy,” Mithun explained. “Most who survive such mergers quickly resign themselves to their new circumstances. But for a few, bad feelings can linger.”

Beginning to feel a bit sorry for his companion, Jacob softened his tone. “So these few on the board, they’re questioning my competency to hold the position of captain?”

Mithun’s reply was glum. “They question everything.”

“And that’s why you’ve been sent to follow me around, to see if I implode under pressure, prior to departure.”

“That’s it, more or less.” For the first time since the shuttle had lifted off, an honest smile creased the narrow face of the company rep. As it did, two stevedores escorting a large autonomous pallet of supplies forced them to hug one side of the corridor. Then they continued at a casual pace. The lighting within the Covenant was bright yet soft, easy on the eye while leaving nothing under-illuminated.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how am I doing?” Jacob inquired as they resumed their course.

“Except for a certain inclination to sarcasm,” Mithun told him, “quite well, I am happy to say.”

“Good. I’d hate to be fired so close to departure. Of course once I’m stuck, stuffed, and packed in deepsleep, it won’t matter. Except in the case of an emergency, it’s against the law to wake a crew member or colonist from deepsleep prior to arrival at their destination.” He grinned at the representative. “I don’t think the company could get a warrant executed in time.”

This time Mithun did not smile. “I find that I almost like you, Captain,” he said, “so I will tell you something. If Weyland-Yutani perceives that its investment in any project—larger or small—might be threatened, there is no limit to what it can or will do to protect it.”

Halting abruptly, Jacob frowned at the smaller man. “You’re saying they could pull me from deepsleep and replace me, even at this late a stage?”

Mithun straightened all of his sixty-five kilos. “I am saying that it would be just as well for you to perform perfectly as the captain of the Covenant and not do anything that might inspire uncertainty regarding your competency, at least until the ship passes the orbit of Neptune.

“Thanks.” Jacob smiled thinly. “I’ll try to operate strictly by the book until we’re under way.”

“I appreciate that,” Mithun replied, “as it will not only be better for you, but will also greatly simplify my reports.”

“Whose reports?”

Both men turned as Daniels approached. Though she was slightly overwhelmed by the final preparations for departure, Jacob’s wife and the Covenant’s supercargo and terraforming supervisor wore the quiet, intense look that had so impressed Weyland-Yutani’s personnel. While shorter than both men, she managed to give the impression of being much taller than she was. An inescapable air of competency clung to her that, according to Mithun at least, managed to evade her husband.

While Jacob had fought to acquire the position of captain through a rigorous barrage of tests, Daniels had sailed through the necessary requirements far more swiftly. It had never bothered him, however, that since couples were preferred to crew the colony ship, he might have slipped in as captain because of his wife’s unexcelled qualifications. They were both thoroughly qualified, he knew. The difference between them might be as simple as her not being as… well, as flighty as her husband.

They didn’t kiss in front of Mithun. Intimacies among crew couples were reserved for moments of privacy. Besides, there was no time.

“My reports.” The company rep was apologetic.

Jacob grinned at his wife as he nodded toward the company man. “Mr. Mithun here has been assigned to shadow me for a while. To make sure I’m not likely to do anything crazy, once we’re on our way. Or worse, anything flighty.”

Swiveling her dark-eyed gaze on the Weyland-Yutani representative, Daniels didn’t miss a beat. She spoke with the quiet intensity for which she was already well known among both the crew and the army of workers engaged in preparing the ship for its mission.

“Better watch him closely,” she said with a straight face. “He’s crazy flighty. Or flighty crazy. I’ve had to deal with it for years.” Before Mithun could comment she added, “He’s also the best-qualified colony ship captain Weyland-Yutani could possibly find. You can take it from me.”

Jacob smiled affectionately at his wife. “You’re prejudiced.”

“Damn right I am. The company’s lucky to have you. I’m lucky to have you. You’re lucky to have me.”

“And if I am lucky,” Mithun added, doing his best to loosen up, “I will be back on solid ground in a couple of days, free from these oppressive if brightly lit surroundings, and assured of stable earth under my feet and an atmosphere whose composition is not artificially renewed.”

Jacob nodded sympathetically, also relaxing a bit. “All right then. Let’s get you run through your assigned checkouts. If we move fast, maybe we can even fit you on the next empty cargo shuttle going back to the surface.”

The company representative’s eagerness was palpable. “I will happily travel as cargo. If necessary, you can stick me in a box. I freely confess that I don’t like space. It is dark, lethal, and wholly uninviting.”

Daniels concealed her expression as she replied. “You’d make a lousy colonist.”

“‘Colonist’…” Mithun shuddered visibly at the thought.

II

Continuing their impromptu inspection, the three were joined by Mithun’s colleague, Lykke Kajsa. Save for being far more deficient in melanin and half a dozen centimeters taller, she was the female equivalent of her newly arrived corporate representative. While it was Mithun’s responsibility to evaluate the performance of the Covenant’s crew, she was tasked with inspecting the ship itself.

As Jacob and Daniels discussed details of the pre-departure progress and problems, Kajsa supplemented the captain and supercargo’s comments with a steady stream of numbers, dates, and interpretations. The inescapable conclusion, which pleased all concerned, was that everything was proceeding more or less as intended and according to schedule.

Daniels was the officer in charge of stores, stocks, and all ship’s supplies both for the journey and for the eventual establishment of the colony on Origae-6. There was one nagging crew-related omission that she felt compelled to point out to the two company representatives. She did so as the quartet continued along a hallway while striving to avoid the steady flow of cargo shifters, equipment installers, electricians, line routers, and arriving colonists.

“As you can see, we’re on schedule,” she said. “Colonists are being placed in deepsleep for the journey, and except for filling out the Security team, the crew is up to full strength.” She paused, then added, “Save for one other.” Halting in the main crew bay beside the empty sleep pods she and Jacob would occupy, she ran a hand along the edge of the open, transparent canopy.

“The Covenant doesn’t have a big crew,” she continued. “It’s not necessary to have one, since while in transit Mother handles the majority of functions. We’ve all gotten to know each other pretty well by now, but we’re still missing one key individual.”

Looking down at her, Kajsa nodded knowingly. “Your synthetic is still being prepped.”

Jacob gave a casual wave. “So we’ve been told. Repeatedly. He—I presume the David series is still mostly male—should have been on board and interacting with the rest of us several weeks ago.”

The two company representatives exchanged a glance. Mithun looked uncomfortable.

“Your device is being—refined. Since the Prometheus was designated as lost, every effort is being taken to ensure that the Covenant mission includes the very latest in technological advances and developments.” He indicated the brightly lit but sterile surrounds of the crew’s sleep bay. “That desire on the part of the company extends to every aspect of the ship’s systems—including its assigned synthetic.

“As the company no longer has the genius of Peter Weyland himself on which to rely,” Mithun continued, “and since synthetics are not and have never been a specialty of Yutani, it has been determined that it is worth taking the time. We want to make absolutely certain your synthetic is the best that can be made, so it is worth the modest delay in bringing him aboard ship.”

He looked to his colleague for confirmation.

Though no less perfunctory in manner, Kajsa had a more winning smile than her counterpart. “Everyone at Weyland-Yutani is aware of the approaching departure date. Rest assured that the Covenant will not leave until every requisition has been filled and every component has been thoroughly vetted. We know how important it is to establish a confident working relationship between synthetic and crew, even though he will be conscious for the majority of the journey while all of you remain in deepsleep.

“Until you arrive at your destination, you won’t need to interact with him, save for scheduled recharging and general maintenance wake times. You can be confident, however, that you will have time prior to departure to meet and interact with your synthetic.”

“I don’t want to play poker with him,” Daniels groused. “It’s just that he’s a critical piece of equipment. I have an enormous manifest to sign off, and he’s at the top of the list. I’d like to check him off.”

Sensing rising tension, Jacob spoke up. “We’re not trying to rush the company.” He smiled broadly. “My wife is something of a stickler for detail. She won’t rest easy until every last piece of gear is on board and accounted for, whether it’s our synthetic or a half pack of dehydrated peas. The company hired her because she’s thorough…” He glanced at Daniels. “Not because she’s tactful.”

“Hey!” Her eyes flashed. “I can be tactful. Right upside somebody’s head, if that’s what’s necessary to get things done.”

Mithun gestured as they approached a portal. “I think we can move on.” He adjusted the AV recorder ring on his right forefinger. “I’m getting everything I need to make my report. Kajsa will get everything she needs to make her report, and you will get everything you need to sign off on your manifest before the Covenant departs Earth orbit. Rest assured.”

Daniels was only partly mollified. “It’s assured that we’ll get plenty of rest, anyway, but the sooner our synthetic boards and we get to know him, the sooner I’ll relax.”

Jacob eyed his wife knowingly. “You won’t relax until you’re in a house on Origae-6, and the Covenant is oxidizing on the ground.”

She gave him a nudge in the ribs. “I’ll have you know, Captain Crazy-Flighty, that I—”

“We’ve got a problem.”

Daniels was interrupted by the arrival of Sergeant Hallet. His superior, Sergeant Lopé, was still on Earth working to fill the final open slot on the ship’s Security team, so Hallet was the senior security officer on board. For someone who had experienced his share of actual combat, he didn’t especially look the part. With a light-colored beard and sensitive face, he was far from filling the tall, muscular image they’d portrayed in the recruitment advertisements.

Rather than resembling someone who could keep them safe from carnivorous alien lifeforms or rogue space pirates, he looked more like someone who would make a good after-dinner conversationalist.

Having seen his interview and training vids, though, Daniels knew better. Despite his gentle appearance, he could move fast, showed extreme endurance, and knew how to handle the unexpected. In fact, his slim build was a positive, since he wouldn’t require the food resources necessary to sustain a heavy set of muscles.

Hallet was also discreet. His deceptively placid demeanor drew no attention from the surrounding swirl of workers as he quietly inserted himself into the conversation between the ship’s captain, supercargo officer, and company representatives. The husband-and-wife team expressed mild surprise at the sergeant’s interruption. The two Weyland-Yutani executives, a mix of irritation and confusion.

* * *

Hallet spared the two reps a quick, appraising glance. He would have preferred to deliver his message to Jacob and Daniels alone, but that didn’t appear possible. Given the urgency of the matter, there was no time for delay.

“We’ve got a problem,” he repeated. “In the main cargo bay.”

Daniels perked up. Slowly filling with terraforming equipment—from giant earth turners to atmospheric water condensers to muscular mechanical excavators—the cargo bay was her principal area of responsibility. Anything that happened to, with, or concerning cargo drew her immediate interest.

“Problem with volumetric assignments?” she ventured. A week ago loading had almost come to a halt when several workers nearly came to blows over where to park a two-story highly automated boring machine. Neither wanted it in his area. She’d had to physically step between the two men to prevent a fight. The problem was solved when she soothed them by informing each man, separately, that he was “right,” after which she’d assigned the machine to a third, entirely different lane outside of their respective jurisdictions.

Hallet met her questioning gaze. Though he was outwardly calm, she could see that he was sweating slightly. He stole another uneasy glance at the two bemused Weyland-Yutani representatives before continuing.

“We’ve got a renegade tech holed up all the way in back. At least, I was told he’s a tech. I haven’t had time to research his file because I’ve been too busy trying to keep him from blowing the cargo bay door.”

Jacob blinked. “’Scuse me, Hallet?”

The sergeant nodded vigorously, looking around to make certain no one outside the small group was listening.

“The guy says he’s mined the main hinges, and will blow the whole door off if the ship’s departure isn’t cancelled.”

A stunned Mithun blurted out what everyone knew. “No one on board has the authority to do that, not even the captain.” He moderated his tone as he added an afterthought to Jacob. “No offense.”

“None taken,” the captain replied while maintaining his focus on Hallet. ”You’re right. Only the Board could cancel or postpone the mission. This guy probably knows that, too.”

The sergeant nodded again. “He demands that you contact corporate headquarters and get them to stop all preparations. He also wants media access via the ship’s system. He says he has a ‘manifesto’ that needs to be broadcast to the world.”

Kajsa looked horrified. “You can’t do that! Whoever this insane person is, we can’t give him a planet-wide platform to spread his views!” She struggled to regain her composure, then added, “Not that any ranting on his part would actually have any effect on the colonization program, but it would be bad—”

“—Publicity,” an equally anxious Mithun finished for her. He stared hard at Hallet. “You’re ship security. How did this person get on board with explosives?”

Daniels replied before Hallet had a chance to respond. “Explosives designed for clearing and excavating are part of the supplies for the colony. This person didn’t need to bring any with him, not if he found a way to bypass locks and cargo bay security. Then he could access what’s already been brought on board.”

“How could he do that?” Kajsa asked.

“I’ll be sure to ask him after we’ve prevented him from blowing up an important part of the ship,” Daniels replied tartly. “If he goes through with this, and if he’s used enough explosive material, he could do more than blow the cargo bay door. He could damage that portion of the Covenant’s superstructure as well. That could delay departure for months. In addition to which there’ll be enough negative air pressure to suck out anything not locked down or properly braced for travel. A lot of that equipment—especially the special terraforming vehicles—was custom-built, not off the shelf. That might take years to replace. This guy probably knows that, too.” She looked over at Hallet. “Let’s go.”

Mithun took a step as if to follow. “Are you going to try and reason with him?”

Her reply was matter-of-fact. “If Sergeant Hallet can’t get a clear shot, yeah, I’ll reason with him. First have to see what kind of explosive setup he’s put in place. If it’s something that will ignite if he’s taken down, then preemptively removing his head won’t work.” Turning, she hurried off, walking fast while blistering Hallet’s ears with one query after another.

* * *

Now it was Kajsa’s turn to move to follow. Putting out an arm, Jacob gently but forcefully restrained her.

“Nothing we can do except get in the way. Leave it to my wife. She knows the cargo bay and the cargo better than anyone else on board.”

Visibly uneasy, the tall company rep swallowed hard. “I was thinking… I was thinking maybe if Mithun and I were present, we could try reasoning with him. As ranking representatives of the company, we could make him an offer to stand down. Money, a future platform on which to safely express his views—anything to keep him from carrying out his intentions.”

Jacob’s reply was kindly but firm. “We don’t know who he might be working with or what else he might want besides putting a stop to the mission. Unless Weyland-Yutani is prepared to comply with his demands, in a public forum, it doesn’t sound like you’d have much luck trying to persuade him.” When the rep still looked ambivalent, the captain added, “Besides, you want this kept as quiet as possible, right?”

Mithun muttered aloud. “How do you keep ‘taking someone’s head off’ quiet?”

Jacob put a reassuring hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “Hallet will already have cleared the area. None of the workers in the cargo section has access to the Covenant’s ship-to-surface relay system, so they can’t contact anyone on the ground. After this is over we’ll get them all together in one place and explain that the future of the mission, as well as a number of jobs, will be at risk unless this incident can be kept under wraps.” He paused. “We won’t have to specify whose jobs. I think we can keep a lid on this.”

Kajsa eyed him approvingly. “I didn’t think publicity management fell within a starship captain’s purview.”

He smiled slightly. “Then you don’t know how many careful answers I’ve had to give in the course of dozens of interviews during the past several years.” As he looked past her, his expression turned somber. “It’ll be a lot easier, of course, to manage the consequences if the missus can resolve it while keeping that section of the ship intact.”

Mithun eyed him curiously. “You don’t seem overtly worried about your wife’s safety.”

“It isn’t that I’m not worried,” Jacob told him evenly. “It’s just that I have complete confidence in her abilities. I know she’ll handle it. Hallet’s fully qualified, too, and completely competent, even if our head of Security is down on Earth.” He gestured toward another corridor. “Let’s head over to the bridge. We can monitor everything from there.”

The two representatives chattered nervously as Jacob led the way. He’d meant what he had told them: barring catastrophe, it should be possible to keep the incident confined to the ship. If necessary, a few suitable lies should be sufficient to calm any hint of concern. Just like he had lied to Mithun.

Though he didn’t show it, Jacob was worried sick.

III

The plan was in motion. The decision had been unanimous. If some on the Covenant died as a result, it would be so that billions might live.

Whatever was necessary to stop the colonization ship from departing was justified. Action could be delayed no longer. Each passing day brought the extraterrestrial mission closer to departure. Each rotation of the Earth represented missed opportunities. They bent to their work.

If on occasion one of them expressed uncertainty or showed hesitation, their resolve was easily stiffened. The reluctant person disappeared for a short time, and was subject to a full sensory barrage of the Prophet’s visions. Following this, the hesitant acolyte would return, his or her resolve redoubled.

Terror was a powerful motivator.

* * *

“You okay?”

Daniels asked the question of her companion as they hurried through the ship’s corridors. She would have felt more secure had Lopé been on board and in charge, but the chief of Covenant Security was on the planet’s surface, striving to fill the last available position on his team. Not that Hallet was incompetent: far from it. As with the rest of the crew, every member of the security team had been selected for a combination of military skills, physical competency, and attitude—the latter would be especially important when they arrived at Origae-6, and ship security became the colony’s first police force.

Instead of speaking, Hallet replied with a terse nod.

Privates Cole, Ledward, and Ankor were waiting for them at one of the personnel entrances to the massive cargo bay. All of them were wearing EVA suits. As Daniels stopped and caught her breath, Hallet queried his team.

“Any change?”

His big F90 rifle held out in front of him, Ankor shook his head once. Daniels recovered enough to notice that the safety was off. She didn’t have to ask if the weapon’s velocity setting had been adjusted for use inside the ship.

“Nothing,” Ankor replied. “He’s still back there by the main loading door, behind something with six wheels and a main cabin thick enough to stop anything short of a shoulder-fired piercer round. Which we couldn’t use inside, anyway.”

“Can’t get a clean shot, even if we get permission to fire,” Ledward said. “He’s keeping the service tech in front of him, and—”

“Wait a minute,” Daniels interrupted. “He’s got a hostage?” When Hallet nodded, she glared at him. “You didn’t tell us that. Why the hell didn’t you tell us that?”

The sergeant’s deportment did not change. “You really wanted the two suits from company to hear that? Both of them looked like they were going to have a heart attack as it was.”

She conceded the point. “Right. Okay, so there’s a hostage. How is he behaving?”

“She,” Ankor corrected. “Pretty well, considering that she’s in the hands of a crazy person who might at any moment blow the two of them out into space.”

Daniels’ thoughts churned. “Any chance she could get away from him?”

Ledward let out a snort. “Sure. Right before he shoots her in the back of the head. Near as we can see, he’s got only a pistol, but that’d do it. No heavy weaponry. Won’t need any if he blows the door.”

“He doesn’t seem concerned for his own life,” Hallet put in.

“The rest of the bay is secure?” Daniels pressed him.

The sergeant nodded. “Monitors show every piece of equipment as unoccupied and service spaces between are clear. There’s nobody left inside except crazy guy and his hostage. Whoever he is, he’s working this alone.” He was silent for a moment before continuing. “As a security situation, this falls within my sphere of operations—but I know you’ve got company reps on board. Plus—” he gestured toward the vast storage bay on the other side of the door “—I know you’re responsible for every piece of gear in there down to the last self-setting screw. I don’t want to do anything without getting your say-so. Any thoughts on how you want to proceed?”

She considered. “You said he claims to have set explosives in the bay. Do we know what kind of explosives?”

Hallet exchanged a glance with his team members before turning back to Daniels. “No idea. He didn’t go into details. He did say that he’s set packages at multiple locations.”

She nodded, thinking hard. “He’d have to. It would take a lot to blow the main door. So… multiple explosives at multiple points. To make a dent in the big door he’d have to set them all off—or most of them, at least—simultaneously. That suggests he’s working with some sort of remote detonator.”

The security team leader regarded her. “You sure you never worked security?” Hallet asked.

She shook her head, preoccupied. “When my section is involved, my cargo, my responsibilities, I try to think things through.” She looked up at the sergeant. “A remote detonator implies broadcasting an execute signal of some kind. Infrared would need line-of-sight. Short range RF would work better.” She eyed each of them in turn. “If we can’t disrupt his actions, maybe we can disrupt his device.”

“How we gonna do that?” The youthful Ledward’s trigger finger was twitching. All he wanted was one clean shot at the saboteur, but the monitors indicated their target had taken good cover. Whatever his ultimate rationale, while he might be crazy he wasn’t stupid. Daniels pulled her comm unit from her duty belt.

“Tennessee, you there?”

The reply from the bridge was immediate. “Right where I belong, darlin’,” the ship’s pilot said. “I hear there’s a, uh, situation in the main cargo bay.”

“Some wack job has planted explosives on the main door and taken a hostage. Monitors show him keeping under cover so security can’t get at him easily.” Then she pulled out her multiunit and checked a new readout. “Scans indicate that he’s got some kind of small nonstandard electronics installed in the glove of his right hand, and something else with a flex battery inside his right boot. We need to shut him down.”

“Tell me what to do.” From his position on the bridge, operating independently or in tandem with Mother, Tennessee or his wife and co-pilot Faris could control the entirety of the Covenant’s systems.

“Ship’s instrumentation is set up to remotely adjust or manipulate the programming on every piece of terraforming equipment, prior to their being unloaded on Origae-6,” Daniels said. “The same systems ought to work just as well right now. I want you to bathe the entire cargo bay in a full electromagnetic pulse. Smother the local spectrum with junk—range-specific pencil-beam broadcast. That should jam whatever frequency our unhappy visitor is using for whatever he’s installed in his glove and boot. An e-shutdown won’t deactivate the explosives, but if either the glove or the boot contains the detonator, he won’t be able to set them off.”

“This your call, darlin’?” Tennessee sounded more than a little dubious. “A full smother will scramble every unshielded instrument on every piece of equipment in the bay. Any of them that happens to be active will need to be completely reprogrammed.”

She smiled thinly. “It’s not like we won’t have plenty of time. Besides, when it comes to reprogramming, Mother can do the heavy lifting. In the meantime, I take full responsibility for this course of action.” She noted that Hallet was watching her closely.

“What happens if it doesn’t work?” the sergeant asked.

She shrugged once. “Then I’ll owe Weyland-Yutani a new cargo bay door—and Jacob and I will probably be searching for a new career arc.” She scanned the rest of the group. “Everybody suit up. Once we’re inside, cables down. If this doesn’t work and he blows the door, at least we won’t follow the gear out the back.” Once more she addressed the comm unit. “In five minutes, Tennessee.”

She turned back to the waiting security team. “Let’s move, and don’t forget those tie-down cables. I’m not gonna be in position to grab anybody if they go flying by. At five minutes two seconds, we go in… quietly.”

Hallet nodded. “The guy won’t even see us, but we’ll see him on our suit monitors.” She gave him a look, and he added, “We won’t do anything to endanger the hostage.”

“I’m counting on that,” she said. “I’m coming with you.” Pulling an EVA suit from a cabinet by the door, she climbed into it and let the stocky Private Cole help her with the helmet. “Suit comms will also be jammed, so we won’t be able to communicate with Mother. We’ll have to use the manual diaphragms to talk to each other. Once we make contact with the crazy, I’ll try reasoning with him.”

“We already did that,” Cole pointed out quietly through his thick beard. “As you know, it didn’t do a damn bit of good.”

“Maybe I can be more persuasive.” She checked the broadcast volume on the unit’s manual communications setup. “If nothing else, you can be positioning yourselves while I engage him.”

“If he doesn’t decide to kill the hostage first,” Ledward muttered.

“He kills her, he loses his shield.” Ankor was checking his rifle.

“Given his threat to blow the door while he’s standing right next to it, it doesn’t sound to me like he much cares if he lives or dies,” Daniels reminded the private. “All he wants is to fulfill his mission, which is to stop the Covenant from carrying out its own, and to vent whatever propaganda he’s cobbled together. Neither is going to happen.” She turned back to Hallet. “Time’s about up.”

He nodded. Hefting his own rifle, he positioned himself beside the door that opened into the cargo bay. As Daniels had surmised, the velocity of the F90’s ammo had been adjusted for safe use within the hull of the ship.

At five minutes plus two seconds, Ledward activated the door controls. Rifle raised, Cole led the way. Once inside he immediately moved to his left so that he wasn’t blocking the portal. Ankor followed him and slid to the right. Should it be needed, they could lay down covering fire. Hallet, Ledward, and, finally, Daniels advanced quickly into the cargo bay. One by one they attached their suits to the sliding emergency cables that would reel out behind them. In the event of the bay’s sudden, explosive decompression, the cables would keep them from being sucked out into space.

Mountains of sealed containers towered around them, containing supplies to help the colony establish itself. Farther down the cavernous storage area stood the panoply of machines that would enable the colonists to mine, process, irrigate, sow, and build. While the bulk of supplies and equipment had already been loaded onto the ship, further shipments were still due. As a result, not everything in the cargo bay had been secured for deep-space running. If the bay door blew, a lot of Weyland-Yutani’s expensive preparations were going to become a mass of useless orbital junk.

Daniels tried her suit comm. As she had hoped, it responded with a burst of static on all communications frequencies. Tennessee had done his job, but in the terrestrial atmosphere contained in the bay, her helmet diaphragm worked fine.

“Where?” was all she whispered to Hallet.

Word-wise, the sergeant proved still more economical. Cradling his F90 under his left arm he pointed with his right hand, then indicated to his team to move. Communicating with gestures, the small group spread out as they headed toward the back of the cargo area. They managed to cover quite a bit of distance before their presence was noted.

“That’s far enough! Stop right there!”

He wasn’t very big, Daniels observed. For a terrorist he was singularly unimpressive in appearance. No taller than herself, straight black hair balding in front, with typical Asian features and a slight build, he was dressed in a standard expedition prep tech uniform, and held a pistol. The middle-aged woman he held in front of him was half gray-haired and not from choice. She was stocky, wide-eyed, and plainly terrified.

The sight of Daniels flanked at intervals by four members of the Covenant security team holding very large guns did nothing to reassure her. Neither she nor the man standing behind her wore survival suits.

Hallet leaned slightly toward Daniels. “Hostage is identified as Cara Prestowicz, company contracted for pre-departure ship’s systems installation. She’s a tech, fourth class.”

Daniels nodded and took a couple of steps forward. As she did so, the saboteur pressed the muzzle of the pistol tight against the side of the woman’s head. Prestowicz let out a half-stifled cry and closed her eyes. Daniels could clearly see her lips moving in silent prayer.

“Take it easy, friend.” Her helmet diaphragm allowed her words to ring clearly above the soft mechanical humming that was the only other sound in the cargo area. Given the gravity of the situation, the bright non-electronic lighting that illuminated the bay and everything in it verged on the surreal.

“I’m not your friend!” The man licked his lips. His eyes kept darting in all directions, seeking other potential assailants. “I’m not going to let you stall me. Weyland-Yutani has to declare an end to the Origae-6 endeavor. If an announcement to that effect isn’t broadcast worldwide within the next half hour, I will activate a switch in my boot, and set off all the CT-12 I’ve placed at critical junctures around the main door to this hold.” He lowered his gaze.

“You all are cabled in and suited up,” he continued. “You will probably survive, although maybe not. Even if you do, it will take the company months to repair the door and replace the equipment that will be lost. Meanwhile, my colleagues will see to it that your security lapse will be revealed to the media, leading to a cancellation of the mission. So either way, the company loses and the mission is scrapped.” He nudged his hostage. She let out a second gasp and her lips moved faster.

“I am prepared to die for my cause,” he said. “This woman is not. The choice is yours.”

Daniels pursed her lips. “The choice has already been made.”

For the first time, he looked uncertain. “What are you talking about? The choice of how to proceed is mine, and mine alone!”

Hallet had heard about enough. “Not any more, manuke.”

Daniels took a deep breath. “All of the electronics in the cargo area have been smothered. You’ll notice that instead of our suit comms, my companions and I are using our suit diaphragms to talk.” She gestured toward his feet. “You can slap your foot all you want, even do an Irish jig, but your detonator won’t be able to make a connection.”

The saboteur’s face ran through a gamut of expressions from confident, to uncertain, to panic, before settling finally on uncertain.

“How do you know it isn’t a manual pressure trigger?”

She ventured a disarming smile. “Internal ship’s scanners showed electronics in your glove and boot. They wouldn’t be necessary if you were relying on simple pressure to set off the explosives. Also, a pressure trigger wouldn’t make sense. Too much chance of accidentally setting it off at the wrong time.” She paused, and her smile became grimmer. “But I wasn’t completely sure. I am now. If it was a pressure sensor, you wouldn’t even have mentioned it. You’d just be slapping your heel silly by now.”

Suddenly he bent to touch the heel of his right boot, tapping it with the tips of the fingers on his left hand. Daniels tensed. Around her, fingers tightened against triggers, but in lieu of Hallet’s order to do so, none of the team members fired. Though each of them was ready to take out the terrorist, the safety of the hostage remained paramount.

Expecting to die, the would-be saboteur looked startled when nothing happened. He slapped at his boot a second time, then a third, then grabbed it and furiously rubbed his right index finger against the heel. Nothing happened. The massive door behind him didn’t erupt in a mass of flame, didn’t blow outward, didn’t even sputter.

Daniels raised a hand toward him, palm upward.

“It’s over. Let Ms. Prestowicz go, put down the gun, and wait there.”

Hallet looked over at her. “He was scanned for body explosives when we found the detonator setup. There’s nothing on him. Or in him.” He turned his attention back to the now confounded terrorist. “We didn’t read any explosive chemicals in his pistol, either, so we think it must be a flechette weapon or something similarly pressure-driven.”

Cole grunted. “No bang, but just as deadly.” Rifle raised, he took a step toward the now rapidly panicking terrorist. “Flechettes won’t penetrate a survival suit, though.”

“Kono yarou! Keep back! Stay away!” Holding the hostage between himself and the security team, and with the slight curve of the hull against his back, the saboteur began working his way to his left toward the port side of the cargo bay. Hallet gestured silently to two of his team. Nodding their understanding they began to work their way around to the right, striving to get behind their target. Meanwhile, Daniels raised a hand and spoke to him again.

“Where are you going, bakayaro? You can’t get off the Covenant and you can’t hide inside her. Mother will find you no matter where you go. Let Ms. Prestowicz go, put down your weapon, and I promise I will personally see to it if something can be done for you.” She threw Hallet a warning look before turning back to the terrorist. “No harm will come to you. You haven’t actually done much of anything, yet. Taken a hostage and threatened her. Planted some inert explosives. You haven’t done any damage and you haven’t hurt anyone.” She offered what she hoped was a winning smile. “If you tell the authorities who your associates are who helped you set this up, you might get off with a very minimal sentence.”

Ignoring her entreaties, he kept moving until he reached a bend in the hull wall. Right where the two security personnel were waiting.

Given his modest stature they expected to take him down easily. What they didn’t expect was someone whose strength was magnified by an injection of t-pumpers, combined with a fanatic’s devotion to his task.

As they reached for him, intending to take him alive, he swung his screaming hostage violently around so that she slammed into the nearest man. Both went down in a heap. As the second security team member tried to back off and bring her weapon to bear, the saboteur leaped. Both legs struck her in the middle of her suit, collapsing it into her solar plexus and sending her to the ground, unconscious. As her companion rose and fought to disentangle himself from the frantic, flailing Prestowicz, the saboteur spun and launched a spinning back kick against his opponent’s head.

The blow was sufficiently powerful to send the security person slamming into the hull wall. His head pounded into one side of his helmet before ricocheting back into the other, the combined concussion causing him to collapse to the deck.

Without missing a beat the seemingly unprepossessing intruder reached down to grab Prestowicz by one wrist. Yanking her to her feet, he once again slung her around him front of him.

Throughout it all, a grim-faced Daniels noted, the man had somehow hung onto his weapon. Either he was much better trained than he appeared, or he was crammed full of performance-enhancing drugs. Or both. Not that it mattered.

Nowhere to go now, she told herself. Why didn’t he give up?

“Come on, man,” Hallet urged him. “It’s over. Give yourself a break.”

Yelling something indecipherable, their quarry shoved the softly sobbing technician toward his tormentors and made a break to his left. If it had been up to him, Hallet probably would have fired, but Daniels had alluded specifically to the intruder’s associates. Kill him, and they’d lose a potentially valuable source of information. So he held his fire and waited for instructions.

By the time they realized what the man was doing, it was too late.

It took the intruder only a moment to sprint into an open personnel airlock and seal himself inside. As he did he dropped his gun. Rushing after him, Daniels yelled at the transparent port, then realized the man within couldn’t hear her. Peering into the lock she could see that his expression of uncertainty and panic had been replaced by one reflective of a sudden inner calm. He looked almost content.

Moving to her right, she hit the intercom. Like every other control in the cargo bay, it continued to blink a steady soft yellow. It would continue to do so until she and her companions moved clear of the electromagnetic suppression field and she could once again communicate with Tennessee. So she was reduced to pounding on the port and hoping the man inside could read her lips.

“Come out!” she shouted. “Give yourself up!”

Ankor retrieved the man’s weapon and studied it a moment before passing it to Hallet. The sergeant showed it to Daniels. When she took it from his gloved hand, part of the stock crumpled under pressure from her fingers. Her gaze rose to meet the sergeant’s.

“Stiff paper,” she said. “It’s an origami gun.”

“Just hard enough to scare his hostage.” He nodded somberly. “No wonder it wasn’t detected when he brought it aboard.” He swore softly. “The explosives he plastered all over the main bay door are real, but this weapon is all bluff. For all we know, he didn’t even fold it until he was safely through security and on board.”

Handing it back to the sergeant, she returned her gaze to the port. Inside the lock, the man was calmly studying the instrument panel. By necessity the controls were shielded from the electronic suppression field that had swept the cargo bay. Surmising his intent, her eyes widened as she resumed hammering on the transparency.

“Don’t do it!”

Turning, he noticed her looking in at him, and smiled. One hand rose toward the control panel. She shouted “No, no!” over and over. He could not hear her. Mother could have secured the lock controls—if they could have communicated with Mother.

Then the time had passed as the man unlatched and lifted a security plate. Without hesitation he punched, in sequence, the three buttons his action had exposed. With her open palms resting on the port, Daniels felt the slightest of vibrations as the emergency bolts holding the exterior lock door blew. The door panel and attached mechanism flew out into space.

It was followed closely by the failed saboteur.

He was still smiling on his way out.

She turned away from the port. Looking in, Ledward let out a curse, then murmured to his team. But she didn’t hear. While they conversed among themselves she reminded herself that the Covenant’s hull integrity hadn’t been violated, and its valuable stores had not been compromised. Meanwhile, the threat posed by the would-be saboteur had been neutralized, and his hostage was safe.

Then why, she wondered, did she feel as if she had failed?

IV

“Weyland-Yutani owes you a debt of gratitude.”

Jacob and Daniels stood in the main personnel lock facing Mithun. A short distance away, his corporate colleague Kajsa was conversing with one of the chief technicians in charge of preparing the ship for its eventual departure.

Having exchanged secure communications with company headquarters in Tokyo and London, a much-relieved Mithun had been able to inform everyone who had been involved in resolving the “incident” that suitable promotions and bonuses had been authorized. Since none of the principals would ever return to Earth, the promotions were largely for show. The financial bonuses, on the other hand, could be utilized by relatives, friends, charities—whomever the members of the crew and security team wished to designate as recipients.

Jacob didn’t care about rank or money. A new world lay out there, waiting for the arrival of the Covenant and its compliment of sleeping colonists. He would be in charge of the colony on Origae-6. Far more than numbers in a bank account, he would have preferred to receive still more in the way of supplies. This despite his wife’s assurance that the colony would start off as well-equipped as contemporary technology could provide. As far as he was concerned, the Covenant could never have enough in the way of provisions.

One thing continued to nag at him.

Answers. They lacked answers. According to a quick search performed by Mother, the failed saboteur had made no attempt to hide his identity. Eric Sasaki, single, age 33, Yutani employee for twelve years. Service technician second class. Two minor work demerits, otherwise a clean record. Properly utilized his accumulated vacation time. Eighty percent positive credit for sick leave not taken. Nothing distinguished about his term of employment. All told, a better-than-average work record if nothing exceptional.

Why then would an apparently steady, trustworthy, run-of-the-mill employee suddenly turn against the only company for which he had ever worked, to the point of trying to violently stop its most ambitious project? One that promised benefits, not just for Weyland-Yutani, but for all of humankind?

They were missing something. Neither he nor his wife, however, had the time to spend parsing possible motives. As Kajsa declared, the sabotage attempt could have been a one-off by a single individual, disgruntled or holding a grudge for unknown reasons. And since Sasaki had committed suicide, they wouldn’t have the opportunity to ask him.

None of which kept Hallet from doubling down on shipboard security. It was encouraging that the terrorist hadn’t been able to bring a functioning weapon on board, and had been forced to resort to subterfuge instead. That he had been able to access terraforming explosives was considerably less reassuring. Thus, the sergeant had ordered permanent electronic monitors installed wherever they stored any cargo that could be similarly employed in a hostile manner.

While doing so, he wished vocally for his superior’s return.

“Well, we’re off.” Mithun shook Daniels’ hand, then Jacob’s. “After what happened, the company and I are more confident than ever of the colony’s success, knowing that it is in your capable hands.”

“We’ll do our best,” Jacob replied professionally. “When the majority of people you’re responsible for are asleep, administration is pretty straightforward.”

“You diminish yourself.” The rep looked over at Daniels. “Both of you.”

“I’d still like to know why this Sasaki person made his attempt.” Daniels tended to hold onto problems longer than her husband. “I know it won’t mean anything once we cut Neptune’s orbit, but I’d still like to know.” Her tone was grim. “In order to use the explosives, he had to have done some research, or undergone training outside his area of expertise.” She eyed her husband. “This wasn’t something done on the spur of the moment.”

“I promise you,” Mithun told her, “that once his motive or motives have been established, the explanation will be conveyed to you via transmission. You will have it prior to entering deepsleep, or you can review it at your leisure during a recharge session.” He hesitated, frowning. “Certainly, there were Weyland employees who were unhappy that the company was taken over by Hideo Yutani. Perhaps the roots lie there.”

“You’d have to be pretty ‘unhappy’ to go to the length of physically sabotaging a colony ship, just to keep it from carrying out its mission.” Jacob found the theory more than a little suspect. “Yutani employees, as part of Weyland-Yutani, have every bit as much riding on the success of missions like the Covenant’s.”

Daniels nodded in agreement. Behind them, the lights momentarily dimmed and then brightened. Electrical techs testing the system.

“After the takeover, Hideo Yutani paid tribute to everybody at Weyland,” she said, “by naming the company Weyland-Yutani. It could just as easily have gone the other way around.”

Kajsa peered down at her. “I’m sure honoring Peter Weyland and his efforts entered into choosing the final name, but Hideo Yutani is nothing if not the ultimate capitalist,” she said. “Being a Japanese industrialist, he’s much more interested in maintaining a low profile. Peter Weyland, on the other hand, was a name known to nearly everyone on the planet. More importantly, he was a brand in a personal way that Yutani never has been. To Mr. Yutani, exploitation of a family name does not constitute honor.”

Mithun eyed her uncomfortably. “You wouldn’t say that at a corporate meeting.”

“No,” she replied readily, “but I would in private, and I’d say it to Yutani’s face. Politely, of course. I don’t think he would be offended by the appraisal. In fact, I think he’d appreciate it.”

Mithun grunted. “Better you than me.” Abruptly a soft but insistent chiming sounded from his comm unit. He glanced at it briefly, then looked back at his hosts.

“In addition to the bonuses and promotions, I’m going to recommend a company commendation for the both of you, as well as for your Sergeant Hallet and his security personnel.”

Jacob shrugged. “You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s all right.” Kajsa eyed the husband-and-wife team. “For my part, I’m going to file a reprimand, because an unauthorized tech was able to access dangerous terraforming supplies, thereby threatening the ship and the entire mission.” She smiled pleasantly. “So the commendation and the reprimand will effectively cancel each other out, and in the cumulative report nothing will have changed.”

“Then why bother with it at all?” Daniels made no attempt to hide her irritation. “Now look, it wasn’t our fault that this Sasaki managed to—”

Her husband cut her off. “It doesn’t matter who was responsible. What matters is that the attempt failed. Hallet and, when he returns, Lopé, will go over every meter of the ship to ensure that it’s clear and clean before we activate the drive.” Resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder, he squeezed gently. “As captain, I’m responsible for everything that transpires on the Covenant—good or bad.”

“An attitude that explains why you are the captain.” Mithun’s comm chimed again, insistently this time. He turned to his colleague. “We have to go. We don’t want to miss the shuttle.”

Kajsa nodded and reached out. Jacob shook her hand. Daniels did likewise, albeit with some reluctance. She and her husband watched until both company representatives had disappeared around a bend in the corridor.

“Nice enough pair,” Jacob concluded aloud. “For company reps.”

His wife nodded. “Friendly but soulless.”

“Since when was a soul a requirement to climb the corporate ladder within Weyland?” He smiled at her. “Or Weyland-Yutani. No, all that matters are results. Anything related to a soul, or ethics, or morality, can be massaged or simply abandoned.”

She sighed heavily. “I’m going to miss Earth. But I’m not going to miss a lot of what it has become.”

“Just the usual course of evolution,” he replied. “Or devolution.” He turned toward a port that looked away from the nearby planet and out into space. “That’s one of the main reasons the company had no difficulty getting people to sign up. Plenty of those on the ground are looking for a fresh start.”

She nodded understandingly. “Just like me and thee.” She turned to go. “I need to supervise a detailed check on the main cargo bay. Make sure nothing was overlooked.”

He put out a hand to restrain her.

“Hallet knows his business,” he said. “Let him and his team do their job.” When she started to object, he put a finger to her lips. “I know that cargo bay is your territory, and the terraforming gear is your baby, but you can’t do everything. If you head back there and, uh… participate, Hallet will feel as if we don’t have full confidence in him and his people. Don’t you have something else to attend to?”

She had to grin. “Yeah. Just ‘one or two’… thousand. You’re right.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “You know, if this Sasaki just wanted to put a halt to the mission, he could have placed the explosives and simply set them off. Why expose himself the way he did? So that the bay could be cleared? Just so he could broadcast whatever crazy speech he had planned?” She looked up at him. “His actions imply that he wanted to stop the Covenant from leaving, but without hurting anybody.”

Jacob considered. “So then, a compassionate fanatic? Kill the mission, but not the people? He never said that.”

“No, but his actions said it.” She looked uneasy. “It still doesn’t make sense that he was working alone. If nothing else, somebody had to show him how to set the charges.”

“Not necessarily.” Jacob shook his head. “He was a trained tech, and could have learned all he needed to know from searching the available literature.”

“If only I could’ve kept him locked in the lock.” A buzz sounded from her own comm unit. She recognized the source—one of the cargo techs, probably wanting her to resolve a storage conflict. Professionalism kicked in, overriding her unsatisfied curiosity. “Need to go.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll leave Hallet alone, I promise.”

“As will I. If there are any lingering concerns, he can discuss them with Lopé when the sergeant returns. Me, I need to get with Oram and Karine to make sure that last batch of colonists is settling safely into deepsleep.” He grinned. “One thing about commanding a colony ship: once we’re under way, I’ll never have to worry about complaints from the passengers.”

They went separate ways, he to the bridge and Daniels heading for the cargo bay that had been the recent scene of a potentially crippling confrontation.

She knew Jacob was right. Hallet and his team would be methodically checking the area for any explosives they might have missed on the initial sweep. The sergeant didn’t need her looking over his shoulder. Besides, the incident had already put her behind in her own work.

But even as she moved to resume her schedule, she found herself wishing she could have had time enough to ask the enigmatic Mr. Sasaki one or two very penetrating questions.

V

For decades no one had known how many people actually lived in Greater London. So many migrants had poured in from other parts of the planet that the overwhelmed Census Bureau eventually gave up. As a result, for the past forty years the population had been estimated, instead of counted.

Even that much would have been impossible without the aid of scanning drones, but as with the human counters, the drones missed the troglodytes who eked out an existence in the tube tunnels, and the scavengers who ate, slept, and screwed in the corridors of the increasingly interconnected buildings. Save for the infiltration and proliferation of advanced technology, inner London was coming more and more to resemble ancient Kowloon’s walled city as its buildings pressed together above roadways and historical landmarks.

Despite the passage and enforcement of progressively stricter anti-pollution laws, there was only so much the authorities could do. As a result, when winter took hold, melting snow and rain combined to produce a dirty slush that made walking itself hazardous. The Thames Barrier still managed—barely—to hold back the floods and intruding ice floes. Spring was tolerable, and autumn was threatening.

Then there was summer.

Summer drove anyone who could afford to leave out of the city. The millions unable to do so were forced to endure a choking, cloaking layer of heat-simmered particulates that could make breathing not just dangerous, but potentially lethal. Compared to the contemporary atmosphere, the original London “fogs” would have seemed like a breath of fresh air.

The authorities and scientists blamed it all on the melting Greenland ice sheet that drove the Gulf Stream southeast and away from the British Isles. This played havoc with traditional weather patterns in northern Europe from Dublin to Denmark and beyond. There was nothing that could be done except suffer through until fall, or leave the planet behind entirely.

For Sergeant Lopé, taking a break and watching a vid stream, the weather was one of many things that motivated him in his life’s choices. Though head of ship’s security and only incidentally a colonist, Lopé was among those bidding a relieved farewell to the Earth. Once on Origae-6, he would become chief of planetary security with his partner Hallet as second-in-command. He would hold an important position in the incipient planetary government.

Not that he gave a rat’s ass about status. He was looking forward to spending the rest of his life breathing air without having to wear a mask, drinking water that wasn’t processed through filters and treated with chemicals, and walking for hours at a time without being bumped and crowded and cursed by hundreds, thousands of his stinking fellow humans.

As far as he was concerned, the launch couldn’t come soon enough.

His own personal departure would come only when the ship’s security detail was at full strength. That goal was within sight. He only needed to sign one more recruit. Then he and the final conscript could depart—separately or in tandem—for the ship. With luck, that would be the final time he would be required to set foot in the broken cradle of mankind.

It should have been easy. Certainly he had thought so when the company had started vetting applicants. But while there were plenty of qualified contenders for many of the colonial positions, security was such a sensitive area, and the company proved exceptionally picky when it came to hiring. Hundreds of eligible aspirants had been winnowed down from several thousand, and at the end he would be allowed to select only one.

Almost done, though, he told himself. One more slot to be filled, one more application to be approved. Then he could take the fast train north to the Wash shuttleport. He didn’t even need a reservation. As the Covenant’s chief of security he could claim any seat on any Weyland-Yutani shuttle heading for orbit.

The room where he was conducting interviews was located on the fourth floor of an 80-story-tall company subsidiary tower. The office was small, relatively soundproof, and there were no exterior windows. A mid-level executive would have been mortified to have been assigned such a confined space. Lopé didn’t give a shit. He was used to life in the field, familiar with the rough camp life of a soldier. Anything resembling a luxury would have been wasted on him.

His whole adult life had been about the job, which in turn meant that it had been all about surviving. That in the course of his career he had lost nothing more permanent than a back tooth—and that not from combat—was a greater testament to his martial skills than any brace of shiny medals. He had been knocked down, wounded, had bones broken, and owned a plethora of hidden scars—but physically as well as mentally, he was intact. Properties much to be valued in the settling of a new colony.

For someone who seemed to have as much testosterone as blood in his veins, he got along exceptionally well with people. It was this combination of battlefield expertise and empathy that had landed him the chief’s position. It was why he was interviewing the applicants for the final security team slot, instead of some mannered executive or steroid-driven officer. He’d decided to forego any uniform for the interviews, as well. Casual clothes generally put people at ease.

The final interview process would have been familiar to anyone occupying a similar position from a hundred years earlier. Every applicant waiting in the outer office had already passed the requisite written and physical testing. Each had undergone preliminary and intermediate questioning by a virtual interrogator.

All that was left for them was to convince a single gruff-but-polite ex-soldier that they were best suited to spend years in deepsleep, then settle and police a new world that would be cut off from their homes, their families, their pasts, and all other human beings save their fellow sleepers.

Of necessity and by design, the security team was small. In a pinch the rest of the crew could help out, all of them having been trained in the fundamentals. But if a difficult situation arose, it would be up to the official security team to deal with it. Which meant that any decisions involving ship or colony security would land first, last, and always, upon his shoulders and his alone.

It was that knowledge that induced him—despite his dislike of the city—to take his time interviewing the final candidates for the last open position. Ultimately a commander was only as successful as his troops in the field. When that field lay many light-years away, there would be no opportunity to send home a recalcitrant subordinate, and discipline was something they would have to live with forever.

Given the consequences, it behooved him to take his time and be careful who he chose to serve under him.

Having satisfied every requirement—including the interview with Lopé—Privates Ledward, Ankor, and Cole were busy aboard the Covenant, carrying out their duties under Sergeant Hallet. They would continue to do so until soon after their departure from Earth orbit. At that point the security team and the crew would take their place in deepsleep alongside the colonists.

He looked forward to joining them. For anyone who was physically, mentally, and emotionally prepared for it, deepsleep was a welcome respite from anything resembling real work.

“Earn while you doze,” one Weyland wag had put it. Except it would be your relatives, friends, and any other designated beneficiaries who spent your paycheck.

Grunting softly, he switched off the vid stream he had been watching and smoothed a beard that sported highlights of gray. Allowed to take breaks between interviews in order to refresh himself, he didn’t hesitate to do so at every opportunity. He couldn’t delay forever, though, nor did he really want to. He knew he was going to have to settle on someone soon.

The trouble was that everyone he had spoken with over the course of the past month had been—incomplete. There were superb tactical fighters who struck him as all too ready to shoot first and analyze later. Folks with impressive records who were intellectually overqualified. Empathetic electronic warriors who would fail in hand-to-hand combat with a macaque.

There was the sizable contingent of applicants who wanted to leave Earth for all the wrong reasons. A busted relationship, a failing marriage, dissatisfaction with a job, a desire to leapfrog the chain of command. Some were ex-military who feared civilian life, but what did they think a colony was about, anyway? While many appeared to be supremely qualified, they had the wrong motivations.

Or they were lacking in other areas, physical or technical. With only one position left open on his team, Lopé could afford to be choosy. Yet the time factor was beginning to weigh on him.

Swiveling in his chair he leaned against a cushion of air that held his back a couple of centimeters away from the seat back itself. Lopé gazed through the one-way oval window that allowed him to see from the interview room into the outer waiting area. The applicants couldn’t see him, though—anyone looking in his direction would see only a panosolve, cycling images of landscapes designed to brighten the otherwise sterile exterior lounge.

Visually, the current group of applicants was reasonably impressive. All physically fit, of course. Mostly young, with a couple of middle-aged aspirants sprinkled in among them. That had been the case every day since he had started doing the interviews. Yet thus far, no one had satisfied every one of his personal requirements.

If nothing else, they would be glad to wait inside one of the city’s monumental buildings. In contrast to the grime-splattered, smog-smothered, rain-soaked world outside, the sterilized interior of the Weyland-Yutani tower was spotlessly clean, its air continuously scrubbed of contaminants. He almost hated to have to turn them out, one by one, into a world that had long since ceased to be inviting to human beings.

He looked forward to being back on board the Covenant. He missed Hallet. He looked forward to finishing the task at hand. Which, he reminded himself, would never happen if he didn’t keep at it. Reluctantly, he spoke to the thick, transparent, intelligent slab of sentilite that formed the desk in front of him.

“Send in the next victim.”

VI

As the door slid aside, he was assailed by the buzz of inconsequential chatter coming from the waiting area. The woman who made her way into the interview room was strikingly attractive—tall, with red hair mowed in a buzz cut on the left side of her head and shoulder-length matching strands on the right. She had steady blue eyes, a small mouth, and a distinctively aquiline nose. She wore no makeup and nothing extraneous save for a single silver orb earring that floated an infinitesimal distance away from her left earlobe. Her jump pants and matching long-sleeve blouse were devoid of insignia, though, interestingly, he could see where several patches had been removed. He reminded himself to, in the course of the interview, ask her why the identification had been excised. Was she not proud of where and in what unit she had served?

He would find out soon enough.

Beneath the pants and blouse her figure was trim and tight. What he could see of her forearms suggested someone who continued to exercise hard and regularly, even if not on active service. All very promising, he told himself, but then, appearances often were. It was not that they were deceiving; only that they were usually insufficient.

He waved a hand in the general direction of the desk’s integrated projector. What he had been viewing earlier was replaced by a rotating image of the young woman who stood before him. It was accompanied by a three-dimensional list of stats that scrolled up or down in concert with the movement of his pupils.

“Meryem Tadik,” he said. “Nice to meet you. I am your interviewer, Sergeant Carl Lopé.”

“Thank you for seeing me, Sergeant Lopé.” She smiled in response. It seemed forced, but that was to be expected. All genuine applicants were nervous, at least in the beginning. Those who weren’t often found themselves disqualified due to overconfidence.

He continued to read aloud from the display, reciting her educational background, service experience, and awards.

“Not married. One long-term relationship, terminated approximately two years ago.” He glanced at her. “Given your life experience, age, and appearance, I find your continued lack of a mate surprising.”

She shrugged, shifting in her chair. “Given my life experience, age, and appearance, I’ve had a hard time finding someone able to measure up to my standards.”

He suppressed a smile. “Crew and colonists have to ship as couples. Security team members do not—but you already know that, or you wouldn’t have bothered applying.” A finger indicated a blue line on the hovering readout. “There’s a brief entry concerning an M’ba Ashoki. What happened with him? Why didn’t that work out?”

“I caught him with someone else.” Her reply was a polite monotone. “Later he tried to apologize. From his hospital bed.”

Lopé nodded understandingly and moved on. In response to a double blink of his left eye, the infoscroll obediently froze. “Says here he drifted away from you because you were becoming involved with too many interests outside of your active duty assignments.”

Her lips firmed ever so slightly. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it or, noticing it, they would have paid it no mind. Not Lopé. As with any finalist, he had been watching her closely from the moment she had entered. Now he began watching her intently.

“I don’t see what bearing my private life has on my application,” she said, a little less under control. “My past becomes moot when I leave Earth forever.”

He leaned forward slightly. “But you’re not leaving your fellow humans forever. You’ll be in a position to watch over them, and may eventually be called on to settle disputes between them. That requires a certain degree of empathy.”

One long leg crossed over another, then back again. They were shapely, Lopé thought. They were also moving around too much.

“I passed all of the psychological tests.” Some of her initial aplomb returned. “I must have, or I wouldn’t be sitting here in front of you now.”

He nodded. “Having taken those tests, you’d also know that a final interviewer is permitted to ask whatever questions happen to come to mind, however unnecessarily intrusive or seemingly irrelevant they might happen to be.”

“Sorry.” A wide smile this time. “It’s just that I know this interview is make-or-break for me, and I’m more than a little nervous.”

“I’m allowing for that.” Using his eyes, he moved to another portion of the readout and enlarged it. “That would explain why your heart rate is so high, why your blood pressure is up, and why your neural patterns show evidence of prevarication.”

One neatly up-curled eyebrow twitched. “Are you accusing me of lying?”

“Who, me?” Lopé made a show of looking offended. “Not me! I’d never do such a thing.” He indicated the floating readout. The display facing him wasn’t visible to her. She shifted in her seat, fighting to control her outrage.

“I’m not going to sit here and be insulted,” she said tightly. “Certainly not by a program whose origin and results are unknown to me.”

“That’s perfectly understandable, and easily corrected.” He waved his left hand, and the floating display instantly showed a mirrored image of itself to the applicant. “Program doesn’t say you’re lying.” His voice hardened. “You said that. Program suggests that you’re being evasive. Evasions are not lies. They are, however, suspect. If you’re not lying about something, then it’s likely you’re hiding something.” He leaned forward, over the edge of the sentilite desk, and lowered his voice.

“What are you hiding, Ms. Tadik?”

“I am not hiding anything!” Despite an evident effort to maintain control of herself, she couldn’t keep her voice from rising. “What good would it do me? I couldn’t hide anything from Weyland-Yutani if I wanted to. No one can. Not even you!”

He sat back. “You wouldn’t know that unless you’ve already tried to do so, and failed at it.”

Angry and exasperated, she rose from the chair. “Forget this. I’ve had enough.” Turning, she nodded in the direction of the nearby outer office. “There must be thirty, forty finalists still waiting out there. Pick one of them. I’m through with this nonsense.”

“That’s your choice to make.” The sergeant started to rise. “But I’m not quite through with you, Ms. Tadik. There are one or two additional questions I think I need to ask you.” He smiled pleasantly. “Just to conclude the record of this interview. If you don’t mind?” Standing now, he indicated the chair she had just vacated.

“But I do mind,” she snapped back. “You’ve trashed quite enough of my reputation, Mr. Lopé. I’m not going to let you denigrate me any further.”

Trashed? All he’d done, Lopé reflected, was ask the same kinds of questions he’d put to previous applicants. Partly to resolve questions of character, partly to clear up inconsistencies in personal histories, but also to see how each applicant would fare when pressured about personal matters. Some had lied, some had hemmed and hawed, a few had taken umbrage, but most had answered calmly and as truthfully as they were able, regardless of how embarrassing the questions might be.

Not this Meryem Tadik. What she was doing, albeit slowly, was preparing to bolt. He didn’t need a program to tell him that. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her muscles were tensing up. He could just as easily have let her go and moved on to the next applicant, but his military curiosity was piqued. He would have felt more comfortable about the confrontation had she simply cursed him out. That kind of response might not even have prevented him from hiring her. But she was being defensive as well as evasive.

Why?

“Just another quick question or two, Ms. Tadik,” Lopé insisted. “Please note that I haven’t ruled you out as a candidate.” As he started to come around the desk he again indicated the chair. “If you’ll just sit back down…”

“No.” She moved away from him and toward the door. “I don’t think I will. I told you, I’m done. I’ll leave you to harass someone else.”

He shook his head regretfully as he approached her. “Asking a routine set of questions hardly constitutes ‘harassment.’ None of those who have already entered into the service ever used that description, regardless of the line of inquiry.” Reaching out, he gently grasped her right forearm.

Its density startled him.

She shook him off. “Leave me alone, Sergeant. Find somebody else.” As the door opened he moved again to restrain her, and she kicked out. A rising side kick, delivered fast and hard. His training allowed him to drop an arm to block it, but the impact was enough to send him stumbling back toward the desk.

“Stop!” His shout followed her as she bolted through the outer office lounge. Disappointingly, not one of the waiting applicants thought to try to intercept her.

“Hey! Hold on there!” Seated candidates looked startled as the sergeant came sprinting out of the interviewing room. Standing ones found themselves shoved aside.

Lopé lost sight of her, and he pulled up short in front of two opposing lines of lift stations at the end of the hallway. Company employees eyed him with a mixture of disquiet and bewilderment.

“Tall woman, split red hairdo, late twenties,” he barked. “Which way?” A dozen stunned workers gaped back at him. “Somebody tell me something, goddamnit!”

An elderly woman dressed as a senior executive, the last member of the cluster Lopé expected to hear from, spoke up.

“That way, I think.” She pointed to her right.

Stairs. The automatic door barely had time to open as the sergeant rushed the portal. Once through he flew downward, descending the steps two and three at a time. The absence of a fire chute was a blessing. Had one been available, Tadik would already have reached the ground floor and disappeared into the roiling, snarling pedestrian tide that ebbed and flowed against the tower’s exterior.

As he swung around a stairwell, his feet off the floor, something pinged against the wall just to his left. There was a flash of light, a crackling sound, and a brief but intense whiff of ozone. Had the positively charged plastic shell struck him, it would have flashflared his nervous system, resulting in momentary paralysis. Unable to control his muscles, he would have toppled head-first down the stairs and into the next landing. Some such charged shells were powerful enough to induce a myocardial infarction, and could kill him.

Plastic charge and battery wouldn’t necessarily show up on the building’s security systems, he knew. Especially if they had been brought inside camouflaged in a purse or bag. Later, he would have a few choice words for tower security. Assuming he didn’t get himself shot before then.

As he continued to descend, a second round struck so close to his head that his right ear and cheek went numb. If he ate anything over the course of the next six hours, he would probably drool. But by now he didn’t care about anything except catching up to the uncooperative Ms. Tadik. Plainly, she was distressed about something considerably more significant than a few inconvenient questions involving her love life.

He slowed slightly. She was armed, he was not, so he’d have to be careful in picking his spot to try to take her down. It would have to be soon, too. Her height and hairdo were distinctive, but not exceptional. If she succeeded in slipping outside and into the torrent of pedestrian traffic, he could lose her entirely.

His options were limited. If he raised a ruckus in the lobby, there was a real risk of inducing general panic among the hundreds of employees and visitors who would be milling about. Security personnel posed a problem, as well. Though none of the building’s guards were armed with lethal weaponry, a wrong takedown burst from a crowd control device could still do serious damage, especially to the weak or elderly.

In a sense, he was running the same mental simulations as he would have on a battlefield, except in this case there were only two combatants, and one of them was unarmed. That didn’t mean Lopé was defenseless, though—far from it—but the best-trained hand-to-hand combatant couldn’t defeat an armed opponent, no matter how weak. And whatever else she might be, the fleeing redhead hadn’t struck him as weak.

The question that kept him pursuing was: why had she bolted from the interview? Had she seen that his suspicions were aroused? Lopé’s interest was invariably piqued whenever someone shot at him. Usually his adversaries’ motivations were known, though. He badly wanted to know what was motivating Tadik.

He had a bad moment when he broke out on the second floor mezzanine and didn’t spot her. Fortunately, it was a spacious area and not especially crowded. Most visitors and workers were either on the office floors above or in the faux-marbled main atrium below. The haptic gold-toned banisters and swirled metal walls gleamed around him, polished to a high luster by silent, busy Weyland-Yutani drones. Scattered among the touch-responsive, flowing metal, organics stood out.

There she was, heading for one of the two wide, curving stairways that led down to the main floor. She was walking fast; not quite running, not wanting to draw attention to herself. While there was no sign of her plastic pistol, he doubted she had abandoned it. She was trying hard to blend into the crowd. Maybe she thought in the course of the stairwell descent she had outdistanced her pursuer. Maybe she thought that, having been shot at twice, he had given up the pursuit. Maybe she thought he had taken a wrong turn, or stopped to call for help.

If so, she didn’t know him very well. No individual became Chief of Security on a colony ship because they were prone to giving up.

Making use of oblivious workers to provide intermittent cover, he slowly made up the distance between himself and his quarry. Once, when she looked back to see if anyone was following her, he just managed to duck behind a pillar, concealing himself behind the curving screen that gave the supporting column the appearance of a silent cylindrical waterfall. As soon as her attention turned to the curving stairs that beckoned just in front of her, he slipped out again and resumed his stalk.

Unless she panicked and broke into a run at the last minute, he would catch up to her just before she reached the building’s Security station. There was no exit security, of course, but at that point he would be able to grab her while simultaneously identifying himself to the diligent personnel, and avail himself of their assistance.

No one gave him a second glance as he followed her down the sweeping stairway. It was wide and glistening and fashioned after a much smaller staircase in an ancient movie. He was maybe twenty feet behind her when she stepped off the last step and onto the main floor. Another few seconds and they would be near the main entrance to the tower. He felt confident he could grab and disarm her, even if she tried to pull a hidden weapon.

All his planning was interrupted as a commotion erupted off to his left.

Near the center of the main entrance, just beside the huge Weyland-Yutani symbol that was inlaid in the floor in marble and multi-colored industrial glass, two figures were grappling.

The woman was short and tanned, with wide eyes and full lips, while her adversary was lean and clad in the rumpled attire of a construction worker. His mien didn’t go with his clothing—he looked like someone who had spent fifteen years at university to no apparent benefit.

Lopé’s gaze widened slightly at the sight of the sonic impeller the man held. As an industrial tool, it wouldn’t be subject to the usual security checks. Using sound, the device could move and position large pieces of stone or metal. It could also, he knew as it went off with a reverberant crack, cleanly remove someone’s head from his neck.

He dove to the floor.

Despite the industrial-strength muffler that surrounded it, the impeller emitted a loud sonic burst when it went off. Providentially, the shaped circular burst missed everyone in the atrium as it blew a hole in the base of the transparent, four-story high exterior wall. The panic Lopé had feared ignited anyway as workers and visitors scattered screaming in all directions. To their credit, several members of the security team drew their weapons and started in the direction of the shooter. They were prevented from reaching him by the chaos that quickly enveloped the main floor.

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 to 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.”

Another of the Brits readily agreed with the assessment. “It makes sense.” He looked around the table. “Someone—or more likely, some organization—does not want the Covenant mission to succeed. Does not want the colony on Origae-6 to be established. Whoever it is has people who are willing to go to any lengths, including sacrificing themselves, to achieve that goal.” Then he hesitated. “But who? And why?”

One of the other Yutani executives had taken a sip of the expensive whiskey from a glass he had half-filled with the golden liquid. Careful not to mar the wood, he put it down on the table and voiced a single word. Or rather, spat it out. Politely, but with sufficient emphasis as to leave no doubt as to how he felt.

“Jutou.”

Of all the companies that had sought to take over Weyland Corporation following the disappearance of Peter Weyland, none had given Yutani more trouble or made a stronger effort than the giant Chinese combine. Enormous sums had been bid back and forth, promises had been made under other tables besides the one fashioned of kinoki cypress. Careers had been put on the line, individuals had been compromised, and a great deal of the corporate equivalent of blood had been left on the floor.

In the end, Hideo Yutani and his company had triumphed. The takeover was complete, a done deal. This was understood and had been reluctantly accepted by all the other failed corporate bidders.

Except the men and women running Jutou.

They continued to probe and prod, raising issues wherever possible, challenging the legality of the merger, striving to compromise individual personnel, seeking to undermine the takeover in every way possible. Their position was well-known. They would not go quietly about their own business. There was too much at stake: Peter Weyland’s scientific legacy, his property. Factories. Irreplaceable human resources. Control of the human colonization of space.

The David patents.

Weyland-Yutani now had all that. Jutou Combine still wanted it. As their company history showed, when sufficient assets were at stake, the Chinese giant could be relentless. It could be persuasive. It would do whatever was necessary to achieve its goals.

The third Brit spoke up. “Certainly likely Jutou is a reasonable explanation, but would they really go so far as to resort to corporate sabotage? Even assassination.”

“Mr. Davies, I fear you are naïve.”

Hideo Yutani addressed the speaker. The comment stung no less for having been delivered softly. The executive named Davies seemed to shrink into his chair. The company president turned his attention to the rest of the board.

“Myself, I would put nothing beyond the people who run Jutou. I know that from having had to deal with them long before these recent incidents. As yet, we have no proof they are responsible. It would be premature, not to mention potentially libelous, to confront them with direct accusations. Before we can contemplate challenging them openly, we need more than supposition.”

“A confession from one of their operatives would be a good first step,” said the Yutani executive.

“Indeed.” Yutani folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Unfortunately, we find ourselves short of candidates, since two are dead, and another successfully vanished onto the streets of London. We have no witnesses and no proof that Jutou is responsible for anything.” He leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply. “We have only our suspicions.”

Having finished his shot glass of whiskey, the executive who had spoken earlier moved to refill it. As Hideo Yutani turned in his direction, the man froze, his hand halfway to the decanter. The frustrated company president waved irritably in his direction.

“Go ahead and indulge yourself, Shiro. Maybe the whiskey will inspire a suggestion or two. It seems as if we are not going anywhere sober.”

It was an invitation to drink, not to get drunk. Shiro could read between the lines as clearly as any of them. Two other executives helped themselves to the sturdy tipple as well. Their companions limited their imbibing to water. Eventually the British woman broke the silence.

“Assuming Jutou is behind this, what do they gain by stopping the departure of the Covenant?”

“I think the answer to the question is obvious,” Jenny Yutani said. “The longer they can keep the Covenant from departing, either by damaging the ship itself, compromising its personnel, or somehow compelling us to refrain from allowing it to leave, the more Weyland-Yutani’s competence will be called into question. With so many lives at stake—indeed, the future of the human colonization of space—more and more questions will be asked, and public opinion will begin to harden against us. Eventually, the legitimacy of our takeover will come into question.”

She looked around the table.

“It would be nice if this was simply a matter of company business,” she continued, “but the media would harp on issues like ‘the fate of mankind’ and ‘the lives of innocents.’ It is hard to fight intangibles. While we are forced to struggle with such issues, Jutou will work behind the scenes, with the help of various governments, to undermine the status of the merger.

“If the company breaks up, if the merger is undone, Jutou will certainly be there to pick up the pieces.”

Davies spoke up again. “Nothing can break the union of Weyland and Yutani,” he said, agitation clear in his tone. “Not other companies, not individuals, not even governments. Nothing!” As he spoke, he raised his voice.

Narrowing his gaze, Hideo Yutani looked over at him.

“Mr. Davies, all of us have great confidence in the soundness of our union, and in our corporate future. Your enthusiasm is to be commended, but it is misplaced in this setting. I need answers, not reinforcement.” His smile was encouraging but cold. “You look tired. A little fresh water to the face might both revive and calm you.”

Davies paled. It was almost a dismissal. Rising, he made his way around the table and moved toward the boardroom portal. As transparent as the wall into which it was set, the doorway opened at his approach. No one looked at him as he left. As the portal closed behind him, the discussion in the boardroom resumed—without him.

Steadying himself, he headed for the corporate washroom, located some distance away. On the way he happened to glance at another transparent wall that separated a large greeting area from the rest of the offices on the floor. At this hour of the night there were no secretaries there, no official greeters. There were only the company bodyguards who had accompanied several of the executives, including the boss and his daughter.

Davies halted, confused.

The bodyguards were very busy.

Three figures clad entirely in black were engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the four security personnel. Everything he could see seemed to be taking place in slow-motion: the disarming of the bodyguards, the use of edged weapons, the splattering of blood on the outer wall. Too engaged to look in his direction, neither the bodyguards nor their assailants noticed the stunned, staring executive.

Davies turned and ran. Fumbling with his comm unit, Davies called to alert downstairs Security. It seemed like it took hours for them to answer. He hissed an alarm into the comm, afraid to speak too loudly. Finally bursting back into the boardroom, he ignored his colleagues’ startled looks and the expression of silent outrage on the face of Hideo Yutani.

“We’re under attack! Our people are fighting with—I don’t know who they’re fighting with!”

One of his colleagues rose abruptly. “That’s impossible! No one can reach this floor without alerting Security.”

Davies whirled on him. “Tell that to the intruders with bloody swords. You go tell them that their presence here is impossible.” He looked to Yutani. “I’ve already notified Security Central. They should be on their way. Meanwhile, I think we should really consider using whatever emergency escape route might be available.”

“We would have to get to the roof.” He remained calm, though his expression said differently. “If these intruders are already in the outer office, our path to the lifts is blocked.” He looked around at the board members. “We will have to wait here and hope that our people prevail.”

“If th-they d-don’t?” a male member of the Weyland contingent stammered.

“One crisis at a time, Mr. Beckman.” Yutani reached for his own bottle of Yamazuki. “Meanwhile, I suggest we all follow the lead of Arioki-san and fortify ourselves as best as we can.” Half filling his glass, he used it to salute the other Englishman. “I applaud your quick thinking in alerting Security, Mr. Davies. With luck, our people will keep the intruders confined to the hallway until building security arrives.” He smiled encouragingly at the others. “That should not take long.”

VIII

Five minutes earlier…

The bodyguards were well-trained, but it was late, they were tired, and there was no special reason for them to be unusually alert or on guard. As far as they knew, all they had to do was chat, keep an occasional eye on the lifts, and wait for their employers who were meeting in the boardroom. Readouts and audible alarms would alert them if any of the elevators came their way.

The lift indicators were as quiet as ever when the three black-clad intruders emerged from the compromised service elevator. Only one of the four armed escorts heard the parting of the silent doors on another part of the floor. As he looked around, he drew his pistol from its shoulder holster. At the first sign of motion as he started to shout a warning to his colleagues, he was hit in the throat by an airborne, electrically powered shuriken with a miniaturized integrated guidance system that sent it speeding unerringly toward its target.

Instantly alert, the other bodyguards managed to get off several shots. Most missed their intended targets. Two that hit home were deflected by the flexible body armor the intruders wore beneath their black outer clothing. The interlopers, however, favored more classic methods of dealing murder—powered throwing stars notwithstanding. Knives were much in evidence.

Like the intruders, the bodyguards wore undergarment armor of their own. That did not protect them from accurately wielded traditional weaponry that had been modified to contemporary standards. Racing toward the invaders, one guard took a throwing star to the forehead. Its ancient predecessor would have stuck firm, wounding the target.

Propelled by a tiny integrated motor and guidance system, the star cut through skin, flesh, bone, and brain to shoot out the back and bury itself in a far wall, its miniscule engine still sputtering. As a network of severed arteries spurted blood ceilingward from the crevasse that had appeared in the man’s head, he slowed to a stagger. His eyes were still open when he toppled over sideways.

More massive than his assailant, another of the bodyguards succeeded in grappling with one of the intruders. A powerful arm forced aside the attacker’s arm. Immediately the intruder let go of the knife he had been holding.

Guided by the sensory chip embedded in his left eye, the ceramic blade launched itself out of his hand and into the throat of the startled bodyguard. Stumbling backward and clutching at himself, the bigger man wrapped thick fingers around the self-powered weapon. As he struggled with both hands to pull it free, the tiny engine in the tang continued to push the point deeper. Blood from the pierced carotid artery flowed down the front of the guard’s previously immaculate jacket.

One by one the bodyguards were sent, broken and bleeding, to the floor. There followed the surreal spectacle of the board of Weyland-Yutani looking on with a varied mix of astonishment and horror as the intruders stepped over the four bodies they had rendered immobile and made their way toward the boardroom.

* * *

As the intruders came within sight of the boardroom and its occupants, Hideo Yutani feigned disinterest with the aplomb for which he was famous. As the rest of the board members stood and reacted with various degrees of alarm, even terror, the diminutive Takeshi ignored the proceedings entirely in favor of slowly and methodically draining his neighbor’s untouched bottle of Yamazuki 24.

“Keep calm, everyone,” Yutani said as the black-clad intruders approached the other side of the glass wall. The knives they wielded were menacing and bloody, which made it all the more difficult for him to remain calm. Nevertheless, he felt it his duty to do so.

“These bandits are on the other side of a wall of solid quartz glass,” he continued. “I see no sign of explosives, and the access code is changed every day, so they cannot have it.”

He exchanged a glance with Shiro. Lowering his comm unit, the young exec shook his head slowly. Yutani nodded back. The intruders would have been stupid indeed not to force their way in without first establishing some kind of communications block.

Turning back to the inner wall, he looked on as two of the intruders broke out matching laser drills. Several of the executives retreated further into the boardroom as one man began to melt a hole in the wall, while his companion started working on the door mechanism. A third was busy snapping together the components of what looked like an industrial-strength water pistol.

As soon as the first intruder had bored a hole in the wall, he stepped aside to allow access to the man wielding the pistol-like device. Poking the barrel through the hole, he fired.

Davies and his female colleague dove under the Hinoki table while several of their associates sought cover elsewhere. Yet no projectile emanated from the gun. Instead, the air in the room suddenly took on a faint smell, ironically, of cherry blossom.

The tabletop was no protection. Davies thought the scent quite pleasant before collapsing to the thickly carpeted floor. Already half unconscious from a steady draught of expensive whiskey, Takeshi passed out with his head on the table.

* * *

Everyone was unconscious by the time the second drill operator cut through the door and the three intruders entered. Behind them, a distant hum indicated that the main passenger lifts were in operation.

“Get a move on! They’re coming!” The speaker rushed down the hall toward the elevators. Utilizing his laser drill, he began welding first one set of lift doors shut, then the other. It wouldn’t permanently stop the security men from emerging, but it would slow them down. Others doubtless were making their cautious way up the fire stairs. Expecting to meet resistance, they would ascend slowly.

“Here!” While one of the intruders got his hands under the arms of the insensible Jenny Yutani and hoisted her up, his associate removed a small cylindrical atomizer from a belt pouch. Placing this beneath her nose, he pumped it twice. When she began to blink and cough, he quickly moved to gag her. The antidote was as powerful as the gas it counteracted. By the time they had her hands bound behind her back and her legs secured at the knees, she was fully conscious.

“She’s cursing us with her eyes,” the first intruder observed. “Be glad you can’t hear what she’s thinking.” Ignoring her muffled protestations, they half pushed, half dragged her out of the room. Seeing her cast an anxious look backward, the second intruder hastened to reassure her.

“Don’t look so concerned. They’ll all sleep for an hour and wake up with terrible headaches, but the gas isn’t fatal. Even your ignorant, uncaring father will be fine by sunrise.” As they headed toward the service lift she began to struggle with them, and he added more sharply, “Pay attention. It won’t do us any good if you fall, and it’ll do you less good. We’ll just carry you, and not gently.”

* * *

She glared at him but did as she was told, assuming that this was nothing more than an elaborate kidnapping. Her abductors would communicate with her father, a suitable ransom would be agreed upon and paid, many security personnel would be fired, and life would return to normal.

Her eyes widened as they passed the waiting area, and she saw the carnage that had occurred there. The bodyguards lay in unnatural positions, and where she could see a face, the eyes stared sightlessly. Blood from the individual bodies had merged to form a single large pool around the corpses.

Then her kidnappers started to push her into what at first glance appeared to be a dark and very empty elevator shaft. Before she could be shoved inside she tripped, letting out a muffled curse and nearly falling as the high heel of her right shoe broke off. A couple of seconds of pure fear were replaced by relief when she found herself standing on a flat, stable platform instead of falling more than a hundred floors to the service basement at the bottom of the shaft.

Two men flanked her, and a moment later they were joined by the last of their company.

“Did you blow the door to the emergency stairwell?” one of her captors asked the new arrival as the lift doors closed behind him. The third intruder nodded. Yutani wished she could see more of their faces than just their eyes, but the retro, pseudo-ninja gear kept them thoroughly anonymous.

“I left it cracked just enough.” The man gestured back the way he had come. “When they scan the floor for us, the first thing they’ll see is the open emergency exit. They’ll think we’re up on the roof somewhere, waiting for a chopper pickup.”

While she couldn’t see their faces, Yutani could hear their voices. Though just an initial assumption, she decided that only one of the kidnappers was Japanese. The others sounded thoroughly European. That was curious. At least it suggested that the Yakuza were not involved. Non-Japanese Yakuza recruits were as rare as a snow monkey in a private sauna.

The portable folding platform started to descend, the motor that powered it making virtually no noise. Behind her gag, Yutani realized that arriving security teams wouldn’t be able to hear it. They would assume—at least initially—that the heavily secured service shaft was not in use.

With no elegant, mirrored walls enclosing them and only the bare walls of the shaft on all sides, the kidnappers and their victim descended in silence. Thinking she heard security personnel on the other side of the wall, racing to the ninety-seventh floor even as their quarry was heading downward, she tried to scream, but her gag had been professionally applied. All she could make were subdued, muffled noises. Her abductors said nothing, but their expressions indicated they were well pleased.

Reaching the garage level two, they left the portable lift behind as they hustled her out of the shaft. She experienced a moment of hope when she saw the two men in service uniforms who appeared to be working on a conduit and control box. That hope vanished when one promptly gathered up his tools and headed around to the front of the service van, while his companion quickly opened the single back door of the vehicle and stepped aside.

She stumbled repeatedly as her abductors impelled her toward the open van, and managed to kick off her remaining shoe and its heel-less companion. Now barefoot, she offered no resistance as they hoisted her inside. The service tech who had entered first shut the door behind them. She heard his footsteps as he moved rapidly forward to join his associate in the front of the vehicle.

As they were laying her out on her back on the floor, the shift from an upright position caused her to start to choke. Crouching close in front of her, the intruder who had wielded one of the two drills met her gaze evenly.

“You won’t do either of us any good if you choke to death.” A hand reached toward her face. “I’m going to remove your gag. You raise your voice above conversation level and it goes right back in—choking or no choking. Understand?”

She nodded to indicate that she did. As he carefully removed the gag, she considered her options. At the moment, even the best of them was no better than notional. Very well, she decided. If she could not run, she could listen. Anything she learned might prove useful to the police later. That meant she had to keep them talking.

“Very professional,” she said quietly. “I would compliment you, but I would rather kill you. I saw what you did to our protectors. So you are all guilty of murder, as well as kidnapping.”

“Yutani threatens far more deaths than can be imagined,” declared one of the black-clad abductors. He was quickly shushed by another, who appeared to be in charge. That reaction itself, she felt, must be indicative of something significant. But what?

“There were bodies everywhere inside the meeting room.” She swallowed hard. “Are you telling the truth, when you say that my father and his subordinates are not dead?”

“I told you before, they’re only sleeping.” Rising slightly from where he was sitting, the leader peered out the front of the van between driver and assistant, then returned to kneel down beside her. “They will awaken with migraines, and hopefully some remorse.” He paused, added, “We would not have killed your bodyguards, had they not resisted.”

“You mean, had they not tried to do their jobs,” she shot back.

He remained unmoved. “Believe whatever you wish to believe. I will not debate peripherals with you.”

“How about ethics?” she tried. “Will you debate ethics with me? The ethics of murder and abduction?”

He looked down at her, and she was startled to see that he was on the verge of weeping. “You do not want to argue ethics with me, Ms. Yutani. Or with any of my associates. You will lose. Badly.”

As she mulled over the peculiar response she tried another tack. “My father will pay whatever ransom you demand. In whatever currency, credit, or electronic format you specify.”

“Will he now?” The three black-clad figures exchanged a look. For some reason, they seemed to find her amusing. “It remains to be seen.” The leader looked down at her once more. “We aren’t interested in money. What we want, and what we will communicate to your father and his board, is for—”

One of the other abductors gestured as if to cut the leader off, but he waved the objection away. “It doesn’t matter if she knows now or later.” He returned his attention to his captive. “What we want, what we demand, is that Weyland-Yutani cancel the Covenant mission.”

She was startled. “So you are not ordinary kidnappers. You are fanatics.” That, she knew, would make her captors harder to deal with. “Do you know what Weyland-Yutani has invested in the Covenant mission? Do you have any idea of the cost? Not just to the company, but to the hundreds of colonial families who have sold everything they own, and made their final goodbyes to every friend and relative on Earth? You seek to destroy their dreams!”

“Perhaps.” The response of the leader of the kidnappers was remarkably blasé. “But we will save them from their nightmares, as well, and everyone else along with them.”

It took her a couple of moments to try to parse that. She failed, shaking her head in confusion.

“You’re not making any sense—but then, being fanatics who aren’t behaving rationally, I suppose it would be too much to expect you to speak rationally. Unless,” she tried, “you’re working for the Jutou Combine.”

“The Jut…?” The leader paused in mid-reply. He glanced at his associates, and a moment later all three were chuckling softly. Yet again, it wasn’t a response she had expected. When the inappropriate bout of hilarity finally passed, he looked down at her again.

“Our ultimate purpose may or may not be made clear to you—that’s for others to decide. It’s enough for you and your father and the rest of Weyland-Yutani to understand that the Covenant mission must be scrapped. Not postponed. Cancelled. Permanently.”

Her mouth tightened. “That’s not going to happen. You could kill me, you could kill my father, you could slaughter the entire board of directors, but the Covenant will embark on its mission, and Origae-6 will be colonized. Mankind demands it!”

“Mankind is stupid.” The third abductor spoke with absolute conviction. Which was exactly what she would expect of a dedicated fanatic. Bits of a puzzle floated around in the back of her mind, then suddenly came together as if welded. Her eyes widened as she regarded her captors anew.

“The incident on board the ship. The would-be saboteur who blew himself out of an airlock. He was one of you!” When they declined to reply or meet her gaze she continued. “What just happened in London—the woman who attempted to sign on with the Covenant security detail, and the man who tried to kill the head of ship security, Sergeant Lopé. They were your employees, too.”

“Comrades.” The leader of the team of abductors corrected her quickly. “Good people. Dedicated people. One day statues will be erected in their honor and the memory of what they tried to do will be the subject of veneration from one side of the planet to the other.”

She took a risk with her response. “Failures are not venerated. Statues are not raised to madmen.”

Yet again the leader was not perturbed. “Yesterday’s madmen are today’s saints. Time and perspective are the lenses through which actions are evaluated. We’re not worried about how history perceives us. We are quite prepared to render judgment on ourselves.”

“You won’t have to.” She looked away, toward the front of the speeding service van. “The courts are going to do that for you.”

“They will have to catch us first,” the second kidnapper insisted. She was no longer sure which was which, and it didn’t really matter. She straightened as much as she could, listening intently.

“If I’m right, that should be soon.”

They heard the sirens a moment before the man in the front passenger seat looked back. His expression was grim.

“We have company.”

The leader of the abducting trio rose. Moving forward, he steadied himself with one hand each on the back of driver and passenger seat, while he studied the readouts on the front of the van’s surprisingly sophisticated console.

“How many?”

The passenger also examined the flourish of new information provided by the van’s rear-facing sensors and cameras.

“Two. Company security.” He paused. When he spoke again, his tone was somber. “Also two, maybe three city police cruisers with them. One chopper.” He looked back and up at the team leader. “Probably more of both on their way.”

“Kuso,” the other man replied tightly. “Any chance we can lose them?”

“Doubtful.” The driver spoke without looking back. “Too many on us already and as Ichiro says, more likely coming. You’ll have to ditch and be picked up later. And a suitable diversion will be necessary.” Across from him his associate was already punching information into a comm unit. “Our friends will have your location.”

“What about you?” By this time the leader had been joined by another of the black-clad kidnappers, peering over his shoulder and studying the multiple readouts. That left only one man next to Yutani.

The driver’s voice did not change. “We’ll buy you time enough to be safely picked up. We will do what is necessary.” A pause, then, “As all of us are prepared to do.”

The leader said nothing.

Yutani shattered the solemn silence by throwing herself forward and using her right shoulder to strike the nearest abductor squarely in the groin. As he went down and his two companions began to react, she spun, kicked against the floor, and threw herself backward against the rear door. Having identified the exit switch the moment she had been loaded inside, she shoved both bound hands hard against it. The single rear door obediently flew open. For just an instant her gaze locked onto that of the leader of the abductors, then she let herself tumble out the open back of the van.

His parting, shocked curse trailed away rapidly as she tucked her head as tightly as possible into her neck and upper chest. She brought her legs and arms in tight against her body, hit the pavement, bounced, and began to roll. One earring was torn off, then another, each costing many tens of thousands. Blood spurted from her earlobes, then began to spray in red droplets from the places where her clothing was ripped. There was a screaming in her ears, and she was blinded by headlights.

The sound faded quickly as the lead police cruiser screeched to a stop, skidding sideways as the frantic driver braked just in time to avoid running over her. She felt consciousness slipping away as she heard another officer yelling into his comm unit, calling for an airborne ambulance. Then hands were on her, rolling her onto her back. Though they were gentle, their touch on her road burn still made her want to cry out.

“She’s alive!” Looking back, the officer bending over her called out. Dimly, she could hear the sounds of other vehicles braking to a halt nearby. “Where’s that damn ambulance!”

Trained in general martial arts from an early age, one of the first things she had been taught was how to take a fall. That simple, undramatic bit of instruction might have just saved her life. She did not feel as if anything was broken. At least, she told herself weakly, nothing vital.

She was smiling when she passed out. Her abductors weren’t the only ones who could dedicate themselves to a cause.

IX

Within the van there was frustration. An immensely difficult, dangerous, and complex operation had come to naught because one of their number had been caught relaxing, for just an instant. No one yelled at the injured offender, none of his colleagues spoke at all. There was nothing to be done about it. The aim of their enterprise had been lost.

There was nothing for it but to move on.

In order to do that they had to survive, which meant escaping the attentions of those police who hadn’t stopped, and who continued to pursue. Though the van’s driver was skilled and his vehicle had been enhanced, it wasn’t capable of outmaneuvering a police cruiser, much less the two choppers that were now tracking the van from above.

Twice, pursuing police tried to cut the van off. One cruiser attempted a pit maneuver. It failed because the van was equipped with gyroscopic correction firmware that wasn’t standard issue for such a vehicle.

While the police and company security were eager to take their quarry into custody, they were willing to take their time. Kept under close observation both from street level and from the air, there was nowhere the van could hide. Given the speed at which it was traveling, its battery pack would run down soon.

The pursuing police began to fall behind.

Executing a hard right, the van shot into an open, ten-story parking structure. Having scoped out the route during rehearsal runs, the driver knew where he was going without having to check with the vehicle’s navigation system.

Choppers took up positions outside the garage’s two exits while newly arrived cruisers and armored vehicles began to seal off every possible escape route. The structure abutted the dark ribbon of the Sumida River, which naturally eliminated one option.

On the fifth floor, the van swung to the right toward a line of parked vehicles. It slowed but did not stop. The heavy individual in the passenger’s seat fingered a cluster of controls on his comm unit.

In response to his manipulations the trap doors built into the bottom of the van dropped open. The large dark container, once again holding the three black-clad abductors, fell free and slid out between the van’s rear two wheels. Riding on four smaller solid wheels built into its corners and driven by a self-contained electric motor, it followed a homing signal silently to its right until it was directly underneath one of the hundreds of parked vehicles—another van, though not a utility vehicle.

Double doors that matched those on the underside of the fleeing service truck slid open in the underside of this new, privately owned van. Twin hoists clutched the container and lifted it up as the trap doors slid shut beneath it.

All three of the abductors rapidly changed into the clothes that were waiting for them. Two remained out of sight in the back of the vehicle as the third took the wheel, pulled out of the parking slot, and drove slowly back the way they had come.

As they headed toward the exit, several police cruisers screamed past them. The trio knew they were being scanned, but no one moved to stop them. By the time the last official vehicle entered the parking structure, the van had emerged onto the same street they had used to enter.

* * *

The service van sped up the ramp that led to the tenth floor of the parking structure. Emerging onto the open roof, it was instantly transfixed in the spotlights of two hovering police helicopters. With a dozen or so pursuing cruisers blocking the down ramp and closing in from behind, there was nowhere for the fugitives to go.

Making a sharp left, the van accelerated. It continued to accelerate even as several police cruisers slowed and turned sideways to form a blockade behind it. Exiting their vehicles, a number of officers took aim with weapons and attempted to shoot out the tires of the fleeing van. In their haste and in the uneven light, they missed.

The van was still accelerating when it smashed through the low retaining wall that ran around the top floor of the parking structure. It seemed to slow somewhat as it fell, describing a smooth arc as it soared through the air, then impacted the dark water of the Sumida. Within minutes there was no sign of the service vehicle. It sank completely out of sight, leaving behind only bubbles.

Operating on the possibility that the occupants had enough foresight to store emergency padding and portable breathing gear in their vehicle, police on shore combed the river embankment while choppers played their lights over the river in both directions. The search went on even after police divers located the van.

* * *

Extracting the badly damaged vehicle from the river bottom, a heavy lift chopper brought it to the top of the parking structure, where a temporary command post had been established.

With the front end of the van mangled from the impact of hitting the water, it took some time to cut away both crumpled doors and extract the bodies within. There were only two. Since Jenny Yutani had stated that the van had contained five men, an immediate search was launched for the remaining three. The intensive effort that followed, however, found no one in the parking structure, in the office complex next door, or on the streets outside.

The identification found on the two bodies indicated that they were employees of a large, reputable service firm that specialized in the maintenance of electrical and plumbing systems in big commercial buildings. Very quickly, what appeared at first to be a relatively straightforward matter of identification began to unravel when it was discovered that the service vehicle they had been driving had recently been stolen from a company lot. The uniforms they were wearing had been tailored and weren’t company issue, and their identification cards were counterfeit.

This required the police to run physicals. Facial scans reconstituted their features, given the damage. Retina scans proved useless, again due to facial damage. In the end, it was DNA matching that finally succeeded in identifying the two dead kidnappers.

The results were as shocking as they were unexpected.

X

Twenty-four hours after the break-in, the boardroom was entirely unavailable as the police searched, scanned, and vacuumed it and its contents down to the molecular level. As a result, Hideo Yutani was forced to convene his next meeting in far less glamorous surroundings.

At present otherwise deserted, the tower’s executive cafeteria dining room offered functional if comfortable chairs, unpretentious bottled water instead of Yamazuki 24, and a scattering of tables much smaller and less ostentatious than the priceless slab of polished hinoki that graced the main boardroom.

While Davies was there, one of his colleagues had flown home to England to inform Weyland’s chief executives of what had transpired. The other was in hospital undergoing treatment for exhaustion and trauma. Of the Yutani hierarchy who had been present during the assault, two sat nearby. Having suffered a mild heart attack, the redoubtable Takeshi-san was in a different hospital. He was expected to recover fully, and Yutani certainly hoped so. Executives who spoke their mind were difficult to find.

Captain Katsumi Sato, the administrator in charge of building security, was also present. A large man with significant musculature and an impressive mustache, he looked as if he wished fervently to be elsewhere. He sat quietly, prepared to answer questions and offer explanation to the best of his ability.

Yutani’s daughter was present, as well. Bruised and scraped in places that were visible and others that were not, she sat stiffly, both earlobes carefully protected by bandages she had colored a bright blue. A tight invisible wrap braced her sprained left knee.

One Brit, two Yutani board members—Kasawi and Arikoki, an ineffectual company cop, and his daughter. These were all he required at the moment—at least until the police filed their preliminary report on the attempted kidnapping. Though he did his best to restrain himself from haranguing the authorities, he had made it clear that he was not happy with the pace of discovery.

Some of his frustration and anger seeped away as he regarded his daughter.

No father could have been prouder of his offspring. If not for her quick thinking, the kidnapping might well have succeeded. Had he been taken, as well, Yutani would have tried anything to prevent her escape attempt. The fall from the back of the van could easily have proven fatal. He had to prevent himself from smiling, though, when he imagined the confusion it must have caused her kidnappers.

A smile would not do—particularly not now and especially in front of his subordinates.

In contrast, the image of his daughter lying dead and broken on a road almost brought a tear to his eye. Almost. He steeled himself. Jenny herself would not approve of such a show of raw emotion on her father’s part. He was Hideo Yutani, and he had an aura to protect.

The martial arts training that likely had saved her life had also saved her face. A team of the best doctors in Tokyo had made quick work of repairs to her abraded skin. The bandages on her earlobes showed that they would take longer to heal, and the invisible wrap caused her to walk with a very slight limp that no employee would have been indelicate enough to comment upon.

As Yutani prepared to speak, Captain Sato rose, approached, and bowed as low as he possibly could without embarrassing either himself or his boss. In his left hand he held a small package that had been wrapped in thick gold leaf and secured with a bow glistening with glitter made from crushed amethyst. Yutani eyed it with a mixture of curiosity and approval. Whatever it was, it had clearly cost the security officer plenty. The result was elegantly done and not overstated.

“What is this, Captain?”

“Something for your daughter, Shacho-san. She may choose to throw them away, but I thought it best that she be offered that option.” Yutani nodded, and the man turned toward his daughter.

When he handed it to her, the younger Yutani accepted the package politely. Sato resumed his seat while she unwrapped the box he had handed her. Amethyst dust sparkled purple in the air of the cafeteria as she untied the ribbon and casually tore open the gold leaf wrapping.

The box contained two objects packed in aerogel. One was the heel of the shoe she had broken off while being forced into the elevator, and the matching shoe she had abandoned in the garage. The satellite chip and transmitter were barely visible in the broken heel.

Sato bobbed his head in her direction. “We could not have located you nearly so quickly, or perhaps not even at all, had you not had the foresight to equip your footwear with suitable tracking devices.” He indicated the broken heel. “By leaving that behind, you informed my people that there was no helicopter coming to take you off the roof. The second sent the nearest patrol to the garage, where they were able to begin following your abductor’s vehicle, after which it was never out of our sight, or that of the authorities.”

Her father nodded. “Everything happened so fast that they were not given time to inspect or scan my daughter’s attire.” He shrugged. “It’s possible they might never have discovered the inserts. Their operation was sophisticated, but not perfect. That is the case with most criminals and many companies: in concentrating on the big picture, they often overlook the small things that cause their operations to fail.

“My initial assumption,” Yutani continued, “was that the attempt to kidnap my daughter was simply for ransom. That was her thought as well, yet if money had been the object, why go to the trouble of penetrating building security? Why not simply try to accost her and her bodyguards when she was out visiting friends, or shopping, or at a spa?” He looked around at his diminished group of advisers. “Taking her from here, and in the middle of a board meeting, suggested that her abductors wished to make a statement. Thanks to Jenny we have confirmation of that.” He nodded at his daughter. “Tell everyone what your kidnappers told you.”

She shifted in her chair. “When I told them that my father would pay whatever ransom they asked, they replied that they weren’t interested in money.” She paused for emphasis. “What they wanted was for the company to cancel the Covenant mission.”

Murmurs arose from among the assembled. A startled Davies spoke first. “But—that’s the same demand that was made by the would-be saboteur on the ship!”

Shiro was next. “First the incident on the Covenant, then the episode in London, and now this. Happening so close together, I cannot but believe they are connected. That they must be part of some greater plot.” He looked baffled. “Why this sudden desire on the part of people half a world apart to kill the colonization project? A desire strong enough to cost several of them their lives? Who would benefit that much from the cancelling of the Covenant mission?”

Davies all but snarled. “Our competitors, that’s who. Or rather, our only remaining competitor for the colonization contract with the wherewithal and the desire to formulate and carry out such a world-wide effort. Not to mention a desire to see Weyland-Yutani fail.” He growled the name. “Jutou.”

Raising a hand, Yutani quieted the resultant mix of excited conversation and cursing. “I must say that was my initial thought, as well. Zhang Qiangda, Chen Chao, Lin Niu: any one of that triad running the Jutou Combine would be capable on their own of formulating such a plot. Working together, I would put nothing past them.”

“Deki sokonai,” Shiro murmured. “Even for them, going to such lengths seems extreme.”

“Who else could it be, then?” Davies muttered. “Who else would have the resources, the reach, and the desire to see Weyland-Yutani fail so spectacularly? Who else would have the gall even to try?”

“That there are others who would wish such an outcome cannot be denied.” Yutani turned thoughtful. “But you are both right, I think. Confronted with such allegations, Jutou would of course deny everything. I have no doubt that if they are indeed the prime mover behind all this, they are clever enough to do so with clean hands.” He shook his head slowly. “That Zhang, she would kiss you passionately while carrying a knife in each hand behind her back.”

Kasawi flinched. “Forgive me, sir, if I confess that the image unsettles my stomach.”

The head of Weyland-Yutani managed a slight grin. “Better unsettled than skewered.” The grin vanished as he eyed his bandaged daughter. “Do not worry. If it is indeed Jutou who is responsible for these multiple affronts, we will deal with them appropriately.”

Wincing slightly at a lingering pain, Jenny Yutani addressed them again.

“I don’t understand. Why such a desire to see colonization fail? Not Weyland-Yutani necessarily, but a project that stands to benefit all peoples? The successful colonization of other worlds and the spread of humankind not only provides a relief valve for the population, it will eventually lessen the demands on our dwindling natural resources, while ensuring the survival of the species.” She shook her head sadly. “One would think such things would outweigh any personal or corporate greediness.”

Davies was nodding knowingly. “Yes, one would think that. You would, I would, all of us here would—but we are not Jutou.”

“Come now, Mark.” Yutani waved a hand. “If the situation was reversed, if it was Weyland-Jotou that had control of the colonization project, do you think we would be any less rapacious?”

The Englishman gave a slight shrug. “Perhaps not, but our methods of reacting would be different.” He hesitated a moment, suddenly uncertain. “Wouldn’t they?”

“Of course they would.” Yutani’s voice did not rise, and his subordinate relaxed. “While we would pursue any reasonable means at our disposal to regain the contract, those means would not extend to kidnapping and sacrificing of the lives of our employees.”

His daughter indicated her agreement. “So then, we may conclude that their intention is to give Weyland-Yutani a black eye where the Covenant mission is concerned. To force its cancellation, whereupon they would likely step in and offer to ‘save’ the future of colonization.”

Her father was about to concur and add a comment of his own when the meeting was interrupted by the arrival of a courier. Bowing to Sato, the man handed the captain a sealed eproof envelope, pivoted smartly, and departed. The others waited while Sato opened the container. Harkening back to the very advent of writing, it seemed a primitive method of communicating. It was also slow and comparatively expensive. As such it was reserved only for communications of importance, where the contents had to remain inviolate. Provided it was conveyed in an appropriately impenetrable vessel, ordinary writing was unhackable.

When Sato had finished reading, he refolded the letter, a look of astonishment on his face.

“It appears we were wrong about at least one thing.” He met each of their gazes in turn. “The men who drowned in the front of the service vehicle that was used to kidnap Jenny-sama were not Yutani employees, like the saboteur on board the Covenant and the assassin who died in London.” He concentrated his attention on the only Brit present. “They were Weyland.”

It was silent in the cafeteria as those present digested this. “It could be coincidental,” Yutani proposed, “except that nothing else involving this business has been coincidental. If the assassin in London was a Yutani employee, then let us go a step further and presume that his female accomplice, who escaped, was also a Yutani employee. So. Two Yutani employees attack us in London. While here in Tokyo, we are assailed by Weyland employees.

“Assuming once again that there is design behind everything that has occurred, what might be the rationale for this?”

Kasawi managed to speak before the others.

“To make the team at Weyland fearful of Yutani, and those of us here worry about motivations at Weyland.” He appeared to be very confident of his analysis. “To sow dissention in the company, even as our antagonists try to have the Covenant mission cancelled.”

Yutani nodded. “Such attention to detail shows much forethought.” He turned to Sato. “My daughter told us of five kidnappers. What of the other three?”

The captain looked unhappy. “The garage through which the van fled before driving into the river was thoroughly searched. So were the attached office complex and the surrounding area. It was assumed that the three who carried out the actual kidnapping would quickly have resorted to a change of clothing and perhaps facial features as well, but every one of those citizens who were confronted in the immediate vicinity were able to establish their innocence.”

“So the three men who abused my daughter simply vanished?”

Sato swallowed hard. “The police continue to scour the area for clues. I am assured that the instant they find anything of significance, I will be informed.”

“Perhaps, father,” the younger Yutani opined, “what you said about fostering dissention within the company is true, but it is not Jutou who is responsible.”

They all looked at her. “If not the combine, then who?” Davies asked. “Who else would have the resources—or the motive?”

“I do not know the answer to that,” she replied demurely. “I am only saying that in our understandable haste to condemn Jutou, it might be wise to consider the possibility that others might be behind this. Consider that a third party wishing to see the Covenant mission cancelled would benefit greatly from any clash between Weyland-Yutani and Jutou. Not only would it enhance their apparent goal—which is to disrupt the mission itself—but pitting the two great companies against one another could only result in further delays in the settling of other worlds.”

The reactions of the men around her showed that in their eagerness to point the finger of accusation at Jutou, hers was a rationale they hadn’t fully considered.

“What if,” she continued, “whoever is behind these incidents wishes not only to see the Covenant mission scrapped, but Weyland-Yutani destroyed? And for all we know, the Jutou Combine, as well?” She paused, letting the argument take hold.

“Who, or what, is out there that would like to see that?”

* * *

The flood of accusations that followed the kidnapping of Jenny Yutani employed her father’s use of the shotgun effect. Throw out enough theories, engage a sufficient number of suspects, and one might hit the mark. Meanwhile the police pursued investigations of their own.

No one turned up anything useful.

As an active precaution, security guarded every site where suppliers to the Covenant were active, lest another saboteur find their way aboard. The same precautions were taken at relevant company locations without providing anything in the way of explanation. Staff often reacted with bewilderment.

No one could explain why even disgruntled employees of the highly successful company would seek to undermine its most prestigious project. Had the principals behind the disruption—from the security applicant in London to the kidnappers in Tokyo—been bought by Jutou, or by someone else? And if they had not been bought, if they were operating and sacrificing themselves out of other, as yet unrecognized, motives, what could be extreme enough to drive an employee to attack his own company?

The ship’s would-be saboteur had been a model employee. The same proved to be true of the operators of the service van. As yet, nothing was known of the three black-clad kidnappers who had actually carried out the attempt, but when they were finally tracked down and captured, it would surprise no one to learn that they, too, had been members in good standing of the worldwide Weyland-Yutani family.

Provided they don’t kill themselves first, Hideo Yutani mused.

The penthouse that formed his principle residence occupied the top five floors of the Kurihama complex. Below that, the 122nd and 123rd were occupied by security, servants, and other staff while three more were reserved for Yutani himself and visiting family. Typical of its kind, the twisted, cylindrical building was designed to sway slightly during earthquakes and facilitate airflow around its exterior in the event of a typhoon.

Since it had been built it had survived both—as had Yutani.

By far the greatest of storms, however, was the one that had involved the takeover of the Weyland corporation. Now sudden, unforeseen events threatened to cast a shadow, not only over the development of the David series and the departure of the great colonization ship Covenant, but over the entire empire he had built. This latest incident had struck at the heart of his own family, indicating the intensity that drove its perpetrators. Finding out who they were became an overriding imperative for him and for his staff.

Since the Englishman Davies had immediately pointed the finger of suspicion at Jutou, Yutani had ordered him to turn his suspicious mind toward other potential enemies, as well. Since Kasawi had shown himself to be more flexible in his theories, Yutani assigned him the task of investigating Jutou. It was always better, the chairman felt, to divert subordinates away from their pet theories and force them to examine other possibilities. Working separately, the two vice-presidents were more likely to come up with a correct explanation.

As a wild card, he acceded to his daughter’s request that she be allowed to investigate other, less obvious alternatives. He could of course have forbidden her from having anything to do with the rapidly expanding investigation. As her father he commanded her respect. As her senior within Weyland-Yutani he demanded compliance. On the other hand, it was difficult to fire one’s own offspring for disobedience—especially when she had time and again proven herself as skilled as any of his other employees.

He did not fear a second kidnapping attempt. Not given the increased security that now surrounded all Yutani family members. Also, given the expertise the initial effort had demonstrated, he would be surprised if the perpetrators would prove so unwise as to repeat something that had already failed.

No, the company’s unknown tormentors would strike elsewhere, and most likely in a manner just as unexpected. The notion was unsettling, but not frightening. Weyland-Yutani wasn’t some poor shopkeeper hawking stimulants and rice cakes beneath an elevated train. The company commanded vast resources that were only now being put into play. Be it the Jutou Combine, another company, or some unknown entity, they would be found out and their perfidy suitably punished.

Meanwhile, once all final preparations were complete and the Covenant’s crew was at full-strength, the colony ship would depart on schedule. Nothing would stop that, no matter what the reason behind the recent incidents.

Lifting a glass to his lips, he took a long sip of Rokku-prime. In front of his underlings and the public, and in keeping with the image of the hard-driving head of a giant corporation, he could readily drink hard liquor. In private, he preferred plain sparkling water. One needed a clear head for thinking in private.

In the distance he could see the snow-capped crown of Mount Fuji. Later in the day the city’s notorious haze would obscure it, but this morning a cantankerous breeze kept the atmosphere clean enough for him to enjoy the view. If he looked in another direction, up the bay, he could see the heart of the great metropolis. Swivel a hundred and eighty degrees and the roiling Pacific would come into sight.

He made a disappointed sound with his lips.

Everything had been going so well. The modification of the David series had led to the introduction of its Walter successor. There had been a party to announce the final couple chosen for settlement on Origae-6. Now chaos, that sleek and intrusive serpent, threatened to disrupt and even destroy the successes.

It would not happen.

His company had been targeted, his daughter’s life had been threatened, and everything he had worked for lay uneasy beneath a looming cloud. Peter Weyland would have understood, but by all practical accounts the legendary man was gone. His fate had been surmised, if not confirmed. That had been enough to allow Yutani to take over his company, his people, his innovations.

That historic acquisition would not be lost.

Murmuring instructions to his chair, he directed it across the room to halt facing a blank wall. He needed to clear his mind of the tangle of possibilities. Another couple of words addressed to the chair saw the wall come to life. Startlingly sharp three-dimensional imagery filled his vision. Like many of his generation, he was a lifelong Sumo enthusiast. One of the greatest compliments he had ever received was when a business competitor, half seriously and half in jest, had called him a rikishi.

As the larger-than-life-size action he had chosen unfolded before him, Yutani occasionally shifted the location of his chair in order to observe the projected combat from different angles.

The sport had been better, though, before they had begun using robots.

XI

No one had told the scientists or engineers working at the top-secret company complex why the usual, already-tight security had been further increased. “Just standard corporate procedure,” they were informed when anyone bothered to inquire. Security at the government facility had always been extreme, of course, but never so lethal.

Despite the official explanation, some of the men and women working at the heart of the complex were troubled. The abrupt appearance of more people with weapons was disconcerting. A number of employees found themselves fixated on the presence of so many additional guns, looking over their shoulders when they ought to have been absorbed in the work at hand.

Nevertheless, everything proceeded more or less on schedule. Which in the case of Walter meant twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Everyone knew they were working to a deadline that was rapidly approaching. Even so, with a rotating staff of specialists assigned to the prestige project, there was time off allotted for all involved to recover and reinvigorate. Despite the importance of the work, they progressed with an intensity that was notably less fraught than with their counterparts in far-off Greater Tokyo, or nearby Greater London.

Most likely it was the location of the complex in the English countryside that produced the comparatively relaxed state of mind among the scientists and engineers. Guns or no guns, heightened security or not, it helped to commute to work among rolling hills, ancient hedgerows, and villages that seemed to have changed little—externally, at least—from less-polluted times. Framed in native stonework with a minimum of glass and metal, the buildings of the complex reflected their sylvan surroundings with such adroitness that it had won several architectural awards, as well as a Queen’s medal.

Inside the complex, it was very different.

Nowhere more than three stories, the structures of the complex appeared inadequate to the task of researching and bringing to fruition the marvelous concepts originated by their founder, Peter Weyland. Such work had continued unabated since his disappearance on the ship Prometheus. The only indication that anything had changed was the intentionally low-key replacement of the signs at the main entrance and throughout the complex. Formerly they had read “Weyland Corporation,” with new ones proclaiming “Weyland-Yutani.”

What few people outside the company realized was that the bulk of the work that took place within the complex occurred not in the three visible, countrified levels, but in the five subterranean ones that had been blasted from English bedrock.

It was on one of those levels that Harbison and Gilead stood contemplating the Tank. Though constituting the liquid womb for the new kind of artificial intelligence called a synthetic, the Tank was decidedly unimpressive. Some wag on the research team had christened it the “hot tub.” More rectangular than circular, it was at present filled with the most expensive stew on the planet: an incredibly complex and astoundingly diverse mélange of proteins, minerals, and assorted other biochemical spices that when solidified and knitted together would form the body of a synthetic.

An artificial human.

Even after a synthetic left the Tank, much remained to be added. Intelligence, data, the web of neural networking, the refining of facial features.

The two women scrutinizing the tub were project supervisors both, charged with making sure every iota of the project came seamlessly together to produce a viable being. The demands on them were enormous. Harbison wasn’t a biologist, but she had to be an expert on biology. Gilead was not a skeletal engineer, but she had to know as much as was known about bones.

As a team they were intentionally redundant. Neither outranked the other. Neither could override her counterpart’s directives. They worked together because they had to: the short, vivacious Gilead and her taller, stouter, ex-footballer colleague Harbison.

No one on the Walter team questioned being supervised by two women. Such antediluvian conceits as male dominance had long since been banished by corporations whose overriding desire was to make money. If it could be shown that a mutant Martian could appropriately enhance a company’s bottom line, said creature would immediately be hired—most likely with the offer of a bonus.

Both Harbison and Gilead had been with Weyland for a long time. As senior executives they had known Peter Weyland personally, had grieved over his disappearance and loss. Neither had allowed the tragedy to interfere with her work—perhaps the most fascinating and stimulating employment to be found on the planet.

For thousands of years it had been said, sometimes seriously and sometimes in jest, that one could not play God. Working on the Walter project and its predecessor, David, was as near as one could come to disputing that proposition.

There had been many failures—so many failures—along the way. Often were the times when the corporate board had argued for pulling financing from the David project, and using it to fund other ventures within the company. Each time, the protests and arguments of the bean counters had been beaten back by the brilliance of Peter Weyland himself.

If the arguments were economic, Weyland found funding elsewhere. If they were organizational, he shifted people around or hired, bribed, or otherwise acquired the necessary personnel. If they were moral, he obtained appropriate dispensations from the favored religious authority of the moment.

Thus, the David project had progressed steadily forward—sometimes smoothly, other times in fits and starts, overcoming all obstacles. Without the strength of Peter Weyland’s personality and reputation, the project would certainly have gone under. Eventually as well as literally, it had given birth to—

David.

Unfortunately, Weyland had insisted on moving forward the first David’s testing so the synthetic would be commissioned in time to join the founder’s mysterious and ultimately inconclusive deep space mission. Both Gilead and Harbison preferred to refer to the Prometheus mission as “inconclusive,” even though that ship and its crew were considered lost by nearly everyone else, including the expedition’s insurers.

Harbison smiled to herself. Peter would have been pleased to learn that the bulk of the policy payout had been directed into the Walter project’s fund, giving it a financial boost just when it was needed.

Unlike the progenitor of the David series, the Walter line would—with one caveat—not be rushed. There was no corporate founder or other unassailable entity in a hurry to see the first of the line commissioned. Hideo Yutani himself had insisted that announcement of the Walter series would not be made official until every one of the program’s department heads had signed off on its readiness. The one caveat was that a functional synthetic had to be finished in time to join the Covenant mission.

And they were on schedule. Walter One was almost ready to be declared capable and sent up to the colony ship. Even his attire waited in readiness. Once on board he would look and act like the rest of the crew, even though he would not have to eat, void, or sleep.

While other industries were clamoring for the advanced synthetics, Weyland’s vision was to place a mobile artificial intelligence on board every deep space vessel. There they would serve both as a supplement to the onboard AI, and as a suitable interface between “Mother” and the human crew.

Everything was ready. Certainly Walter was. If asked, he would have replied with equal confidence. Every department within the company had signed off on the completed product.

All but one. Harbison looked down at her counterpart.

“Have you spoken to Steinmetz lately?”

Gilead responded with a derisive snort. “Every hour, it seems. He’s still not ready to sign off.”

The slightly older Harbison was visibly disappointed. Moonbeams danced in her coppery hair, a by-product of her makeup, and not the lighting that illuminated the fourth sub-floor. When she stepped out into sunlight they would dance in her eyebrows, as well. Despite the fact that such innovations could prove a distraction on the job, she persisted.

“What is it this time?” she growled, frowning now. “Something new? Or is he still mumbling on about the same old concerns?” Harbison didn’t think she could stomach further dissent. Not at this stage. Not with the Covenant entering into final preparations for departure.

Turning, Gilead headed away from the hot tub and its tangle of conduits, tubing, and instrumentation, and started toward the nearby bank of lifts. With her longer legs, Harbison easily kept pace.

“No, nothing new,” Gilead replied. “Just the same damn thing, over and over. Modifying the neural linkages held over from the first David model.”

Harbison’s currently unilluminated brows rose. “He’s still on about that? I thought that problem had been resolved months ago.”

“Apparently not—at least, not to the good doctor’s satisfaction. Regrettably, his associates seem to agree with him. Hence the continuing hold.” She glanced over at her counterpart. “You still worrying about cost overruns?”

“Not any more.” They entered the lift together. Gilead identified herself to the controls and requested transport to the ground floor. For security reasons, no elevators ran from the underground levels to the three situated above ground. Anyone making that journey had to get off and change lifts.

“At this point all that matters is getting the first Walter on board the Covenant,” Harbison continued. “If throwing money at it would fix the damn problem, it would already be solved and done with. I’d override Steinmetz if I could, but his design team would throw a fit, the engineers would probably balk, and the result would inevitably leak. The media would have a field day.” She let out a sigh as the lift arrived at the ground floor. “So we wait. We can push him and his team but we can’t bypass them and order an official commissioning.” She muttered under her breath as they swung left to enter a waiting, vacant elevator that would take them the rest of the way up to the third floor.

“I’m really beginning to hate neurologists,” she finished.

Gilead nodded in assent. “It seems like such a small thing, this inconsistency that’s holding them up. I’ve parsed the particulars.” Her left thumb nervously rolled the ring on her left index finger, back and forth, back and forth. “I don’t like it when scientists start bantering metaphysics.”

“Same here.” The lift deposited them on the third floor. In contrast to the artificial illumination that lit the subterranean levels, the lighting on the top floor of the complex was mostly natural, adjusted and filtered for comfort. “I wish they’d just stick to their hardware and leave the rest to the programmers.”

The shorter woman made a face. “There’s no hardware that tells a conflicted synthetic what to do and when to do it. Ethics have to be downloaded. Not so very different from people, really.” She turned in the direction of her office, which occupied the southwest corner of the building. “Let’s do this: I’ll nudge Steinmetz again, remind him that the Covenant can’t leave without a synthetic.”

“It could,” Harbison reminded her. “The ship’s central AI could handle the voyage by itself.”

“Very likely,” Gilead agreed, “but Weyland-Yutani couldn’t manage the resultant bad publicity, and I certainly couldn’t manage the eruption of displeasure that would come out of Tokyo.”

“There is that.” Harbison frowned. “Speaking of directives, I find all this increased security irksome. You’d think that as co-chief of Operations here, I could drive my vehicle into the garage without having to wait for it to be scanned.”

“I know.” Gilead sympathized. “Whatever this is all about, it doesn’t respect rank or position.” She smiled. “Posoli in Tokyo tells me it’s just temporary.”

“Let’s hope he’s right.” Harbison looked back over her shoulder as she parted from her colleague. “We don’t need any additional slowdown in operations, and I think it’ll go better if I’m the one who talks to Steinmetz. I’ve watched him when you’re together. You get on his nerves.”

The retreating Gilead laughed. “You’d think a neurological engineer would be able to deal with that.”

* * *

The head of the Department for Neurological Engineering, Weyland-Yutani Greater London Division, sat in his office. Loess Steinmetz was not a big man. Sitting at his work station, simultaneously perusing three heads-up displays, he seemed to shrink in his chair so that he appeared even smaller than he was.

For a man in his 70s still operating on the cutting edge of his chosen specialty, he displayed a retrograde fondness bordering on affectation for such physical aids as small round glasses and a physical hearing aid, though at least the latter was nearly invisible.

Likewise disdaining the use of follicular enhancements or chemicals, he was completely bald. He justified this as a practical rather than a scientific decision. The resultant bare skin was easier to take care of. Harbison felt there were other physical attributes he would similarly have been happy to dispense with, had their removal been easy and painless.

While unused to being kept waiting, Harbison stood patiently with her arms crossed in front of her dark green dress as he continued working, until at last some movement—or sound, or possibly smell—caused him to look up from the task at hand. With Steinmetz one could never be sure what might cause him to respond. Much of the time he, like so many engineers, tended to live in a different world.

“Ach. I didn’t notice you standing there, Elena.” Uncertain and openly upset at being interrupted, he nonetheless reacted politely, courtesy being a burdensome requirement of working with others. “Won’t you sit down?”

She did so, in a nearby chair which in that office was as much an afterthought as was the filigreed waste basket that was devoid of discarded paper.

“Loess, we’re approaching a crossroads,” she said. “By ‘we’ I mean the company. By the company, I mean you and me and every employee assigned to the Walter project.”

He smiled up at her, his old-fashioned glass lenses catching the light. For such a small, unprepossessing man, he had very penetrating black eyes.

“There have been many crossroads in the course of developing Walter. All of them have been, well… crossed.”

Her naturally husky voice fell even lower as she stared back at him. “Then what, Loess, is the hold-up? What is the reason for the continuing delay on the part of your department?” She did not say “on your part.” That would have been tactless. Although, she reflected, he probably wouldn’t have reacted anyway.

Reaching up, he minutely adjusted his glasses. “In order to sign off on Walter, we need to be absolutely certain about every neural pathway, every installed memory and bit of knowledge, and how it all interacts.”

Harbison pressed her lips together. She knew all this. She and Gilead had known it since the start of the project. Repetition wasn’t an adequate response.

“You’re an engineer,” she said. “Be more specific.”

He looked back at his displays, as if wishing he could live within them. “There are still certain aspects of synthetic cogitation with which some of us are not entirely comfortable. It would be easy enough to negate them, or even remove the relevant installations entirely from the cerebral cortex. Yet it is impossible to guarantee that the synthetic will operate successfully if its neural interlacing is not a hundred percent.” He struggled to avoid taking a professorial tone with the woman who was, after all, his superior within the company.

When she didn’t respond, he continued.

“Let us say that a situation arises on the Covenant that requires the synthetic to react in a certain way. If we remove or deactivate the areas that concern us, this could also leave the synthetic unable to respond to that situation in as efficient a way as possible. The situation might still be successfully resolved, but it might take longer, and the results may not be as effective. Thus, we are caught between our desire to make the Walter series as faultless as possible, while avoiding certain… hypothetical negatives.”

She waved it off. “I’ve read your department’s extracts and the conclusions. So has Gilead. We both agree that there’s nothing of sufficient concern to justify holding up the entire project. The concerns you’ve expressed are exactly as stated: hypothetical.”

He shrugged. “All of the dangers affecting a colony ship and its crew are hypothetical—until they become real.”

Despite her resolve she found herself on the verge of becoming angry. “That’s science!”

“Yes.” Steinmetz remained maddeningly unmoved. “But it is not engineering.”

Rising from the chair she began pacing the office as if stalking an invisible quarry. “It’s not economics, either, but that’s what I have to deal with.” She stopped so abruptly it startled him. “Here’s how things stand now, Loess, and I’m not being hypothetical. If we don’t sign off on the Walter project, then the possibility exists that the Covenant leaves without a synthetic. Everyone concurs that it would be better for the ship to have one on board—even if it’s flawed—than not to have one at all. It’s what Captain Brandon would want.

“More importantly, it’s what Hideo Yutani wants.”

It was silent for a moment as the engineer pondered.

“If I refuse to sign off?”

She started to respond, hesitated, and tried something new, gambling that he wouldn’t call her bluff.

“Then the Walter project gets shut down for lack of funding, and you and your team will be dispersed throughout the company to work on other projects.” She offered a tight smile. “Less intellectually stimulating projects. Probably with the same financial compensation but far, far less opportunity to make breakthroughs in neurological engineering.” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “Then there’s that Nobel Prize possibility.” Her expression twisted. “‘Hypothetical,’ of course. All gone.”

Looking up from where he sat, his gaze burned into hers. If there was such a thing as a black laser, she thought…

“You are pressuring me, Ms. Harbison.”

She didn’t flinch. “Of course I am. What do you expect me to do when reason and logic have failed? Or do you think that Gilead and I aren’t the recipients of even greater pressure from those above us?”

Sitting back, he nodded slowly. “I admit I hadn’t considered that when taking into account your position.”

“Why should you?” She gestured at the three heads-up displays replete with diagrams and dialogue sufficiently arcane as to mute understanding by all but a few specialists. “You and your team have been focused on your part of the Walter project to the exclusion of everything else.” Rising, she moved toward him and put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t quite cringe. “We’re all under a great deal of pressure to deliver, Loess. Every other department—from musculature build to optics to internal stabilization—has given their go-ahead for Walter to be commissioned. Yours is the only one that has not.” She removed her hand and the tenseness went out of him.

“You understand my position,” she continued. “Mine and Gilead’s. Pre-departure downloads aside, in order for a synthetic to integrate fully and properly with the onboard AI known as Mother, it needs to be sent up to the ship soon. Very soon. Everyone concerned wants this to happen. Gilead and I want it to happen, Captain Brandon wants it to happen, the media wants it to happen, the Covenant’s crew wants it to happen. Most importantly, Hideo Yutani wants it to happen.”

For all his seriousness, Loess Steinmetz wasn’t without humor.

“Why do I get the impression that regardless of what I say or do, ‘it’ is going to happen?” He covered his mouth and coughed delicately. “Sometimes I think I should have skipped engineering and joined my father’s medical practice in Frankenstein.”

Harbison was taken aback. “In where?”

He smiled at her startled response.

“Frankenstein. It’s a small town in the mountains west of Heidelberg.” He turned wistful. “A beautiful little place at the bottom of a deep, winding canyon. There is even a ruined castle on a crag overlooking the town and…” He stopped, then started anew. “Life’s path is filled with ironies. Do not let anyone tell you differently.”

She snapped herself back to the moment. “I put it to you, Loess. With the best will in the world. Will you, as department head, sign off on your segment of the Walter project, or will you risk it being shut down?” She made it sound as inevitable as possible. “You know that once your department is disbanded, we’ll find others to take over the work, and this first Walter will be sent up to the Covenant anyway?”

He eyed her shrewdly. “I am not certain you would risk that. Any subsequent failure of an improperly vetted synthetic could jeopardize the entire mission. In turn, that could put at risk the entire future of Weyland-Yutani.”

She did not dispute his appraisal. “All true, with the caveat that the report of any such failure, coming from deep space, would take so long to reach Earth that you, me, and Mr. Yutani himself could all be dead before anyone could react.” And, she added silently to herself, no Nobel Prize consideration for you, Loess Steinmetz.

A sudden new thought prompted her to add, “Is that what you think might have happened to the Prometheus mission? A failure of the David synthetic?”

He looked away. “We certainly have no way of knowing what happened to Peter Weyland and his ship. In deep space, all things are possible. It’s highly probable we will never know.” His eyes found hers again. “As the first of its kind, there were always ‘issues’ with David. That is what my team and I have been working overtime to try to resolve. We believe we have done so, but we are not yet a hundred percent sure.”

She pursed her lips again. “Would you say that you and your team are ninety-nine percent sure? Ninety-eight percent?” She waited for a response. Just when it seemed that none would be forthcoming, he replied. With obvious reluctance.

“Something like that. It pains me to say it, though.”

“Why? You’re an engineer, not a mathematician. You’re allowed a certain leeway.” Satisfied, she turned away from him and toward the office portal. “If you were building a bridge and I asked you if it would last a thousand years, and you told me you could only be sure it would last nine hundred and ninety-five, I would be quite happy with that.”

He mumbled a reply. “Unless you were the one driving on it in the year nine hundred and ninety-six.”

She felt she had coddled and cajoled him long enough.

“You’ll sign off on Walter?”

For a long moment she feared the entire meeting, as had many before it, had been for naught. Finally, he nodded, but without looking at her. His attention once again focused on the multiple heads-up displays.

“Give me and the team another week. I believe, I hope, we can finalize any remaining concerns in that time.”

“I’ve got confidence in you.” Standing in the open portal now, she looked back at him. Her tone was unyielding. “You’ve got twenty-four hours. You’re a smart man, Loess. A very smart man. Engineer it.”

* * *

The portal closed, leaving Steinmetz alone with his thoughts. In front of him, the triple heads-up display continued to gleam brightly; facts and figures and on one, a face. The face of Walter.

Beside it, the face of his predecessor, David.

Only a few seemingly minor issues yet to be resolved. They would be resolved, he told himself firmly. Based on what Harbison had told him, he had no choice.

The two faces gazing back at him were identical. Behind the faces, they were not. Small, small differences. Steinmetz’s right hand swept from his forehead across his skull and came to rest against the back of his neck.

It was fortunate, he thought. Fortunate for Harbison, for Gilead, for Captain Brandon and his crew, and the thousand-plus colonists who had consigned themselves and their future to an unknown, distant planet. Fortunate for them that Loess Steinmetz loved his job. He bent to it.

He would make Walter work.

* * *

Too much death. Too much dying.

He knew it was a vision dream, but he could not wake up. He never could. They always had to play themselves out first. Sleep was torment because he never knew when the visions would strike. Just as he never knew exactly where they came from, or why he was able to view them—if there was some purpose behind them or if some trick of the mind or genetics or the atmosphere or something that allowed him, of all people, to see them.

To suffer them endlessly.

Sometimes the inhabitants of the vision were so real, so near, that he was sure if he reached up and out he could touch them. It might be a victim, shredded, blood and bone and guts flying. Or it might be one of the killers, remorseless and horrific. He couldn’t choose because he had no control. He could no more determine what to do in vision than he could choose whether to dream one or not.

Subconsciously he knew there were others in the room with him. They were often there when he awoke. They were there to comfort him, to mop his brow and slow his breathing and monitor his vitals. They took notes and interpreted and made drawings and animations from what he called out. Though these were as accurate as the visitors could make them they could not—even at their most terrifying—equate to what he dreamed.

But the horror was enough to convince others, to recruit them to the cause, to persuade them that no sacrifice was too great to prevent the dream visions from becoming reality. They were brave, the recruits were, and dedicated.

Some were also a little insane, but that in no way diminished their effectiveness. It actually helped. When confronting terrors beyond human ken, a little imbalance helped to make them more tolerable.

XII

Duncan Fields was mad. Not angry mad, not hormonally mad, not even conjugally mad, for he had been single his entire life. No, he was truly, totally, thoroughly mad.

As in crazed.

Insane.

Either that, or he was a prophet. Or perhaps simply a clever manipulator of his fellow man. Opinion among the uncertain was much divided. In contrast, to his acolytes it didn’t really matter. They believed what he believed. Among themselves they shared one thought, one conviction, above all.

“Oh-tee-bee-dee.”

To a non-initiate it sounded almost childish, something to be whispered in play to a young child or accompanied by cheerful whistling on a summer day. To those who knew its meaning, the fragment of rhythmic doggerel was a matter of utmost seriousness. For all that, the followers of Fields would have insisted they were not fanatics.

Those who believed in his revelations looked less like the members of a religious cult than the fans who filled a sports stadium. They labored at ordinary jobs, worked at a variety of businesses and public institutions. There was nothing outwardly distinctive about their physical appearances, their clothing, their choices of music, or their diets. They came from all ages and genders. Most important of all, they believed in what they were fighting for.

The future. Of all humankind. Nothing less.

For a long time the Prophet had kept on the move from city to city, town to town, even shuttling between his island home and the continent. Once, long ago, he had been a paunchy adjuster for an insurance agency. Unmarried but with prospects, pleasant to look upon in a dumpy sort of way, he had cleaved to cultural standards in dress and speech.

The nightmares had changed him.

That they weren’t normal night dreams he believed from the beginning. Nightmares did not repeat themselves over and over again, day upon day, week after week. Not long after they commenced he began to fear sleep, but while his mind was strong, his body was weak. It needed rest. So Duncan Fields slept, and dreamed, and awoke screaming.

He tried therapy. He tried sedatives. He tried exotic herbs and soothing music, good herbs and questionable pharmaceuticals. Nothing prevented or mitigated the nightmares.

It took a while, but eventually he came to a sober if extraordinary conclusion. His nightmares must reflect a reality. There was no other explanation for their exceptional clarity, for their frequency of recurrence, for the exactitude of their imagery. What they portended frightened him. To be rid of them, a weaker man might have committed suicide.

Fields decided to fight back. Not only for the sake of his own future, but for that of his fellow human beings. Such admirable conviction didn’t change the fact that he was mad, however.

But he was convincing, as well. The horrors that were recorded and interpreted convinced more than a few hesitant recruits to join the organization. Some were geniuses who could give form to the fear, creating visuals that wielded at least some of the visceral terror. That they had tapped into Duncan’s psyche so effectively was nothing short of amazing. It was enough to make him believe in telepathy.

It was enough to influence a small army of converts. Those who were reluctant were sometimes ushered into his bedroom to hear his screams for themselves. Sometimes they had to be physically restrained by fellow converts, lest they themselves try to run in terror from the bedchamber.

Perhaps it was his ordinariness that helped him persuade so many others to join him in his crusade. Perhaps it was the fact that he sought nothing for himself. Not wealth, not property, not fame, not sexual gratification, not the unblemished adulation of a multitude of followers. His cause was entirely altruistic and his rallying cry as simple as could be imagined.

“Oh-tee-bee-dee.”

The building that served as the movement’s headquarters was as unprepossessing as its founder. Much of the ancient sheep farm located in southern Hampshire featured revamped original buildings and stone walls in the pastures. No one in the area thought it unusual that the current owners, whoever they might be, had converted it into an exclusive rest home, combined with a working farm. The designation and zoning allowed for the regular comings and goings of more visitors than would have been expected at an ordinary sheep ranch. So did the conversion and updating of old ranch buildings to accommodate the steady if unremarkable flow of visitors.

What could not be seen from the country road that led to the ranch were the “refurbishments” that had been made. Much of the work had been done underground. Hardened bunkers, food and energy storage, living facilities, and much more had been quietly excavated and made ready. Of particular priority were their engineering and laboratory facilities, where their work ran parallel to many other organizations—including Weyland-Yutani and the Jutou Combine. Converts had come from many walks of life, and many brought with them data that proved useful.

Should it become necessary to refuse entry to intruders, effective defenses had been carefully emplaced. While not as threatening as the horrors portrayed in the prophet’s dreams, they were sufficiently deadly in their own right. Extremism in the defense of the planet was no vice.

Not when the future of the species was at stake. Fields lamented what had to be done. It wasn’t the fault of others that they couldn’t see what he dreamed. He was determined to save them from themselves. His resolve, in contrast to his stature, was mighty. It had to be, given the intensity and the nature of what drove him.

His followers had constructed private quarters for him that were separate from the main building, but connected to it by an enclosed walkway. The passage was well-monitored by security. The Prophet had his privacy, yet was not isolated.

The separation was as much to protect the sanity of his acolytes as to offer him some solitude. Though the nightmares were the foundation of his movement, he never ceased to find them personally embarrassing, and chose to suffer them in seclusion. Only when they lasted particularly long or were unusually disturbing did he allow his followers to intervene.

* * *

The chorus of howls and screams that sounded over the speakers at three o’clock on a Tuesday morning were both unceasing and unsettling. On night duty, Earle from Site Monitoring was the first to respond. Satchel in hand, Bismala from Dispensary met him at the entrance to the covered concourse. Dina, her assistant, hauled an additional basket of medications and medical devices.

As they walked quickly toward the single structure at the terminus of the pathway, the doctor was already preparing a hypush.

Windows punched in the walls of the covered corridor offered a view of the Hampshire countryside. At night and on bad days, the pollution drifting down from Britain’s northern industrial cities could be thick enough to obscure the moonlight. Thankfully, the miasma that enveloped Greater London usually went in the other direction. Inhabitants of the French coast had long since resigned themselves to tolerating the permanent brown cloud.

At the far end of the concourse the watchman, doctor, and doctor’s assistant halted before a double door. The twin barrier was intended as much to keep sound in as it was unauthorized intruders out. Earle passed a hand over the integrated sensor, then leaned forward so a lens could scan his right retina. As he stepped aside, Bismala took his place and repeated the actions, followed lastly by the diminutive Dina. Accepting their identification, the outer door slid aside.

They stepped into an alcove where they were scanned again, this time by full-body instrumentation. That completed, the inner door opened and they strode quickly through the pleasantly decorated antechamber. By now, they were close enough to hear Fields’s screaming and moaning, even though the next door was closed.

“It sounds bad,” Dina offered, but she got no response.

Once inside the darkened bedchamber, Earle moved to a communications panel to assure his comrades in Security that he and the medical personnel had arrived. Having heard it all too many times before, he forced himself to ignore the screaming coming from the figure lying in the oversized bed nearby.

Laying her satchel down, Bismala sat on the side of the bed and took the loaded hypush from her assistant. The device’s internal light allowed her to double-check its contents.

He lay in the center of the bed—tossing, turning, and howling, kicking at unseen sights, his arms flailing at the empty night air. Though he was not yet fifty, his hair had turned completely white. His closed eyelids flickered wildly. Bismala didn’t know what he was seeing. No one did. It was enough for her and for the others that they were real to him.

She glanced at a monitoring device mounted in the wall to the side of the bed. Everything was recorded and available for later playback. In some ways, the recordings were more powerful than Fields’s waking presence. Freeze-framing the tormented expressions on his face yielded a profound effect, and had proved to be an effective recruitment tool.

Pressing the loaded hypush against the upper part of his right arm, she depressed the red button at one end. The pharmaceutical cocktail contained in the device passed immediately and painlessly into Fields’s body.

It took about a minute for the drugs to take effect.

The kicking and flailing slowed, then ceased. The sleeping man’s moans grew less distressed. Finally, they stopped. Bismala took a deep breath and turned to her companions.

“He’ll rest now,” the doctor said. “I’ll stay with him for a while. You two can go back to your stations.” She gave them a sympathetic look. “I know you both must be tired.”

Dina left reluctantly. Earle followed with a cursory nod. Once they had departed, Bismala turned back to the man on the bed. Thermoreactive bedding kept him comfortable, sucking away any body sweat before it could turn clammy. As one of his doctors, she made it her job to attend to such details. Not everyone was allowed such an intimate personal glimpse of the Prophet.

As she watched him in his sleep she noted yet again what an unimpressive physical specimen he was. Not obese, but definitely overweight. Soft from a lifetime that had shunned suitable exercise, he more put her in mind of the corner pharmacist than some biblical herald bestriding the land. Yet it wasn’t his body that drew others to him, but the horrors that materialized in his mind.

When awake, he struggled to manage the organization that had grown up around him. He could be awkward with words, unsure of what to say or how to say it. In contrast, his nightmares possessed a dreadful eloquence. None could deny their veracity, or resist the truth they predicted.

If only he could describe exactly what he sees in his dreams, she mused. Though perhaps it was fortunate he could not. Oh-tee-bee-dee, she recited to herself. That was enough for her. That was enough for every one of his followers.

* * *

She stayed until morning, occasionally drifting and dozing while sitting on the side of the bed. It was large not because Fields indulged in company—his condition rendered him effectively celibate—but to prevent him from hurting himself. Tying him down in a smaller bed would have resulted in him breaking his bonds or breaking himself against them. The larger bed allowed him to thrash about unencumbered without fear of injury.

The arrangement had worked well save for one night when a visiting nurse had leaned too close during one of his dreams and had suffered a broken cheekbone as a result. When told of the incident upon awakening, Fields had apologized profusely even though he hadn’t been responsible for what had happened. The nurse didn’t press the matter. It was hard to blame a nightmare.

They awoke almost simultaneously.

“Dr. Bismala?”

Jerking awake and turning to him, she was instantly alert.

“How do you feel, sir?”

Struggling, pushing down against the mattress with both hands, he winced as he sat up and felt his left arm. “Another injection?”

She nodded apologetically. “I thought it appropriate. You were having a difficult time.”

He smiled humorlessly. “When do I not? Sometimes I think I’d prefer permanent sedation. At least then I would be free of the damned dreams.”

“Ah,” she chided him, “but then we would lose you as our principal motivator. People would leave the cause, and we cannot have that, because… oh-tee-bee-dee.”

“Oh-tee-bee-dee.” He nodded tiredly. “I’ll watch the recording another time. Anything unusual?”

She considered. “Not really. You were suffering the usual nightmares, high intensity, until I dosed you. Nothing coherent.” Her tone turned less professional, more personal. “Are you still unable to describe exactly what it is you see?”

He buried his head in his hands and dragged them down his face, then looked up again. “Monsters. Horrible clawing things. Waiting for me. Waiting for all of us.” With his right hand he waved at the ceiling. “The same as it has been for months, for years. I see them, hear them, smell them. You’re not supposed to be able to smell things in a dream, but I do. It’s unmistakable and sharp and very distinctive.

“They know I am among them, and yet they don’t,” he continued. “When they strike blindly in my direction I instinctively try to dodge. Sometimes I succeed, other times their blows make contact. Make contact yet pass through me. The pain is real, as real as if I were to stick myself with a knife.” He held up both hands, palms upward.

“Yet there are no wounds.” He eyed her imploringly. “Why me, Dr. Bismala? Why are these nightmares foisted on me? If I could, I would gladly pass them onto someone else. Someone stronger and better equipped to fight them back.”

“You’re doing as well as anyone might be expected to do, Duncan.” Her voice was soothing. “A lesser man would have caved long before now.”

“Then you don’t think I’m mad?”

She smiled. “I didn’t say that. From a clinical point of view, no—but there’s no precedent for your condition that I or any of the other medical staff have been able to discover. Everything about your nightmares, the few specifics you’ve been able to describe, is unique. If it weren’t, we wouldn’t be drawn to you and to the cause—as noble and righteous a cause as mankind has known for thousands of years.” She paused to gather her thoughts.

“You’re a living alarm,” she said. “A warning of what may come, of what will happen to us if we go… out there. Something allows you to see the cosmic horrors that are hidden from the rest of us. We owe you, Duncan. The world needs to see what you see, and to understand why we need to remain here, on this world, safely at home. Until we can accomplish that, we have to take whatever steps are necessary to ensure that the actions of fools, interested only in fame and money, don’t cause the death of every human being on the planet.”

“You flatter me,” he mumbled. “What’s left of me, anyway.”

She rose from the side of the bed. “We all bend beneath our burdens, Duncan. Yours is to be a prophet. To foretell what might happen if we dare to stray from our home. From our Earth. Thanks to you, that won’t be allowed to happen.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Looking away, he gazed out a window. There were trees out there, and hedgerows, and small warm-blooded things with fast-beating hearts. There were other people, wind and rain, life. To save what remained of his sanity he had withdrawn from all of that. Because if he were to be caught outside at night and look up to see the stars…

He shuddered, as if reading her thoughts. That would be the end of him. The nightmares would close in around him permanently and he would never wake up again.

“I know that the staff has set in motion a number of plans to stop the departure of the Covenant.” He turned back from the window, downcast. “The first attempt within the ship itself, then the effort to get one of our own onto the ship’s security team, and now the failure of the abduction attempt.” He shook his head. “We’re running out of time.” His gaze met hers. “It may be necessary to actually kill some people. I don’t want to have anyone killed, but Weyland-Yutani may leave us no choice.”

She nodded as she fiddled with her satchel. “Better to sacrifice a few than the entire species.”

He nodded without hesitation, though his expression was still morose. “What if our efforts are doomed to failure?”

“Fear of racial extermination is a powerful motivator. If the authorities would believe you—”

He shook his head sharply. “You know what would happen if recordings of my dreams were shown to them. They’d be shrugged off and shunted aside, because there’s money to be made in colonization. An entire industry has sprung up around it. When that’s set against the ‘nocturnal ravings of a little madman from Hampshire,’ the response is obvious.”

“Not to those of us who believe, Duncan,” she replied. “We know what is at stake. We’ve pledged our lives to put a stop to this dreadfully misguided colonization of deep space.” It was her turn to shudder slightly. “No one knows how you see what you do when you’re asleep. No one understands the cause or the science—if it is science. But for those of us who have gathered around you, for those who see truth in your nightmares, there can be no other choice. What are the lives of a few against the survival of the human race?”

He looked away. “I didn’t ask to be given this burden, you know. This responsibility. It was thrust upon me. I’d abjure it if I could.” He raised his gaze toward the ceiling. For just a moment, sitting up in bed like that and striving to peer beyond the roof, he did look like a prophet. Mad or sane, it really wasn’t important, she knew. In the end, all that mattered were the nightmares.

She had always considered herself a rationalist, yet she believed—as did hundreds of others. How could she not, once exposed to the horrors innate in Duncan Fields’s dreaming? All of which led to one conclusion, which was encompassed in the simple acronym that had become the hallmark of the organization.

“Oh-tee-bee-dee,” she murmured to herself. Exiting the bedroom, she left him staring at the ceiling.

“Out There Be Demons.”

XIII

Duncan Fields wasn’t present at the meeting of the Earthsavers Council. The Prophet disliked discussing the details of the organization’s more sordid activities. While he approved of the intended results, listening to some of their methods left him distressed.

It didn’t matter. He provided the impetus for what they discussed. His input wasn’t needed, nor would it have been valued for purposes of decision-making. The dreamer had no experience in such matters, and would only have slowed down the process. Fields was not a brilliant man, but he was smart enough to know it, and to keep out of the way of what had to be done.

There were six members on the council, one representing each of the inhabited continents. All of them could have been dropped at a sales conference and they would have blended in just fine with the other attendees. The ruthless and powerful shun publicity and do all they can to insure that their images and activities are kept out of the media. They are never the power behind the throne.

They are the power beside the throne.

All of the council members accepted that Duncan Fields’s visions, nightmares, or whatever they were reflected a galactic order that demanded homo sapiens to remain safely close to home, and not draw attention to itself by sending crewed vessels out among the stars. Recognizing that their opinion was unpopular, they sought ways—both overt and subtle—to educate the public.

As yet they had not succeeded.

The technology to send mankind into deep space was there. Given the damage to the terrestrial environment it had proved easy enough to find volunteers. And there were corporations who stood to make money. Against such a surge of interest and publicity it was difficult for the Earthsavers to make their warnings heard. Nevertheless, the council and the followers of Duncan Fields persisted.

Now a colony ship, the Covenant, was about to embark, traveling all the way to distant Origae-6. A great big flag shouting the presence of humanity and offering a trail back to the vulnerable homeworld. It had to be stopped, by whatever means. Otherwise—the council and the followers were convinced—Fields’s nightmares would manifest themselves in reality.

Brave Eric Sasaki, an Earthsaver volunteer for many years, had given his life in the effort. So had another member, in London, though his companion had thankfully managed to escape. Most recently, of the five members who had embarked on the effort to kidnap the daughter of Hideo Yutani, two had died.

The survivors had argued for making another attempt, were even eager to do so, but they had been turned down by the council. Security around Yutani himself, as well as the core Weyland-Yutani company complexes in Japan, Britain, and elsewhere throughout the world had been tightened to such a degree that it would have been impossible to compromise.

“We could begin sabotaging various offshoot Weyland-Yutani enterprises that are involved with the colonization mission,” one middle-aged woman ventured. “A few well-placed explosives might do the trick.” She looked as if she should have been guiding a pram down a suburban street, and not discussing covert terrorism.

Another woman, of Asian descent, seated across the room from her shook her head. “Not a good idea. Innocent people would die, and if word got out that Earthsavers was involved, they won’t stop until the movement is dead. Besides,” she added as she poured herself a cup of tea, “it’s not a solution. We could blow up half of Weyland-Yutani’s properties and the Covenant would still be able to depart on schedule.”

An elegantly dressed gentleman slouching on a couch nearby spoke while resting two fingers against the side of his head. “At this point, the only way that we stop the ship is to incapacitate it, or force those in charge to halt its departure.”

“There’s no way we can get to the Covenant itself.” The speaker was middle-aged, overweight, in need of a better haircut, and he regarded his colleagues out of small black eyes that were set too close to his small nose, and he wore pants and a shirt that fit too snugly. He worked for the research arm of a large Russian pharmaceutical company specializing in lotions and creams, and was absolutely ruthless. “They’re rechecking the security clearances of everyone on the ship.”

Another man seated nearby was slimmer and indifferently dressed. Selecting a biscuit from the tin in front of him, he gnawed on it nervously, like a squirrel constantly on the lookout for a prowling hawk.

“Impossible to get anyone new on board anyway now. Not given how they’re scanning everyone prior to boarding a shuttle.”

The youngest of the group sat up straighter. “Then we have to stop its departure from here.” He looked around at his colleagues. “What about trying for Jenny Yutani again, or another relative?”

The younger of the two women shrugged resignedly. “You might as well try to abduct a world leader. We might be able to snatch a cousin, or a distant nephew. Knowing Hideo Yutani’s reputation, he’d probably respond by telling us to do whatever we wanted to do, as he has plenty of other cousins and nephews.” She concluded with a curse that was shocking in its cultural currency and utterly at odds with her appearance.

“If only we could get to Yutani himself,” declared Pavel, the overweight councilor. “But that’s impossible.”

“Perhaps not, dearie.”

Everyone turned to the matronly woman who had proposed blowing up company buildings. Her younger colleague set aside her tea to offer dissent.

“Do you have an actual idea, or are you just being blindly optimistic? We’re all aware of the increased security around every important member of the Yutani family. They’re not going to exclude the old man himself.”

The other woman nodded. “It is true that there’s no possibility for our organization to reach him. That doesn’t rule out others who might.”

The casually attired young man let out a derisive snort. “What ‘others’?” Pierre snapped. “Who else could penetrate that ring of steel?”

She looked across at him. “The one outside entity with enough local knowledge, clout, and indifference to authority. I refer to the Neoyakuza.”

The younger woman eyed her senior counterpart questioningly. “Why would the Neoyakuza want to get involved?”

“For the same reason such groups always get involved.” Sipping her tea, the matron peered over the rim of her porcelain cup. “Money.”

“Do we possess the necessary funds?” Choma, the representative from Africa, chewed on his lower lip. “This isn’t like asking them to muscle a ramen shop.”

Everyone looked at the overweight man. He considered a moment, then pushed out his lower lip and nodded.

“It can be managed.”

“We are agreed, then?” the matron said. When no one voiced any further dissention, she turned to the woman across from her. “Yukiko?”

“I will initiate the necessary connections and handle the follow-up negotiations myself.” She hesitated. “Regardless of whatever amount we offer, it is entirely possible they will turn us down.” She eyed her colleagues. “We have in our favor the fact that we don’t want the old man killed. Only ‘vacationed’… and then persuaded.”

The only man who had not yet spoken raised his gaze from his glass, which was filled with an odd concoction no one else would approach, let alone consume. He downed half of it in one long swallow. The fat man flinched at the sight.

“There are ways the Covenant can be permanently disabled. Once that is done to our satisfaction, the old man can be released.”

“What’s to keep him and the company from repairing the ship,” the slim man said, “and sending it out later?”

The latest speaker turned to him. “As you know, the company I work for manufactures—among other products—a wide range of medical implants.” He did not smile. “A device can be modified so that a simple signal could cause it to release a lethal toxin. We wouldn’t need to inform the old man of the specifics. Only that if he fails to comply with our demands, we can kill him in an instant.”

“Excellent notion.” The matron might as easily have been chatting with the local greengrocer. “Then we’ll put it to a vote.” She gestured at the smaller woman seated. “Yukiko will commence negotiations with the Neoyakuza, and Pierre will see to it that a device is prepared that can be surgically inserted into Hideo Yutani’s body.” She offered a smile that was half maternal, half cobra. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I see this latest approach as very promising.

“Are we agreed?”

A show of hands was taken. The council voted unanimously. Then, with nothing else of note to discuss, they finished their tea.

XIV

Nobody paid any attention to the elderly man with the sawara cane. As befitted his age he moved slowly, keeping away from the wet, busy Tokyo street packed with mostly silent autonomous vehicles.

Couples and clusters of friends laughed and chatted as they flowed around him. He was a slowly tumbling rock in a swift moving stream. No one bumped him or tried to nudge him out of the way. While he was largely ignored, other pedestrians were conscious of his presence and deferred to his infirmity. Though many things had changed in Japan, respect for the elderly remained.

Though it was raining, he carried no umbrella and disdained the use of a personal hydrophobic projector. It was almost as if he preferred to be wet. Long and lined like a portrait lifted from an ukiyo-e woodblock print, his face was framed by the upturned collar of his plain gray overcoat. His oversized hat drooped down both behind him and in front, providing some protection for his exposed neck and face. Dark eyes concentrated on the pavement lest he trip or step in a deeper puddle.

The touch of elegance about him was reflected in his wide mustache and pointed van Dyke beard, each of which was completely white. Belying his age, thick white hair similarly swept down the back of his head to bunch up beneath the overcoat’s upturned collar.

The rain was steady but not heavy, consistent but not a downpour. It was enough to render hallucinogenic the rainbow of lights from the surrounding structures, as if a crash of abstract paintings was lit from within. Bright colors danced off the equally colorful raingear of younger strollers out for an evening on the town. They were headed for Asakusa, the ancient nearby entertainment district. Despite their perfervid illumination, the buildings lining the street were dull by comparison.

He could have taken a robocab to his destination. He could afford one, but he enjoyed walking in the rain. It reminded him of his past, when he was a poor burakumin. Back then he didn’t have the money to buy an overcoat, much less anything as sophisticated as personal hydrophobic gear. Many were the chilly, wet nights like this when he would have killed for a bowl of hot soup and noodles.

Literally killed.

He could afford soup and noodles now. He could afford North American Kobe steak and French wine and Italian truffles. But not tonight. A heavy meal before business was always a bad idea. It slowed the body and clouded the mind.

The sawara cypress cane tap-tapped its way along the pavement. Twice, passing couples offered the old man money. He smiled and politely declined. If they had known who he was, they would not have made the offer. If they had known who he was, they might have fled in fear.

His name was Tatsuya Himura and he was the oyabun, or boss, of the Yamaguchi-gumi Eleven, an organization that counted among its membership slightly more than half the gangsters and organized criminals in Japan. Pausing outside one building and squinting into the rain, he noted the address and nodded to himself. Nearly invisible scars on two fingers concealed where the ends had been cut off many decades ago in successive acts of yubitsume. Modern medicine had allowed the digits to be replaced with little but sufficient sign of the painful sacrifice.

Touching the back of his left hand with another finger brought to life the small in situ projector that was embedded in the flesh. A few whispered words and the subcutaneous comm unit confirmed everything he needed to know: the time, the location, the fact that he was indeed in the right place.

He could have sent an underling, or many underlings, to the site, but the result of their appearance would have differed from what he intended. Besides, it was good to keep in practice no matter how old one was. Himura felt his age in his bones. Whether another so afflicted might have winced, he grinned. The cold and the rain made him feel alive. Besides, he was too old to attract much notice. Taking a long, deep breath, he stepped into the alcove that fronted the entrance.

The two doormen inside eyed him askance. They were very large, solid, doubtless trained well enough to occupy their present positions. Himura could have killed them easily. Instead, he submitted to their perfunctory inspection.

“And just where do you think you’re going, Grandpa?” the nearest inquired with a minimum of courtesy.

Leaning on his cane with one hand, Himura pointed with the other. It trembled ever so slightly. “I have a dinner appointment.”

The much larger, younger doorman frowned. “With who? The cat cleaner?” His companion smiled and coughed slightly into a hand. Cats were a common feature of many Tokyo restaurants. In an upscale establishment like Soba, they were synthetic and quite capable of cleaning themselves. So the jibe was doubly insulting.

Himura raised both arms. It appeared to require an effort for him to do so.

“I am late,” he said. “You can track me if you like. The gentleman I am supposed to meet is already here.”

Something in his voice, some subtle change from aged weakness to unexpected strength, caused both doormen to hesitate. Most likely they thought this grandpa was hoping to nurse a single cocktail and enjoy the passing spectacle of some of the city’s rich and famous. On the other hand, it was just possible he was telling the truth. In which case, if they denied him entry, their jobs could be on the line. Reaching a decision, the senior doorman nodded at his colleague.

“Scan him and let him in.” To the visitor he added, “We’ll be watching you. If you just wander to the long bar or the one upstairs, and try to hang out there all night, you’ll find yourself chucked back out into the rain.”

“I understand.” Himura kept his arms up as he nodded.

“That won’t be necessary, Grandpa.” Relenting, the first doorman smiled and indicated that Himura could lower his arms. “Just stand there a moment.” No beam of light enveloped Himura, but there was a slight humming sound as unseen devices took the measure of his clothing, his shoes, the cane he carried, even his hair. When the humming ceased, the doorman grunted.

“He’s clean.”

“Did you expect anything else?” his counterpart chided. As the inner door to the restaurant opened, a gesture invited Himura to enter. “Have a good dinner, Grandpa.”

“Thank you, young man. I do not expect to be long.”

Checking his overcoat with the automated storeroom, Himura made his way deeper into the building. As befitted one of the finest dining establishments in Tokyo, Soba was crowded. Tables in the center were flanked by two lines of high-backed booths that featured customizable seating. Within, ambient lighting was also fully adjustable to suit the mood of the diners. The same optical projectors could also generate privacy screens, opaquing the air between a booth’s entrance and the rest of the restaurant. Audio dampers could do the same thing for sound, depending on how much of the restaurant chatter a patron wished to employ as background noise.

Using his cane, Himura made his way through the room. Occasionally a waiter would flick a glance in the direction of the old man in the rumpled but clean suit. Noting nothing exceptional, they continued about their business. Their very presence, in lieu of the automated table attendants, further indicated Soba’s exalted status.

Several back rooms catered to the more elite of the restaurant’s clientele. They were quieter, less crowded, and featured a larger waiter-to-customer ratio. There were no open tables here. As he walked by each booth, Himura favored the occupants with a quick, appraising glance. Some were opaqued or soundproofed or both, and he ignored them for now. If he was still interested later, he could make a return journey to recheck them.

While several of the booths—both opaqued and not—featured the presence of bodyguards outside, he was able to identify the one he sought from a cursory examination of the two men flanking its entrance. It was neither opaqued nor soundproofed. Even at a distance the tattoos visible on their necks and the backs of their hands were suitably distinctive. Similar traditional art would cover much if not all of their unclothed bodies, he knew.

Further confirmation was provided by the lack of sound from within the booth itself. Most likely that meant it was inhabited by a single occupant, dining alone. Himura was certain he had located the right booth. He had long since ascertained that the man he sought would be dining here tonight, at this time. He made a mental note to see that a bonus was paid to the woman who had confirmed the location and time.

He smiled to himself. Again, a much younger operative would have drawn far too much scrutiny. A group would immediately have been intercepted and challenged out at the establishment’s entrance. A single old man, however, could move with considerably greater freedom.

As he hobbled past the booth and approached the main kitchen, he drew only a brief glance from the two bodyguards. Once beyond, he again activated the small device built into his left hand, and murmured to it.

There was a brief pause.

Shouts and screams erupted from the direction of the main kitchen. Multiple fire alarms began to sound. Eying one another uneasily, the patrons in the exclusive dining area began to murmur to one another. A few rose from their seats.

Even as the two bodyguards took several steps in the direction of the kitchen, reaching inside their jackets to check their weapons, Himura began to retrace his steps. By the time one of the maître d’s appeared to reassure the customers, and before the bodyguards thought to look behind them, Himura had stepped into the booth.

As he had inferred, a single individual was seated there, at the very back of the half-moon-shaped booth. Had there been others, he was prepared to deal with them. That the man was alone made it easier.

Looking up at the intruder, Hideo Yutani waved at the three-dimensional image he had been viewing. The device shut off. The head of Weyland-Yutani did not shout, nor did he call for help. Instead, he continued chewing his food while gesturing to his right.

“Sit down, Himura-san,” he said. “What brings the oyabun of the Yamaguchi-gumi out by himself on a cold, wet night like this?”

Availing himself of the indicated space in the luxuriously appointed booth, Himura laid his cane on the silver-inlaid tabletop, bowed his head slightly in the direction of his host, and replied matter-of-factly.

“It is indeed cold and wet, Yutani-san. An unpleasant night for a killing, which is what I was paid to do.”

Yutani nodded, considering this, then reached for the decanter on the table and removed its stopper. The bodyguards returned and gaped in alarm. Noting the newcomer, they reached again for their weapons. Yutani briskly gave the wave of a hand, and they stood down—though the looks of alarm remained.

“Some mineral water from Iceland?” Yutani asked.

The boss of the Yamaguchi-gumi shook his head and grinned. “You always were more ascetic than aesthetic. How am I supposed to kill you without a proper drink first?”

Yutani smiled back. “What would you like, Himura-san?”

“Sake. Warmed.” Again the cobra’s smile. “I am so much more of a traditionalist than you.”

“Your position requires it. I have more independence.” Leaning forward slightly, Yutani addressed the table. “A bottle of old Daischichi and two glasses, please.” He sat back. “Just because I do not favor the stuff does not mean I am ignorant of the refinements.”

Himura nodded approvingly. “A fine selection, though a bit peppery. We have a matter of some importance to discuss.”

The head of Weyland-Yutani resumed eating his steak and potatoes.

“What? Whether or not you are going to kill me before or after I finish my meal?”

Himura chuckled. “You know very well, Yutani-san, that if I was actually here to kill you, I would already be back on the street, dispersed into the rain. I said that I was paid to come here and kill you, not that I have any intention of carrying out the act.”

Yutani nodded as he swallowed. Picking up an embroidered napkin woven of Irish linen, he wiped the sides of his mouth.

“Out of curiosity, though, how would you have done it? You could not get any kind of real weapon or explosive past building security. As for a physical attack, I am a bit younger than you, and have some small skill in the martial arts.” He nodded toward the entrance to the booth. “Also, one shout and my people would be in here and all over you.”

Himura gestured understandingly. “I would have had to perform the act quickly, for sure. Yet there are certain specialized tools of the trade that manage to remain one step ahead of even advanced security techniques.” Reaching out with a gnarled hand he used it to roll the cane on the table two revolutions to the right. “If I roll it three times now to the left, it will be armed.”

Yutani eyed the sawara wood. “Any metal or explosives would have immediately shown up on even the most basic security scanner.”

“Very true.” Himura smiled. “That is why the interior mechanism is fashioned entirely of wood. The firing mechanism, the small projectile filled with fast-acting poison, everything is wood, arranged in a jumble. Nothing aligns to form a functional weapon until it is armed.”

“I am impressed.” Forking a couple of green beans, Yutani slipped them into his mouth and chewed. “I appreciate the information and the lesson.” He put down the fork as the sake and glasses arrived. First pouring a glass for Himura, he then took a very little for himself. Setting down the bottle, he raised his glass.

“A toast then. To old friends not killing each other.”

Himura raised his own small glass. “To old friends not killing each other. A task reserved for wives and mistresses.” They drank. Having far less in his glass, Yutani set his back down first.

“So then, Himura-san. Who hired you to kill me, and why?”

By way of prefacing his answer, the older man reached into his jacket and drew out an envelope. After sliding it over to Yutani, he poured himself another stout drink.

The envelope was not sealed. Drawing out the contents, Yutani spread them out on the table. It was a complete set of documents identifying the bearer as an employee of Weyland, based in Glasgow. Having yet to be filled in, the spaces reserved for images were blank. Yutani looked over at his visitor.

“Someone wants my associates here to think that I was killed by a Weyland employee,” he said.

Himura nodded. “I have no idea why. It seems superfluous. What does it matter who kills you, assuming that the task was to be carried out successfully?” He drank. “It is fortunate indeed the contract rose to my attention. Whoever placed it with my kobun was clearly not aware that you and I have done business together for many years. That we have an established personal rapport I would be most reluctant to terminate, no matter the sum.”

“Indeed,” Yutani added pithily, “no one-time payment would equal the value of our business relationship. You have shared information with me, Himura-san. Now it is my turn to share with you. You are aware of the forthcoming journey of the colony ship Covenant?”

Himura nodded. “How could I not be? Everyone on Earth is aware of it.” He made a face. “Is that somehow connected with a contract to end your life?”

“There have been attempts to sabotage the ship, to slip someone on board as member of the security team, and to kidnap my daughter. Though they failed, they were professional in nature.” Yutani indicated the admirably well-counterfeited Weyland documents spread out on the table.

“I know of the kidnapping attempt, of course.” The head of the Yamaguchi-gumi turned pensive. “So someone or some group from the original Weyland company wants to prevent the Covenant from departing on its mission. Very badly, it would seem.”

“So it would seem,” Yutani echoed. “Whoever they are, they have moved from sabotage to kidnapping and now to murder in an attempt to achieve their aim.” One finger tapped the nearest document. “I have no doubt whatsoever that they are waiting anxiously to hear an announcement of my death, whereupon they will send a warning that unless the colonization mission is cancelled, more deaths will follow. They are becoming desperate, and a serious irritant.”

Himura eyed him over his third glass of expensive sake. “Who is becoming desperate? Employees of the former Weyland company?”

Yutani leaned back against the plush cushioning. “I don’t know. One of those attempting to halt the mission was identified as a Yutani employee, others as having a long history of employment with Weyland. The effort to sow suspicion among both groups is now obvious. Yet with each incident I am more inclined to think that the true motivation comes from elsewhere, from outside what is now Weyland-Yutani.”

He looked more sharply at the older man. “You have access to sources that even I do not,” Yutani said. “That the authorities do not. Perhaps you could make some inquiries? Now that you have some idea what to look for.” When Himura hesitated, Yutani added, “Compensation will be appropriate, of course, depending on what information you can provide.”

“Of course.” Himura set his glass down. “A profitable evening, however one looks at it—and the booze is good, too.” He poured himself a fourth glass. As yet he exhibited no signs of impairment. Nor would he. Even at his age, the grandfatherly Tatsuya Himura could drink thugs and tough guys half his age under the table.

“I always prefer to talk business than commit murder,” he continued. “What do you want to know, old friend?”

XV

More rain. Lopé didn’t mind the rain so much. In fact, he hoped there would be decent rain on Origae-6. He enjoyed the feel of it, the smell of it.

Sadly, the rain in Greater London hadn’t felt or smelled right for some decades now. Instead of fresh ionized air, the current steady downpour stank of whatever industrial pollutant happened to dominate the local atmosphere at the moment. As for feel, occasionally there was so much superfine grit contained in the droplets that a really bad storm was capable of scouring paint. Fine for the plethora of companies large and small that had sprung up to deal with the damage, not so good for owners and insurance companies.

No wonder, he mused, not for the first time, we have so many applicants for every colony slot. Persuading people to leave the planet forever would have been a hard sell a hundred or so years ago. Now the rush was to get away, in hopes of finding those things people had once taken for granted: clean air, potable water, healthy soil. If cleanliness was indeed next to godliness, then it was plain to anyone who looked around that neither held much ground on planet Earth.

The crowded and overpopulated greater metropolitan areas were the worst. There was no way to keep them clean. In that respect Greater London, despite all its problems, was better than many. He’d seen images from places like Mumbai, Nairobi, Sao Paulo, and more. Tens of millions of people in dire need of water to drink, proper sanitation, enough food, unable even to afford simple cloth masks to filter the air their lungs struggled to process.

With his experience he could have obtained a high-paying job in any of them, or anywhere else—but there was nowhere else. Nowhere like the exquisite historical images he’d perused in videos and picture books. Oh, there were nature preserves, scattered here and there about the planet’s surface. Zealously protected, they survived on the fringes of increasingly polluted terrain, but you couldn’t live in a preserve. Only scientists, authorized researchers, and a few select visitors were permitted entry.

It wouldn’t have worked for Lopé anyway. He liked people, just not what they had done to the planet. Spending the rest of his life standing guard over a patch of rainforest or isolated island didn’t appeal to him. Hallet was in full agreement. If they were going to enjoy the company of others in pure, untainted surroundings, it was going to have to be on another world. So they had applied as a couple, and been accepted to the Covenant colony’s security team.

Lopé had been offered a bigger promotion. He had declined. There was no need to flash an officer’s bar on a deep space colony ship. Being anointed automatically created a gulf between him and those under his command. Better to be one of the gang, a simple noncom.

“Sergeant” suited him just fine.

From the day he had been recruited, he had prepared himself to deal with any problems on board the ship itself, most of which would likely involve minor squabbles between crewmembers. He was likewise ready to contest any problems that might arise on distant, unknown Origae-6. What he had not prepared himself for was being shot at in the lobby of the Weyland Tower in London.

Ever since the assault, he had been trying to imagine a reason for it. The only explanation that made any sense had to do with the efforts to halt the Covenant’s mission.

Now he sat in a comfortable chair in a corner office overlooking the sluggish, dirty, watery worm of the Thames that, despite its proximity, was barely visible through the rain. Across the wide, slow-moving river, a police skiff was harrying the occupants of an illegal houseboat. Once, this area of the Docks had swarmed with craft from all over the world. The locale had then fallen into disrepair and been ignored until the need for more living and office space had caused the shoreline to be swallowed up.

Captain Bevridge sat behind his desk. Save for one other chair that was presently empty, there was no other furniture in the room: only projections. They formed a shifting, colorful display around the chief of security, British Isles Weyland Division. Bevridge was short, black, built like a fireplug, and just as tough. Decorative stripes were shaved into both sides of his head. He also held two advanced degrees in Criminology from Manchester University.

Lopé didn’t hold it against him. Being nearly the same age, they had no difficulty conversing.

Bevridge waved first his right hand, then the left. The readouts enclosing him obediently vanished in a shower of colorful flashes. That left the two men without anything hovering between them in the severely under-decorated office. An excellent venue for discussion, Lopé decided. Or interrogation.

The sergeant had already told company investigators everything he could remember from the afternoon of the assassination attempt. He had a very good memory for details, which pleased his questioners no end. Yet the information he had provided hadn’t led to the arrest of the woman who had fled, and that was disappointing.

He stared at the rain and river until his bladder began to twitch. A glance showed that Bevridge was equally lost in thought. Lopé took it upon himself to rouse the Captain from his reverie.

“Nothing?” Lopé said.

Bevridge blinked and turned to his guest.

“Hmm? What? No, not really. There’s been a great deal of speculation, don’t you know. Speculation spiced with some panic.” Looking upward, he waved a hand. “The powers-that-be, though, they want answers, and quickly.”

“We all want answers,” the sergeant responded, “and quickly. I don’t sleep well when someone’s tried to murder me.”

“Yes, well, soon you’ll be able to catch up on more sleep than you ever dreamed of, old chap. So to speak.” When Lopé didn’t smile, Bevridge turned serious. “Listen, old boy, as someone who has been shot at more than once in his career, I sympathize. I really do, but it’s my head and future that’re on the line, not yours. There’s a real possibility you’ll be crossing the orbit of Haumea and well out of this before I get a handle on what’s going on.”

Lopé managed a slight grin. “Sorry to leave you holding the bag, sir.”

“Bag full of tripe.” Muttering something else under his breath, Bevridge sat back in his chair. “It doesn’t make any sense.” He folded his hands on his lap, and then leaned toward his visitor. “I’m going to tell you something you must not tell anyone else. Given what you’ve experienced, I’m obliged to trust you with this information. I also feel personally obligated to share it with you. Understand, old chum, that nothing heard in this room is to be repeated outside.”

Lopé shrugged. “I wasn’t hired because I couldn’t keep company secrets.”

Bevridge looked satisfied. “Two days ago there was an attempt in Tokyo to kidnap Jenny Yutani, the daughter of the company president and CEO.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lopé said truthfully. “You said ‘attempt,’ by which I understand that you mean it failed.”

The captain nodded. “Two of the attempted abductors were killed trying to escape. Drowned. Three got away. Both company security and the Greater Tokyo police are still searching for them.”

“I hope they find them. Don’t care for kidnappers.” Lopé tried not to appear indifferent. “How does this relate to the attempt on my life?”

Bevridge folded his hands on the desk. “The two men who drowned assaulting the Yutani family were Weyland employees with stellar records. The individual who tried to sabotage the Covenant was a Yutani employee. So was the man who nearly killed you.” One hand gestured, then the other. Bevridge had eloquent hands, Lopé mused. “Weyland employees attack Yutani; Yutani employees attack here at Weyland. My superiors are concerned that there might be some lingering unhappiness among staff over the merger.”

The sergeant considered the possibility. “Or, someone might want the company to think that’s the cause. It could be reality—or it could be a diversion.”

“Exactly.” The captain was appreciative of Lopé’s insight. “If it’s the latter, a diversion from what? Or rather, from who? The one unifying thread in all this is the Covenant mission. The saboteur wanted it cancelled. Yutani’s abductors intended to hold her until it was cancelled.” He shook his head. “No one can come up with a reason why Weyland or Yutani employees would want to see the failure of their own company’s prestige project. If the company benefits from its success, so do they.” He moved to drum his fingers on the desk, then stopped and looked self-conscious.

“Additionally, we have this woman who was quite anxious to join the Covenant’s security detail,” he continued, “who fled when your probing began to unsettle her, and who had a companion ready to cover her flight by taking you out. Whoever is behind all this, they’re neither stupid nor impulsive.”

Lopé considered. “If their ultimate objection is to keep the Covenant from leaving, the closer we come to launch, they might become impulsive. Because if that’s their goal, they’re running out of time to achieve it.”

Swiveling in his chair, Bevridge contemplated the dirty rain and the even dirtier river outside. “So they are. And as we both know, desperate people tend to resort to desperate measures.”

The sergeant was less concerned than his superior. “They can’t do anything to hurt the Covenant. Not now, not anymore. They had one shot at sabotaging it. Thanks to the quick response of the crew, they failed. With the heightened security that’s now in place, anyone even remotely suspicious can’t get off Earth, much less get near the ship itself.”

“Yes, yes, old boy, we know that,” Bevridge replied impatiently. “We’re concerned about things we don’t know.” He looked directly at the sergeant. “We need to find the woman who applied to join Covenant security or the three abductors who escaped the Japanese police.” He gestured at the downpour that was streaking the office windows. Applied repellant was all that kept them transparent. “Whether here or in Tokyo, rain and river make poor witnesses. We have to find people who can answer our questions.”

Lopé replied neutrally. “You didn’t ask me to come here to fill me in on what the rest of company security is doing.”

Bevridge let out a soft chuckle. “Your dossier says you’re smart, even if you prefer to act like a grunt. No, you’re not here so I can fill you up with meaningless information.” Again he leaned forward to stare at his visitor, this time with an intensity that had so far been lacking. “I understand you’ve finally filled the last spot on the roster for the Covenant’s security team.”

Lopé nodded. “Turns out the woman who came to my rescue in the tower was an applicant for the position. She did so with skill. I hired her on the spot.”

Pulling up a projection, Bevridge scanned it once. “I checked your schedule. You have some time before you’re due onboard for insertion into deepsleep. I was wondering if you’d be willing to ask around, do a little investigating on your own.” He threw Lopé a look. “You’re not regular police, you’re not terrestrial company security. Your probing isn’t as likely to draw attention.” Sitting back, he gazed once more out at the river. A big shallow-beamed commuter ship was heading upstream, fighting the turgid current. Most of its interior lights were on. With its silhouette veiled by the rain and gloom, it looked like some ancient pelagic monster.

“Maybe it’s coincidence, the fact that these were Weyland and Yutani employees. Maybe it’s not, but by Oldumare’s stinking breath, there’s something nasty behind all this. Nasty and dangerous. We need to find out who or what is in play, and put a stop to it!”

“Doesn’t seem like they’ve had much luck so far,” Lopé said calmly. Bevridge eyed him a moment, then smiled and shook his head.

“Reports said you were one self-controlled emeff.”

The sergeant returned the smile with one of his own. “Didn’t get the job by being a hothead.”

“Then you’ll appreciate, old man,” Bevridge continued, “that while the company needs to find out what is happening and why, keeping it quiet would be so much better than having it splashed all over the media. As for ‘luck,’ if it hadn’t been for Jenny Yutani’s quick thinking, her abductors might well have pulled off the kidnapping. Same with the incident on board the Covenant. Our people up there, especially supercargo Daniels and your Sergeant Hallet, handled it well.”

“All three efforts came this close to succeeding,” he said, raising his right hand to hold the thumb and index finger a few millimeters apart. “My superiors don’t want to test that margin any further.” He paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. “You’ve heard of Jutou?”

A flicker of real interest caused Lopé to sit a little straighter. “Who hasn’t? Biggest conglomerate in Asia. Bigger overall than Weyland-Yutani, though not as specialized.” He frowned. “Somebody thinks they might be behind all this? Or at least somehow involved?”

Bevridge nodded again. “The suspicion goes high up inside corporate.”

“How high?” he asked. “Hideo Yutani?”

“I can’t say. It’s sufficient for you to know that the suspicions are strong enough that specific inquiries are being made. Their board didn’t take it well when Yutani outbid them for Weyland. It’s assumed that the combine has people working for them from inside Weyland-Yutani. Just as we have our own contacts within Jutou. But there’s been no verifiable information yet that they or their directorate are directly involved.

“Of course, it could be someone else,” he added. “Another company whose interests and activities continue to operate under our radar. An individual, a government, or governmental entity.”

“The only radar I have access to is personal,” Lopé told him forthrightly.

“You can inquire as an independent operator,” Bevridge insisted. “My people can’t. See what you can find out. It’s not an order.” He smiled. “An order would have to be processed. Consider this a personal favor.”

“And if I do happen to run across something interesting?” the sergeant prompted his superior.

Bevridge folded his hands again. Add in a wide grin and he looked positively Buddha-like.

“The company would be very grateful.”

Lopé shrugged. “Company gratitude won’t mean crap to me. I’ll be unconscious and light-years away.”

“Then you can leave a gift for your favorite charity, or distant relatives, old chum. Whatever pleases you. Weyland-Yutani will make any discovery worthwhile. They always do.”

Lopé had reacted truthfully to the Captain’s offer. He was indifferent to the request. In a little while it wouldn’t matter to him whether Weyland-Yutani went to war with the Jutou Combine, or they merged or Jenny Yutani ended up marrying Lin Chou-bai. His own interests would lie parsecs away, and nothing on Earth could affect him.

But…

If it was indeed a single company or group that was behind all the hostilities, then they were responsible for the attempt to sabotage the Covenant. That threat concerned him very much indeed. So did any attempt to have the mission cancelled. The danger might persist aboard the ship, even after it had launched.

Not that he believed he could actually accomplish anything working on his own. Still, he was flattered that Bevridge and others thought that he might.

“Do I have to work on my own, or can I request help?”

Bevridge spread his hands wide. “Put in a requisition for whatever you want, and I’ll sign off on it.”

“Not ‘what,’” he corrected the other man. “‘Who.’ I’d feel better diving into this if I had someone to watch my back.”

“Certainly, old boy. There are some very competent people I can assign who will…”

Lopé cut him off. “I don’t want to work with a group. Draws too much attention. Just one person will be enough.” He looked thoughtful. “For that matter, I’d prefer to have someone who’s already done it.”

* * *

“You don’t look like much.”

Sitting next to the sergeant in the lobby, Rosenthal watched with interest as a repair crew—working as unobtrusively as possible while making the minimal amount of noise—went about the task of putting the tower entrance atrium back together. She replied without looking at him.

“Then why did you hire me for the Covenant team?”

“Because I’m not interested in your looks,” he informed her. “It’s not an insult. Just a comment—more of a positive, really. Being unobtrusive can be a real asset.”

Now she did glance over at him. They were seated on a backless bench of pallasitic nickel-iron. Embedded crystals of bright green and black olivine glistened beneath them, lit from underneath.

“If that’s a pickup line, it’s the most ass-backwards one I’ve ever heard.”

“No, really,” he told her. “I’m not. Interested in your looks. You have no idea. But you will, and then you’ll find it amusing. Leastwise I hope you will.” He mustered a grin. “We’re going to be sleeping together for a long time.”

She nodded. “I inhaled all the specs before I decided to apply. Long real-time in deepsleep and no pods built for two.”

“Unfortunately, no. Every colonist and every crew member on the Covenant is a universe unto him or herself. Different body rhythms and requirements demand different pods for each individual. So we’ll just be sleeping close to one another. Besides, what’s a pod between friends?”

“So now I’m your friend?” She was still wary of him. That was good, he felt. Suspicion was a useful trait in a security officer.

“Everyone on my team is a friend. It has to be that way when you realize how closely we’ll be working together. Ship and colony security comprises a work detail of modest size. There’s no place for anyone to go if they suddenly decide they can’t get along with the person working alongside them.”

She shrugged a shoulder ever so slightly. “Then I guess we’re friends. Speaking as one friend to another, why are we sitting here talking instead of preparing for departure?”

“I’m already prepared,” he told her. “You’ll find it doesn’t require much time. Winding up the scree of your life doesn’t take very long when you have to fit all of it in a couple of carry duffels. As to what we’re doing here, I’m responding to a request from higher up.”

She made a face at him.

“God wants you to sit here and watch construction?”

“Not that high. My immediate superior,” he answered. “The guy who shot at me with the impeller was covering for a red-headed woman who wanted the job you got. He’s dead, and she’s gone.” He nodded upward in the direction of floors unseen. “My employers—our employers—would like to have a chat with her. They’d like to know who she and her dead backup were working for.”

Rosenthal looked interested. “You think they’ll try to hit you again?”

He shook his head. “Counting coup on me was secondary. What they really wanted was the last security team position on the Covenant. My questioning got a little too pointed for the applicant and she wafted. Her backup boy was there to help her get away, more than try and take me out. If killing me had been the intention, I think fled red would have turned and joined the fight. It was lucky for me that you were where you were, and decided to get involved.”

“Yes, it was lucky for you,” Rosenthal agreed. “I have a visceral dislike for people who try to shoot other folks in the back.”

“Something else we have in common. Anyway, those above me would like to know who these people were and who they represent. Frankly, so would I. It’s not an order, but if you’ve pretty much wound up your affairs, I could use your help.”

She considered. “What’s in it for me?”

“My thanks. Oh, and a bunch of money you can leave to whoever you want.”

“Don’t care about the money, but…” She grinned over at him. “Hell, what are friends for? I guess if we’re going to be working together, and sleeping together, the sooner we get to know each other, the better.”

He nodded. “If nothing else it’ll be an interesting way to kill some of the days left until departure. Meet me tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred, in civvies. I’ll send you the location.” He rose. She did likewise, cocking her head sideways as she did so to eye him uncertainly.

“You sure this isn’t some kind of pickup line?”

“I’ll enlighten you tomorrow,” he assured her. “You might as well spend one night wondering. Once I explain—well, ‘the truth shall make you free,’ as they say.”

Exiting the building through the temporary exit that had been constructed, they went their separate ways. Each briefly tracked the departure of the other.

A good security officer always watches a colleague’s back, he mused.

XVI

They met the following day at one of the two remaining bookshops on Charing Cross Road. “Books” being those grand old antiques that had been printed on the sheaves of dead trees. The famous sloping street had once been home to a double row of wonderful retail establishments. Those shops that were left were as much artifacts as the objects they sold.

Live booksellers continued to cater to a growing number of wealthy aficionados who focused their money and interest on a product that was no longer available to the general public. Not because there wasn’t a larger market for such books, but because the paper they had been printed on had grown too expensive. Or too rare.

Lopé hoped that his latest and final recruit would appreciate his choice of a place to meet. He wasn’t a big reader himself, but he enjoyed tradition, and hoped she would approve of the sentiment. In a little while they were due to take their leave of Earth forever. Where better to do so than in the vicinity of a wonderful callback to the planet’s past.

Having connected, they moved to a drink shop two doors down. Clad in civilian attire, Rosenthal seemed to make a barefaced effort to look demure. It didn’t quite work. Not that someone of a different bent wouldn’t have found her attractive—it wasn’t in Lopé’s nature to judge such things. Still, despite the liberal use of cosmetics and clothing, the effort couldn’t quite overcome the underlying toughness evident in her physique and posture.

Still, they were going to be working together for—well, for the rest of their lives—so he made an effort to respond appropriately as she slid onto the seat on the other side of the small table.

“You look nice, Rosenthal.”

She looked back at him. “Not ‘Private’ Rosenthal?”

“Not until we’re on board ship, no.”

Reaching up, she ran a hand through her hair. “Took one of my last long showers. Such a simple pleasure, but one of my favorites. I expect showers will be timed from now on. Going to miss that.”

“The Covenant’s resources might surprise you.” He nodded to his right, toward the frosted glass wall. “What did you think of the shop?”

She followed his glance. “The real bookstore?” She nodded affirmatively. “My people have always had a thing for books of all kinds. The love is passed down even as the books themselves disappear. No room in crew belongings for more than a couple of volumes, and those mostly for the nostalgia value.”

Lopé looked thoughtful. “Never was a book man, really. Didn’t have the urge after plowing through hundreds of manuals. Read those so I’d know how to make the best use of equipment. This, for example.” He held up his military-grade comm unit.

Adjusting his seat so that he slid as close to her as possible, he activated the device. The imagery it generated appeared only on the screen. Had he left it set on “projection,” it would have meant that anyone in the drink shop would have been able to view the contents.

They immediately recognized the interior of the Weyland-Yutani tower lobby. Neither said anything as the escape of the red-haired woman and the subsequent attempt on the sergeant’s life was replayed from several angles, as recorded by different security monitors.

He smoothly manipulated the device’s controls. Once again the incident was replayed, but this time instead of tracking him, the focus was on the face of the redhead. Following that, the images from the multiple pickups were combined to generate a three-dimensional portrait of the woman that could be viewed from any angle. Rosenthal sat back and looked at him.

“Very impressive. What now? I suppose you entered that composite into the general population database?”

“When you work security,” he said, “you learn never to accept the first thing you see. Or the second. Human vision is a wonderful thing, but it isn’t perfect. It can be deceived. Easy to miss something that’s right in front of you.” Once again he adjusted the controls on the comm unit.

The image on the screen rotated and zoomed, until it focused on a small area on the back of the woman’s neck. Rosenthal leaned toward it, searching, and finally frowned.

“What am I supposed to be looking for?”

By way of explanation, Lopé zoomed the image in closer. Rosenthal squinted. There was a tiny, almost imperceptible ripple at the base of the neck.

“I see something, but I’m not sure what it is. Surgical scar?”

“Good guess—but no. She’s wearing a whole-head Venetian collagen wrap. Almost perfect.” He indicated the image on the screen. “Except for where it was snipped off after being installed.”

Rosenthal examined the image anew, then eyed the sergeant with new respect. “I know what that is. I’ve just never seen one utilized outside of an entertainment venue.”

“One reason for that is because they’re damned expensive,” Lopé informed her. “Way too costly for the average citizen, but not for an operative being underwritten by, say, the Jutou Combine.”

“What made you suspect it?” Rosenthal asked him.

“First you run the kind of database search you mentioned. When you don’t find anything, you assume your subject doesn’t want to be found. That suggests the use of a disguise of some kind. Fake noses and wigs were supplanted by more sophisticated prosthetics a long time ago, so you look for something that’s current. A good wrap is virtually invisible, unless you know what to look for and where to look.” His expression twisted. “If she’d done a full body wrap, I never would have found the snip point. I guess she and whoever she’s working with—or for—didn’t think a full body wrap would be necessary just to get her through one interview.”

She indicated the screen again. “Why do I think that’s not commercially available software?”

He looked at her approvingly. “Good observation. It’s military-grade kit. As chief of Security on a colony ship, I have access to some stuff the general public doesn’t even know exists.” The last was spoken without a smidgen of swagger, he realized after he’d said it.

Rosenthal nodded thoughtfully. “So we know what she doesn’t look like. What now?”

Lopé worked the comm unit. “You want to know what someone looks like under a wrap, you do a peel. You just need the relevant software.” Having entered the necessary request, he turned the device slightly toward her.

As Rosenthal watched, the image on the screen changed. From the top of the head, change worked its way downward until the wrap had been electronically removed to reveal the authentic visage beneath. The screen revealed a mildly attractive woman whose true appearance indicated she was younger than the peel had suggested. Short hair covered the back half of her head and a motile tattoo of a prancing horse the front, unveiled due to the damage a tattoo did to the skin. Her eyes had gone from blue to brown and her nose was now noticeably smaller and rounder than it had been in the initial composite. The rest of her face revealed a plethora of smaller, additional differences.

“So now you’ve got her,” Rosenthal said.

“Not necessarily,” Lopé replied. She looked surprised, and wary.

“Know the first thing you do after running a wrap peel?” Lopé asked her. Rosenthal shook her head. “You run a second one. That’s one way professionals can throw off searchers. Do a wrap on top of a wrap. A lot of seekers will assume there’s just one wrap, and use the resultant image to run their search. In this case, however, there was just the single wrap. So whoever’s behind this is sophisticated and knowledgeable, but not that sophisticated and knowledgeable. It’s encouraging.”

“So that’s the face of the real applicant?”

He nodded. “Once I was certain every square centimeter of the final composite was genuine, and that there were no secondary or partial wraps, I ran it through the citizen database again.” He touched a control. A series of images appeared on the screen, accompanied by scrollable information. Rosenthal studied it. When she spoke again, there was surprise in her voice.

“A schoolteacher? I wouldn’t have guessed—”

The sergeant interrupted her. “That’s the idea. That anyone trying to track down a false applicant for a security position would never think her true identity would be something so mundane. Only, maybe not so mundane.” Yet again he manipulated the comm unit. Once more Rosenthal scrutinized the latest information.

“I’ll be damned,” she said. “She moonlights as an ecdysiast. Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice.” When Lopé eyed her blankly she explained. “It’s a reference from one of those books you never have time to read.”

“The address is in Covent Garden,” he muttered, refusing to let her bait him.

“Easy walking distance. That why you wanted to meet here?”

He nodded. “That, and the chance to add some memories of old Earth before leaving.” He checked the time. “Our multi-talented Ms. Hazelton doesn’t start her second job until twenty-one hundred. Can I buy you lunch?”

She played at hesitating. “If I can buy you supper,” she finally said. “Strangely enough, I’ve recently been awarded a substantial signing bonus thanks to being hired for a new job, and I don’t have much time in which to spend it.”

“Okay, but it’ll have to be an early supper,” he countered. “Never a good idea to try a takedown on a full stomach.”

XVII

The club was resolutely middle-class. Narrow street frontage was crowned by a single low-key three-dimensional signbox in which a succession of full-bodied images of assorted genders cavorted in a farrago of positions, some of which defied easy mathematical description.

A simpler sign nearby proclaimed that the club was “All Natural,” indicating that its performers hadn’t been in any way cosmetically enhanced. Or at least it was so claimed. Given the skill of modern manipulative surgeons, it was usually impossible to tell where nature ended and cosmetic ingenuity began.

Even narrower stairs led down to a street sub-level at the end of which was a distant door that pulsed a deep red, like a squashed ruby. The doorman was human. Not as perceptive as a machine, but cheaper. His evident boredom matched his size. Lopé and Rosenthal were admitted without hesitation.

Once inside the club they found themselves immersed in purple lighting and the thumping base of generic music. Padded and plush, the walls were also a soft purple. He hoped the padding was intended as a decorative touch, rather than being reflective of the frequency with which patrons tended to be thrown against it.

The premise of protection continued throughout. Tabletops were fashioned of inflated lavender fabric, while their sturdier supports were wrapped in padded fabric of alternating purple and black. Lighting overhead and underfoot consisted of whorls and abstract designs that had been etched with photo luminescent paint. Bathed in proper light during the day, they would shine it back at night until the wee hours of the morning. By that time, he decided after scanning the crowd, anyone remaining in the club would be approaching a communal state of blotto.

Lopé noted the location of security cameras, ceiling-mounted vents that might dispense soporific gas, and the position of the three tenders at the two bars—one was mechanical and the other two human. There were a couple of potential escape routes, and numerous items, from chairs to bottles, that could be requisitioned in a fight.

The place was moderately crowded. Though there weren’t many couples scattered among the predominantly male clientele, he and Rosenthal drew no stares. Most likely, he decided, because the majority of male eyeballs were focused on the three figures performing on the three separate small stages.

Bathed in intense but rapidly flickering spotlights, the gyrating forms seemed to pass in and out of perception. Occasionally, the two women and one man would switch stages via some clever bit of mechanical alchemy. Neither the performances nor the performers were the equal of those found in the more expensive Covent Garden establishments, but they were a cut above the cheap grindups that clung like diseased limpets to the district’s dank, wholly subterranean byways.

Rosenthal looked bored, while the sergeant had seen it all before, in greater variety and in more interesting parts of the world. Nevertheless, their attention locked almost simultaneously on the performer undulating on the far left-hand stage. They started in that direction, and were intercepted by a hairless, convex creature with attentive eyes and thick lips.

While shorter than Lopé, the bouncer was about as wide as he was tall. Raising a hand, he gently rested on the sergeant’s left shoulder a cluster of fingers that looked like a damaged package of knockwurst.

“No more tables down front, friend,” he growled loudly enough to be heard over the music. “You and the lady need to find one in the back.”

Lopé ignored the implication inherent in the gripping fingers. “We need to talk to one of your dancers.” He nodded toward the woman on the stage in front of them. The bouncer’s expression didn’t change an iota.

“Everyone wants to talk to one of our dancers.” A flicker of interest appeared as he shifted his attention to Rosenthal. “You two boy dem?”

Shaking his head, Lopé offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he reached—slowly—into an inside coat pocket to remove a wallet. He thumbed through the solid piece of plastic until it stopped at his official identification. As soon as he saw this, the bouncer’s demeanor changed dramatically. Removing his fingers from the sergeant’s shoulder, his small bright eyes widened.

“Covenant Security?” He looked up at the sergeant, over at Rosenthal. “For real?” She nodded affirmatively. “You go where you want, sir and ma’m. If I can help in any way…”

“Thanks.” Lopé returned the slip of wallet to his pocket. “We just want to talk to the lady.”

The bouncer glanced over his shoulder, then returned his attention to the notable pair of visitors. “Aurora? She’s off stage in ten minutes. Break time. Would you like me to introduce you?”

“No need. Ten minutes?” The bouncer nodded again, plainly excited to be in the presence of such celebrities. Anyone outbound on a colony ship was considered a celebrity, both for having the guts to leave everything behind and for taking on the risk of settling a new and unknown world. Noting the stocky enforcer’s enthusiasm, Lopé added, “Don’t go around pointing us out to the crowd or your colleagues, okay? We want some quiet time before… you know. Departure.”

The bouncer nodded enthusiastically, and offered to guide them to a front row table. Lopé thanked him politely but declined. If their quarry was going to be off stage in a few minutes, it would be simpler just to wait for her to finish.

They took a table off to one side, and bought a couple of overpriced drinks. When asked for directions to the backstage waiting area, the bouncer eagerly pointed the way. As soon as the electronic tones of aural aphrodisia began to fade, the three performers abandoned their podiums, one by one.

Following the bouncer’s directions, Lopé and Rosenthal headed toward the staging area out of sight of the main room. They found the tall but no longer redheaded security applicant in a small private dressing room. They entered without knocking and caused her to whirl in her seat. The tattoo work that covered the front half of her head was even more impressive close up. So was the fact that at the moment she was wearing nothing but sculpted light.

“What the hell?” Gaping first at one unannounced visitor and then the other, she raised her voice to a shout. “Hekel! Get in here! Hekel, dammit!”

Rosenthal replied calmly. “If you’re referring to the club bouncer, he’s probably busy by now letting a few close friends in on our secret.”

The woman’s outrage morphed into uncertainty.

“Letting a… who the hell are you two?” Her eyes grew wide as she stared at Lopé and recognition began to dawn. “You… I know you. You were the bastard who…”

He smiled thinly. “School’s out, Ms. Hazelton.”

She gaped at him a moment longer, then made a dash for the back of the room. There was a bathroom there, but no exit. Not below street level. Still, things could get awkward if she locked herself in the loo and began screaming. A pursuing Rosenthal forestalled any such concerns with an adept sweep of her leg. The woman went down hard. Looking up from the floor, their quarry glared.

“You broke my damn leg!”

Standing over her, Rosenthal pursed her lips.

“No I didn’t. If I’d wanted to break your leg I’d have hit you behind the knee, not the ankles. And if I’d hit you hard enough to break your leg, you’d be screaming something besides ‘you broke my damn leg.’” Extending an arm, she reached down. With Lopé’s help, they hauled the woman to her feet. Pinioned between the two of them, she found her range of motion greatly reduced.

Her gaze flicked from one to the other.

“What do you want with me?”

“Well, I didn’t come here to tell you you’re hired.” Lopé nodded toward Rosenthal. “Actually, she got the position you were applying for. To answer your question, though, I don’t want to know much. Maybe why you ran when you did.” He feigned surprise. “Oh, and why your accomplice—or colleague, or whatever the hell he was—tried to splatter my brains all over the main lobby of Weyland Tower.”

Hazelton again looked from one to the other, then slumped slightly. “Can I get dressed? We can go somewhere and talk.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’re liable to get fired?” Rosenthal prompted.

The other woman let out a derisive sniff. “From this job? Yeah, that’d be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?” She shrugged indifferently. “I can get this kind of work anywhere. Besides, this isn’t the profession I’m trained for—but you already know that, don’t you. Well, you know what teachers get paid these days? I only do this to pick up some extra money.”

Lopé offered encouragement. “Maybe we can send some more your way.” He looked around them and screwed up his face. “More than you take out of this place, anyhow.”

Hazelton’s demeanor improved somewhat. “You won’t call the blue and two?”

“For what?” The sergeant smiled amenably. “Running from a job interview?”

“What about conspiracy to commit murder?”

He shrugged. “Plenty of people have tried to kill me. They failed. You failed. So did he. No hard feelings.”

Her expression said that she was uncertain whether to believe him or not. “All right. I’ll give you the information you need to know. In return… in return, we skip opposite. Go our separate ways.”

Need to know? Not, “want to know.” Though he found the turn of phrase puzzling, Lopé saw no reason to press for an explanation—at least, not now. For the moment, he was satisfied that the woman was ready to talk. If nothing else, she seemed thoroughly resigned.

Having established that there was no other way out of the dressing room, he and Rosenthal stood back and watched as Hazelton, confirming that “modesty” wasn’t a word in her personal dictionary, used a moist chemical wipe to sweep away the luminous body paint. Donning clothes that were the antithesis of flashy, she took a deep breath and headed for the door behind them.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I know a place around the corner where we can talk quietly. Fish and chips, twenty-four seven.”

“Real fish?” Lopé was intrigued. “Real chips?”

Hazelton made a face. “If I could afford luxury goods on a teacher’s salary, I wouldn’t be working in this hole.”

Rosenthal’s expression was sympathetic. Her words were otherwise. “If you try to run, I’ll not break your other leg.”

Hazelton didn’t respond, leading them out a back door. They found themselves in a substreet alley. Narrow, constricted, the dark serviceway was the concrete equivalent of a bad sore throat. It stank of disinfectant and mutant rat urine. Discarded objects that would have sent the parents of Hazelton’s middle school students fleeing in disgust littered the uneven black pavement underfoot. Dim lights and a few desultory stripes of photoactive paint provided just enough light for Lopé and Rosenthal to see things they would have preferred not to see.

One more reason, he told himself, for leaving this world behind. Humanity had made too much of its world a toilet.

Lights and sounds appeared ahead as they neared the street. Poured concrete stairs bordered by ancient cast-iron railings were visible leading upward. Letting out a curse, Hazelton halted. Bending her right leg up behind her, she leaned against a wall as she tussled with a black faux leather boot.

“Need help?” An impatient Rosenthal took a step toward the struggling woman.

“No, I’m okay, thanks.” Pausing in mid-effort, Hazelton smiled at the two security officers. It was a strange smile to flash in that dim, dingy concrete crevice, Lopé thought. Almost beatific. The teacher-stripper looked at him, then at Rosenthal.

“I did my best,” she said. “The Prophet knows I did my best. It’s not such a bad thing to finish this way.” Her eyelids flickered. “I can’t stop the departure of the Covenant. Others may. It won’t matter to me. It won’t matter to you. You’re going to die somewhere out there. It’s inevitable. The Prophet knows. The Prophet speaks but not enough listen. They will, they will.

“Oh-tee-bee-dee.” Her hand slid down her raised boot, toward the heel.

Eyes widening, Lopé grabbed a baffled Rosenthal and all but threw her toward the stairway as he yelled.

“NAPOULE!”

A second later middle school teacher Glynis Hazelton, her face alight with the expression of an ascending angel, twisted the heel of her right boot. There was a whoom as the footwear ignited. Like a fiery genie freed from its lamp, a ball of orange flame shot upward. It scorched black the walls on both sides of the alley.

Just behind Rosenthal, Lopé felt the heat on the back of his neck and head, saw the glare through his closed eyelids. The flare was intense but over quickly. There was nothing in the alley that would burn. Nothing but a few scraps of grimy discarded plastic and other soiled materials, and three human beings.

Two of them rose shakily to their feet to regard what was left of the third. Most of Hazelton’s flesh was gone, leaving only a kneeling, flaming skeleton to stand out starkly against the dark narrow background. After a minute the bones began to crumble.

Lopé looked at Rosenthal. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” The private checked herself, nodded. “Thanks. For saving my life.”

“Forget it. Time’s running down and I didn’t want to have to go through the interview process all over again.” Turning, he looked toward the top of the stairway. Having been close enough to hear the explosion or see the resultant glare, a few pedestrians on the street had gathered to peer down into the alley. No one inquired if Lopé and Rosenthal were all right.

Climbing back to the street, the two members of the Covenant’s security team soon lost themselves in the evening crowds.

“What was all that about a ‘prophet’ she was on about?” Rosenthal asked.

“Don’t know—yet.” Lopé was thinking hard. “This makes me wonder if the attempts to stop the Covenant mission have nothing to do with the corporate merger, and a lot to do with something outside the company. Outside, but making use of people who are inside.”

He looked around as ordinary people struggled to enjoy themselves in the city’s increasingly shabby entertainment district, fighting to survive on air that at times was barely breathable.

“Any ideas?” Rosenthal asked.

“You already singled it out.” Lopé’s tone was thoughtful. “We need to find ourselves a ‘prophet.’”

She eyed him uncertainly. “But a prophet of what?”

“Doom and gloom. The Covenant’s failure,” he told her. “Our deaths.” He gestured back the way they had come. “We’re all going to die ‘out there,’ she said. This ‘prophet’ says it’s inevitable. Yet if the Covenant mission is stopped, we don’t die out there, so it’s not inevitable. Kind of a confusing prophecy, I’d say.”

Her bemusement matched his. “And what the hell is ‘oh-tee-bee-dee’?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “If it’s Chinese, then the company might be right in their suspicions. Although nobody said anything to me about a ‘prophet’ before now.” Seeing that she still didn’t understand, he explained. “The leading theory is that Jutou might be behind it all.”

Her gaze narrowed. “The Jutou Combine?” When he nodded, she turned thoughtful. “I’ve had a couple of experiences with corporate warfare. Company agents will fight for an employer, and even die for them if the matter is serious enough—and so’s the pay.” She shook her head dubiously. “But this is the first time I’ve ever heard of one committing suicide.”

“Same here,” he said. “Doesn’t add up.”

They were walking briskly, and pedestrians parted before them, happy, alert, intent on having a nice evening out no matter what came their way.

They were no closer than they had been before they located Glynis Hazelton. If anything, there was more confusion, and his head hurt. The ship would be leaving soon and he didn’t have time for nonsense.

“As a rule, corporate professionals don’t kill themselves,” Rosenthal said as they walked. “Fanatics do, for a cause.”

“In that case we’ve got two things that fit together,” he concurred. “‘Fanatic’ and ‘prophet.’”

“How does that tie into the Jutou Combine?” she wanted to know. “From what I know about them—which admittedly isn’t a lot—they’re strictly about business. Not fanaticism.”

He nodded agreement. “Fanatics make poor businessmen. The triad running the Combine may be ruthless, but that’s a very different motivation. And I never heard of anyone involved with Jutou referred to as a prophet. I’m starting to think that Weyland-Yutani is looking for the wrong people in the wrong places.”

“So,” Rosenthal prompted him, “who or what do we look for now?”

“I don’t know.” Lopé turned a corner. They weren’t that far from Piccadilly, and he suddenly felt the need to drown himself in the lights of the buildings and the laughter of young people.

“But I know someone who might.”

XVIII

“You found the woman?”

Bevridge looked over at Lopé and his subordinate. To their left stood the antiquated Houses of Parliament, barely visible through the morning smog and gunk that hung over the city. Once open to vehicular traffic, the bridge on which the three of them now stood had long ago been converted to a pedestrian thoroughfare. It was a popular place for Londoners to catch some comparatively fresh air, as the movement of the water below tended to stir the clinging atmosphere. The trade-off was that one had to endure the occasional stink that ascended from the polluted Thames itself.

Boats and small watercraft still plied the waterway, but vantage points on land were fewer since the early roadways that had once paralleled the river had been overcome by the ever-rising barriers necessary to keep the ocean from inundating the city during high tides. Like everyone else on the bridge, the security officers that patrolled its length were dressed in civilian attire. Afraid that even his well-screened office might no longer be safe from the attention of the fanatics trying to halt the Covenant mission, the security chief had suggested they meet on the open expanse.

With the three of them surrounded by a moving, shifting mob of locals and tourists, it would be difficult even for a directional pickup to isolate their voices, especially since they conducted the conversation while facing the river.

“We did,” Lopé replied. His eyes burned slightly from the effects of whatever chemical effluvia was presently rising from below. He longed for the untrammeled sterility of the space vessel, and the presumed pristine orb that was Origae-6. “Her name was Glynis Hazelton. Schoolteacher, crew applicant, part-time stripper, full-time fanatic.”

Bevridge was impressed. “How the hell did you track her down?”

Lopé’s attention was drawn to an interesting houseboat that was part sailing craft, part hydrofoil. “Being Covenant chief of security, I have access to the world personnel database. Let’s just say, there are assets that aren’t commonly available to private corporations or even municipal police forces.” Beside him, a studious Rosenthal said nothing.

Bevridge let out a grunt and glanced behind them. Not that he expected to see anyone, but in an age of sophisticated surveillance, there remained no substitute for a good pair of eyes. As near as he could tell, they were not being watched.

“Okay, old man. So you found her,” he said. “What else did you find, besides her identity.”

Lopé nodded. Even with the stench, it was nice to be out on the bridge in the early morning, leaning on the stonework and gazing out at the old river. Nearby, the permanent holo of Big Ben chimed the hour, the original clock having been destroyed in a terrorist attack more than half a century ago.

“What she told us goes a way toward confirming what I’ve thought all along—that whoever is behind everything from the attempt to sabotage the Covenant’s cargo bay is trying to make us think it’s an internal problem. Or at worst, corporate warfare.”

Bevridge pursed his lips. “I recall from the woman’s application and interview attempt that she held valid Yutani identification.”

“Checked that myself.” Lopé nudged a chipped piece of stone off the top of the railing and watched as it tumbled into the murky water below. The stonework, like the rest of London, was crumbling. “Old credentials modified for her use. The original holder died a few years ago.”

“Did she ever mention the Jutou Combine?”

“No. Never mentioned any specific organization. She did go on, briefly, about an unnamed ‘prophet.’”

Bevridge frowned. “So then, not Jutou?”

“Not necessarily,” the sergeant replied. “Still can’t rule out them having a hand in all this. I was hoping you might be able to help fill in some of the gaps.”

“She didn’t give a name?” Bevridge pressed. “Just ‘prophet’?”

Rosenthal spoke up. “She said that if ‘we went out there,’ by which she referred to the Covenant mission, that we were all going to die. Or rather, that’s what her prophet told her. She also said that while she couldn’t stop the ship’s departure, presumably ‘others may.’”

Bevridge nodded pensively. “Because there have been multiple attempts, we already know we’re dealing with a group. Whether it involves Jutou, another company we haven’t yet identified, or a different type of organization, we just don’t know.” He looked unhappy. “‘Others may,’” he repeated, echoing Rosenthal. “That’s not good. We have to stamp out this interference as soon as possible.”

Seeing that Lopé was still looking at him he added, “I’ve never heard of anyone—any corporate officer, any founder, any current employee, of the Jutou Combine—referred to as a prophet.”

“Yuyan jia,” Lopé responded, not worrying about tones as he pronounced the words.

“What’s that, old chum?” Bevridge’s brows drew together.

“I checked. There’s nobody by that name, or even close, in those Jutou records that are accessible.” When Bevridge continued to eye him blankly, the sergeant added, “Yuyan jia is Mandarin for ‘prophet.’ I thought maybe someone traceable at the combine might have taken that name, but I couldn’t find anyone. Or anything.”

“I wish I could requisition you for my staff here.” Bevridge spoke admiringly.

The sergeant shook his head, once. “Sorry. I’m strictly a field guy. Looking forward to an atmosphere that’s not only breathable, but that smells good.” He turned to Rosenthal. “Got it? We’re looking for a real prophet, not somebody named prophet.” She nodded. He turned back to Bevridge.

“Any thoughts?” he asked. “Any local or international religious groups who might have the wherewithal and the clout to try and pull off capers like these?”

“I’ll put some people and equipment on it right now, old boy.” Bevridge was as good as his word. Pulling out his comm unit, he gave a succession of taps and set the necessary research in motion. “As you say, it could still be Jutou who’s behind all this. Or a group operating under the cover of Jutou.”

Lopé’s reply was ambivalent. “Can’t discount it, don’t lean toward it.”

Bevridge’s gaze narrowed as he regarded the sergeant. “Is there anything in particular that might cause you to lean that way?”

The sergeant shrugged. Another interesting boat came downstream in their direction. Several people were busy on the front deck. He scrutinized them for weapons, but saw nothing. Yet there always was something that might slip past. Like a stripper’s boots, for example.

“The level of fanaticism this group has displayed,” he said in reply to Bevridge’s question. “The dedication to whatever wacko cause they’ve rallied around. Sabotage I can rationalize. Blowing oneself out an airlock I can’t. You don’t drown yourself in a river as some kind of perverse penance. You don’t rig your boots to explode.”

Bevridge’s lips tightened. “I follow you, old man. Nobody likes to be interrogated, but they tend to resort to lawyers. Not, as you described to me, self-immolation.”

“It’s not only that,” Rosenthal added. “She wasn’t just performing sepukku—she was trying to take us with her. Oh, and before she lit herself up, she murmured something. It was the last thing she said. A short phrase, almost a chant. ‘Oh-tee-bee-dee.’”

The security chief’s expression twisted. “Means nothing to me. I’ll make sure it’s researched.” For the first time he smiled at her. “Ms. Rosenthal, isn’t it?” She nodded. “I’m told you are responsible for the good sergeant still being with us. That deserves recognition.”

“I’ve already banked the signing bonus for my relatives.” Rosenthal turned to join Lopé in contemplating the river. “If the company wants to add to it, I won’t object.”

Bevridge made another entry into his comm unit, then looked back at them. “I have a feeling the Covenant is in good hands, with you two assigned to Security.”

“And the others,” Lopé put in. “There are others already up on the ship.”

“Keeping a steady eye out for any further sabotage attempts, I’m sure. All good people, thoroughly vetted.” Bevridge nodded absently as he pocketed his device. “You needn’t trouble yourselves any further, sergeant—I’ll let you know the instant we have a lead. You and Private Rosenthal are cleared to go up to the Covenant and remain there until it departs. You didn’t sign on for this kind of work, and it’s not incumbent on you to pursue it any longer.”

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to stay Earthside and keep on it as much as I can.” Lopé stepped away from the stone balustrade. “While I’m in as much of a hurry as any colonist or crew member to leave Earth and get the mission going, I’d still like to store up as many memories of the place as possible. The good ones for nostalgia’s sake, and the bad ones to remind me why I’m leaving in the first place.”

“As you wish.” Bevridge sounded pleased. “Glad you still want to participate.”

“My job is Covenant security,” Lopé replied simply. “That holds whether I’m on the ship or on the ground. I know one thing, though—when I do return to the ship, I’ll be a lot more relaxed if these extremists have been found out, rounded up, and sent off somewhere nice, quiet, and secure, where their minds and motivations can be repaired.”

“That holds true for both of us.” Smiling, Bevridge leaned back to regard the woman standing beside the sergeant. “In case it hasn’t already been said formally, Private Rosenthal—welcome to Weyland-Yutani and the Covenant colonization mission.”

She nodded once and returned her attention to the river. Her blasé reaction to Bevridge’s pronouncement only served as further confirmation of Lopé’s choice. No matter what the mission, the less chatty his backup, the more effective they tended to be.

* * *

Later, having parted from both Bevridge and Rosenthal, Lopé took to wandering the streets of the city. As he strolled, he noted and committed to memory everything from the flowing lights of the Victoria Station tower complex to a weathered plaque marking the site of the first public drinking fountain in Britain.

He was enjoying a quick lunch of the British national dish, curry, when his comm unit signaled an incoming call. The tenor of the tune indicated that it was personal enough for him to set his take-out down on the bench where he was sitting and take a moment to answer.

It was a small perk but one that was highly valued by those on the Covenant. All members of the crew had free round-the-clock comm access to anywhere on Earth, for any length of time. Besides being good publicity for Weyland-Yutani, emphasizing the company’s empathy for its employees, it also had a practical side—there was no point in charging for calls when any overdue bills had zero chance of being collected.

So Lopé accepted the incoming communication without hesitation, knowing that neither he nor Hallet had to watch the number of minutes. The voice on the other end came through with remarkable clarity, a testament to modern communications technology. Lopé had experienced more distortion in local calls made to other parts of Greater London.

“Lopé here,” he murmured at the unit’s pickup.

“Don’t be so damn formal, Dan.” Hallet’s tone was relaxed, as usual. “You workin’?”

The sergeant looked around. No one in the surging crowd representing people from all over the planet was paying him the least attention. If anyone was following him, they were damned good at their job.

“I’ll be working until I’m in deepsleep. How are things with you?”

“Up in the air.” It was a cheap joke, often repeated by those on the Covenant. “It’s been quiet ever since our angry employee went pffft. What’s new downstairs?”

“There have been a number of interesting developments.” Lopé chose his words carefully. Though his comm unit was as secure as Weyland-Yutani could make it, he had learned through long experience to assume that no communication could be completely secured. It was better that way. Where electronic interaction was concerned, paranoia was your friend.

“I can’t go into detail right now,” he continued. “Everything is dirt-bound, anyway. Nothing directly involving the ship. With luck, the problem will be taken care of before departure. If it isn’t, well, any lingering troubles will have to be handled without my input. Between you and me, I get the feeling there are folks down here who’ll be disappointed to see me go. I’ve validated my hire, anyway. You sure you’re okay?”

“Normal as normal can be up here, but busy. Mostly running security checks on the final deliveries. Oram and Karine are supervising the placing of the last batches of colonists into deepsleep. Even so, I wish you’d get your butt back up here, man. Why not just let the people do their jobs?”

The sergeant took a deep breath. “I could go for that, but I feel obligated to do what I can to help for as long as I’m down here.”

“You have other obligations besides to the company,” Hallet quietly reminded him.

“I won’t be dealing with this much longer. Promise.” He tried to sound reassuring. “Being part of Covenant security, and not ground-based, I can bring some different insights to the process. Besides, what’s happening here directly impacts the safety of the mission, and so it’s my responsibility.” He paused, then added, “We’re gonna be in deepsleep for a long time. I don’t want to have any bad dreams because I left the situation here unresolved.”

Hallet’s sigh came through clearly from the other end.

“If you think it’s that important, then I suppose you ought to see it through,” he said. “I wish it were otherwise, but I understand.”

The call concluded with a few familiar pleasantries. Disconnect was mutual. Still, the chat left Lopé with mixed emotions. He was happy, as always, to have heard from Hallet. At the same time, he’d meant what he said about wanting—about needing—to see the threat dealt with before he would feel comfortable returning to the ship.

It only made him angrier at whoever was behind the attempt to prevent the Covenant’s departure. The enmity felt personal now, and not just because there had been two attempts on his life.

XIX

Hideo Yutani should have been happy.

The home team, the Yakult Swallows, were up nine to six over the Hanshin Tigers in the top of the seventh inning. Below the ceiling of the covered stadium, a projected three-dimensional ad for one of Weyland-Yutani’s products was playing. Perceptive audience feedback indicated that sixty-three percent of the fans in the seats were aware of it.

Though his favorite pitcher, Haruo Otani, had been knocked out early, the Swallows had come back with two home runs in the fifth inning. Now it was a battle of relief pitchers and attrition.

Yutani lamented the fact that unlike the managers of both teams, there was no relief pitcher for him to call upon.

It wasn’t as if it was a new sensation. He had been more or less on his own since the age of seventeen. From a modest beginning had grown the great company that was the Yutani Corporation. The merger with Weyland had been his crowning achievement. The departure of the colony ship Covenant would be his proudest moment.

Assuming it went forward.

Someone did not want that to happen. Someone or some organization was doing everything in its power to prevent it. Efforts had been made to induce suspicion and paranoia among his own employees, to persuade them that Weyland people were sabotaging the men and women of Yutani. While the Jutou Combine was far from exonerated, it seemed as if other elements were in play. The latest information from London was almost as confusing as it was encouraging. His security people there were onto something. They just didn’t know what.

The triad of executives who ran Jutou were fanatical about business, but they were not fanatics in a more general sense. As much as he admired someone like Zhang, he did not see her authorizing, much less ordering, any of the Combine’s employees to kill themselves in order to carry out a company directive.

The conundrum was that neither he nor Davies nor any of his underlings could imagine another organization besides Jutou, with the will and power to carry out the attempts that had been made. Having failed to stop or even slow down the scheduled departure of the Covenant, he worried about what increasingly desperate fanatics might try next.

How far would they go to achieve their ends? Did they have access to atomics? Chemical weapons? If some Weyland-Yutani employees died stopping them, that could be covered up, but hundreds of colonists were already in deepsleep on board the ship. If any of them were harmed, the resulting publicity would…

“Father?”

Seated nearby in the company’s private sky suite, Jenny Yutani eyed him with concern. Though he concealed his emotions with skill born of long practice in complex business negotiations, she could read him better than anyone. In the space of days he had gone from upbeat, to depressed, to all but frantic over her kidnapping, then to upbeat again over a meeting at a restaurant that, had it not been an old friend, could have turned out very badly.

Now he was brooding anew. While he had access to the best doctors and medicine money could buy, he wasn’t a young man. The joy that had accompanied the successful merging of Yutani and Weyland had given way to a deepening concern over recent incidents.

Nomo promptly hit a triple for the Swallows, scoring a run and padding their lead. The stadium went wild, but in the private box all was subdued.

“Father,” she said again, more forcefully this time, “are you all right? Is there something I can do?”

“What?” Rousing himself, he managed a smile in her direction. “No, no, Jenny, I’m fine. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“I know what you’re thinking about,” she told him reproachfully, “and if you go on ‘thinking’ like this, you’ll have a stroke. It won’t matter if the Covenant leaves or not if you die before it departs.”

“Wise observation,” he replied, still smiling. “Easy to say, not so easy to accept.” At a nudge from one finger, his chair slid back from its position overlooking the stadium and the action on the field. “I’m going to talk to your mother.”

“Now?” She gestured toward the playing field. “The game will be over soon.”

“Not the way both teams are hitting. It’s exciting, but I just can’t let myself go long enough to get into it. I thought maybe coming to a game would help, but until the situation involving the Covenant is resolved, it is hard for me to think of anything else.” Rising from the chair, which started to follow him until he gestured for it to remain still, he came over to where she was seated, bent, and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Enjoy the game for me, daughter. If I am not back in time for the last inning, I will relive it through you.”

She sighed resignedly. “I hope this unpleasant business is concluded soon. For your sake.”

Grinning, he wagged an admonishing finger. “For the company’s sake.”

She slid a hand toward a control panel set in an arm of her own chair. “Do you want me to put down the privacy screen? Shut out the game noise?”

“No. You enjoy for me.” Raising a hand, he ran it back through thinning black hair. “I have my own privacy screen.”

As he turned and walked toward the back of the executive suite he knew she was worried about him. It could not be helped. He could hide his feelings from others, but not from her. Sakiko had been the same way, aware of his true emotions no matter how hard he tried to hide them, perceptive in that pseudo-telepathic fashion known only to wives.

His underlings and executives were skilled, competent, even sympathetic, but none of them was a partner like Sakiko.

The back room of a private suite in a baseball stadium would have struck some as a strange place in which to keep a loved one’s cremated remains, but where Hideo was a willing fan of the game, Sakiko had been committed. Instructions for the location of her haka, her grave, had been explicit. They had discussed it in some detail when the sickness had turned serious. Locating the haka in the stadium was a compromise, since he had drawn the line at scattering her ashes on the pitcher’s mound.

The lighting in the small room was appropriately subdued. Several small pillars and tablets stood grouped together near the back wall. All had been cut and polished from solid African malachite—green had been Sakiko’s favorite color. Taking a large bottle of fresh water from a nearby cabinet he proceeded to clean everything, then used traditional bucket and dipper to perform the purifying kiyomeru. In lieu of fresh flowers there was a profusion of artificial orchids and other exotic blooms that had been hand-wrought with such skill that they were impossible to tell from the real thing. Adjustable electronic candles glowed inside the twin silver holders. They brightened automatically at his approach.

Taking a stick of self-igniting incense from an open box, he flicked it alight and placed it lovingly in the empty holder. As there was still green tea in the open crystal decanter nearby, he felt no need to add more.

Kneeling before the haka, he sat back on his ankles, pressed his fingers together in front of him, closed his eyes, and bowed. These days his ankles hurt when he knelt in the proper position, but as always he ignored the pain, joking to himself that Sakiko would have appreciated the sacrifice. Straightening, he put his hands on his hips and regarded the grave.

“I have no offering for you today, Sakiko, save that the Swallows are winning.” He smiled to himself. “Knowing you, that should be enough. Meanwhile, the problem I spoke to you about last time remains and I—I don’t know what to do. We still do not know who is responsible and, not knowing, there is no way to direct a response. It seems as if our people are getting closer to an answer, but the departure time for the ship is also growing nearer. This interference has to be eliminated.

“The Jutou Combine is still under suspicion, but it seems as if other forces may be at work. While our people continue to work hard to find the necessary answers, there are no specifics as yet on which we can act.” He shook his head slightly. “I cannot move, cannot give orders, without specifics. I am a general whose troops must dodge incoming arrows, but who cannot see the enemy bowmen.”

He stayed like that until the pain in his knees and ankles threatened to turn them numb. The last thing he wanted to have to do was hit the wall-mounted emergency button that would bring someone into the room to help him stand. It required a bit of a struggle, but he managed to rise to his feet on his own.

“I miss you, Sakiko. I miss your counsel, your touch, your smile. I miss you jumping up and down like a child when one of the Swallows hits a home run or steals a base. I miss the way you looked at company functions, wearing your gowns and jewels. I even miss your nagging, which was usually but not always grounded in some truth. I miss…”

He stopped. It would not do to return to the game with tears in his eyes. He was Hideo Yutani, CEO and president of the Weyland-Yutani corporation. Men in his position did not cry. They gave orders in a quiet but stern voice. They commanded respect. Even while watching a baseball game.

His people here and in London were closing in on whoever was behind the repeated attempts to destroy the mission. They had to be. The departure of the Covenant could not be delayed, much less cancelled. Those who were trying to stop its departure would be identified. Then they would be dealt with.

Quietly but sternly.

Once more he bowed. Then he turned and left the room and the glowing electronic lights and the smell of expensive incense. Leaving them to a part of his life he had been forced to put behind him.

Another part of that life was waiting anxiously for his return. Spinning her chair, Jenny Yutani almost rose to embrace her father, but decided against it. She knew the display might unsettle him, which would be counterproductive. He could be affectionate, but immediately after communing with his dead wife wasn’t the best time to seek such reassurance. Even a man as tough as Hideo Yutani was not immune to emotional excess.

Seeing her expression, however, he hastened to reassure her. “I’m better now. Being in the presence of your mother always helps to relax me.”

“That’s not what you used to say when she would follow you around the house screaming at you.”

The smile remained. “Your mother never screamed at me. She simply emphasized the points she wished to make, and did it in an elevated tone of voice.” He nodded toward the field. “How is the game progressing?”

She made a face. “Not good. Otami hit a grand slam for the Tigers. We’re only up one run now.”

“Damn.” He resumed his seat nearby. “I’m not in the mood for extra innings.”

“I’ll check the defibrillator.” She smiled. “Never let it be said that I didn’t look after my father.”

He had to laugh, albeit softly. “I feel fine, really. Let’s watch the rest of the game.”

It took eleven innings, but the Swallows won on a steal of home off a bunt single. When the game was over he had dinner delivered to the suite. Over synthetic veal, vegetables, and wine sourced from some of the last surviving vineyards in New Zealand, he was comfortable enough again to ask her opinion. Though he never referred to it as advice, only opinion, both of them knew exactly how he felt about her counsel.

“The investigation appears to be progressing in London,” he told her as they awaited a small dessert.

“Then what’s the problem?” She sipped her Perrier, a wonderful product and company Yutani Corporation had purchased decades earlier.

“It is not progressing fast enough.” Picking his napkin off his lap, he tossed it onto the table. He didn’t feel like dessert. Jenny could have his as well as her own, if she wished. “The closer the time comes for the Covenant to depart, the more uneasy I become.”

She considered. “Everything these unknown people have tried so far has failed.”

“True, but their efforts grow bolder, and thus far we have been fortunate. If not for the tracking devices embedded in your shoes and your coolness in deploying them, the attempt to abduct you might have succeeded. If not for the experience and awareness of our employees—Daniels on the Covenant and Sergeant Lopé in London—either of those efforts might have succeeded.” Sitting up straighter, he folded his hands on the table and eyed her earnestly. “One can play pachinko all day and win, and then rapidly lose everything. You know me, Jenny. I dislike relying on something as insubstantial as luck.”

Dessert arrived in the form of two small cups of freshly made green tea sorbet flavored with pomegranate. His daughter finished one in less than a minute before settling down to a more leisurely reduction of the second.

“Can we tighten security any more?” she asked.

He shook his head and looked away, distracted. “Security on the Covenant cannot be locked down any further. We have instigated serious changes in boarding procedures at the two departure sites. I am assured it’s not possible for anyone with inimical intentions to get on board the shuttles that are running people and supplies to the ship.”

Pausing the petite, sorbet-laden spoon halfway to her mouth, she frowned slightly. “How can even the best security determine someone’s intentions? I can see discovering a weapon or an explosive, but—a hostile intention? Do we now have devices that can divine someone’s purpose?”

“You know what I mean,” he replied impatiently. “We have security people who are trained to watch and if necessary to interrogate those who are boarding the shuttles. Admittedly the system is not perfect, but it has worked effectively in the past.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “but this is the present.”

There were times when he thought his daughter deliberately tried to infuriate him.

“What changes would you suggest, princess?”

“You worry that things are progressing too slowly in London, even though you express confidence in those attempting to identify the source of our problem.”

He grunted softly. “I am assured that Captain Bevridge did not achieve his present status through incompetency. Nor was the chief of mission security, Sergeant Daniel Lopé, chosen for his position because he is unqualified. With security on board the ship properly tightened, it’s for him to continue to assist in the ongoing inquiry. But yes—I am still concerned at the pace of the investigation.”

She tossed her head slightly, and the diamond dust spray in her hair caught the light of the suite’s subtle illumination, giving her the look of a beautiful but tough pixie.

“Then do something to speed it up.” No one else would have dared use such an abrupt tone with Hideo Yutani.

“Such as? Bevridge and Lopé already have access to whatever resources they might need.”

“One never knows when the watchers themselves are being watched.”

His brows drew together. “Who told you that one?”

“You did. A long time ago.”

He chuckled softly. “Your memory of me is better than my own. Are you saying that the object of the investigation may be aware of it, and is taking measures to keep track of our efforts?”

She gestured with the small sorbet spoon, tracing arcs in the air above the table. “I’m saying that it might speed up the investigation if we came at it from another, complimentary angle that was separate from the first. In combat, never discount the value of opening an unexpected second front.”

He looked bemused. “Did I say that, too?”

“No.” She dug into the last of the now watery sorbet. “Kawakami Soroku, I think.”

He pondered the suggestion before finally replying. “I think it’s a good idea. I don’t see how it can hurt. If the current investigators fail to identify our adversaries, perhaps someone else, utilizing a separate approach, might succeed.”

Picking up a linen napkin, she dabbed delicately at her lips. “Do you have someone in mind?”

He nodded. “Someone who occasionally works for a friend of mine. We had dinner recently and his name came up. Someone who moves freely in the world of the legitimate, but who has access to—other resources. Resources that might be denied to Bevridge-san and Sergeant Lopé.”

“That sounds promising. I concur.”

“So happy you agree.” His reply was touched with a mixture of sarcasm and affection. “I’ll engage him immediately, have him briefed, and send him on his way. He should be in London by tomorrow evening. Let us hope for good results.”

“As good as that dessert, anyway.” As they rose from their seats she smiled affectionately at him. “You really should have had some, Father.”

He shook his head tersely. “I fear that until this matter is successfully resolved I will not be in the mood for anything sweet save your company.” They moved in tandem toward the suite’s exit where four bodyguards were waiting: two to escort him home, two to perform the same service for his daughter.

“I wish mother was here,” she murmured. “She would have her own ideas about what to do.”

Her observation stirred Yutani’s heartiest laugh of the day. “Your mother would insist on going to London herself, weapons in hand, to blow away anyone who crossed her path. She was a loose cannon, your mother. Smart and beautiful, but entirely unpredictable.”

His daughter peered into her father’s face. “Yet you loved her for that.”

“No, I considered it her worst trait.” The smile returned. “But everything else about her made up for it.”

* * *

Yoji Ngata did not look the part of a Yakuza fixer. He was short, balding all the way across his head, round-faced, and visibly plump. The plumpness concealed muscle and a remarkable reaction time. While judo was his specialty, he held so many black belts in so many different martial arts that there was little left for him to try. He was quite capable of out-wrestling, out-maneuvering, and out-fighting anyone his size and most who were bigger than him.

More importantly, he could inevitably out-think them. Fighting him, one opponent had declared, was like trying to defeat a sentient bowling ball. You couldn’t hurt it, you couldn’t predict what it would do, and the next thing you knew it was landing on your foot.

He didn’t have to pack. The single black carry-on bag in the closet of his apartment was always packed with the necessities so that he could be ready to go on a moment’s notice. As he bade goodbye to his cat, Lune, secure in the knowledge that the apartment’s AI would take care of his companion, he considered the details of his assignment.

Lune continued the review in the autocab, upon disembarking at the airport, and as he boarded the private supersonic jet that was waiting to take him to London. He quite liked Greater London, having spent time there on several previous occasions, not all of which involved work. The English city was very different from Greater Tokyo and offered a nice change of scenery… when one could see it through the pollution.

According to the information that had been provided to him, he was looking for a group of fanatics. They might work for or be employed by the Jutou Combine. Or not. Regular Weyland-Yutani operatives were trying to locate the same people, but if possible, he was to work on his own. That suited him perfectly. Though he could be quite congenial when the situation demanded, he much preferred to fly solo.

It saved him the discomfit that sometimes arose when people made fun of his appearance, and he had to hurt them.

XX

The sun was silver on the rippling waters of the Solent, a welcome change from the gloom that pervaded not only the swollen cities of Britain, but much of its once pristine countryside, as well.

The threatening overcast was absent along certain sections of coastline where sufficient ocean breezes continued to hold it at bay—though for how much longer not even the best meteorologists could say. Official government predictions were less widely believed ever since lethal pollution had forced the abandonment of much of Paris outside the domed city center.

Looking like a group of office workers out for a lunchtime stroll, the half-dozen members of the council blended in seamlessly with the families, students, and day trippers on Calshot Beach. Though composed of shingle and not sand, it was still a popular place to catch the sun and watch the comings and goings of enormous trading vessels as they made their way between the three major local ports.

It was also a good place to have a group conversation without fear of being monitored. The combination of wind, wave, and animated crowd conversation would make picking up dialogue difficult even for the most sensitive surveillance equipment. In the distance, the refuge that was the Isle of Wight beckoned, though only for those who could afford a home within its expensive and comparatively unpolluted environment.

It didn’t draw the envy or the attention of the council members. Nor did the passing cargo vessels and smaller recreational craft. They ignored the giggling children playing tag with the tide, the overweight but relaxed couples basting in the rare unobstructed sunshine, the occasional pair of lovers lost in each other’s eyes and oblivious to the degraded world around them.

Oblivion of any kind was denied to the council. Sun, sea, and sky notwithstanding, depression threatened to consume them. Every attempt to prevent the departure of the colony ship Covenant had failed. Their hopes of removing Yutani himself from the equation had crumbled when it was learned that he was friends with the head of the very same Neoyakuza organization they had hired to kill him. Instead of fulfilling the contract, Tatsuya Himura had gone straight to the corporate leader to warn him of the intended hit.

Duncan Fields wasn’t with the council. The Prophet could not abide wide open spaces such as that presented by the open sea. Such expansive vistas forced him to contemplate the sky. Contemplating the sky inevitably forced him to consider the void that lay beyond. Considering the void led to more frequent relapses of his nightmarish visions. He much preferred the dark, enclosed spaces of the farm, with its ready access to sleep aids and painkillers.

“We’re running out of time,” the diminutive Yukiko declared to her companions. The shingle beach reminded her of the gravel-lined shorelines of her own home in eastern Hokkaido.

The man lumbering along beside her masochistically walked the beach in his bare feet, his shoes held in his left hand. Occasionally he winced as he encountered a sharper-edged stone. He said he welcomed the pain. It helped him to focus.

“What more can we do?” When he shrugged, the flesh of his shoulders continued to ripple slightly after the gesture had concluded, like water into which a pebble had been tossed. “Yutani’s daughter is now better protected than the Queen. The old man has surrounded himself with a small army. Given the heightened security at the three spaceports supplying material and personnel to the Covenant, we’ll never get someone on board.”

“We might as well try to take control of a missile base.” The younger man pacing him slipped on the shingle and cursed softly. He eyed his companions. “I know—I’ve put out feelers. That is something that’s not going to happen.”

“It wouldn’t matter.” The other, older woman was licking a frozen lolly. “Taking control of a facility is one thing. Programming and coordinating a weapons system would require expertise our people are unlikely to have.” A distant blast made her flinch, but it was only the horn of a passing freighter. The great sails on its six masts were in the process of automatically furling.

“We have to find another approach.” The man who spoke had traded his usual tailored suit for lightweight slacks, sandals, and a shirt spun from tropical silk. He would have seemed perfectly at home at an expensive beach resort in the Chagos, discussing stock options and tax shelters while holding a slender glass full of ice and rum topped with a tiny paper brolly. He stepped with precision over the shingle while pondering various approaches to murder.

Like the others, he could think of nothing that would work. The effort to involve the Neoyakuza had appeared promising, only to have come to naught beneath the reality of old man Yutani’s seemingly infinite allies.

It was the seriously overweight member of the council who paused, bringing the group to a halt. Raising his free hand, he used it to shade his eyes against the glare off the water. For all his bulk he had an agile mind, one that worked ceaselessly on behalf of the Prophet and the cause.

“I think we’re going about this the wrong way.”

“How do you mean, Pavel?” Millicent, the larger of the two female members of the council, took a last bite of a creamsicle that was melting as rapidly as their hopes.

Lowering his shading hand he looked down at her, then at the others. “Consider that, initially, each of us was a skeptic, until through the sharing of the visions of the Prophet Duncan we were converted.” He paused a moment. “Instead of trying frontal assaults on Weyland-Yutani we need to attack it from within.” The notion prompted some animated conversation, and before long a decidedly different strategy began to emerge.

“It’s impossible,” Pierre said firmly. “The company has its entire reputation staked on the successful departure of a colony mission. Billions are at stake.” He sniffed. “Even if we could get inside we wouldn’t have enough time to stop the ship’s departure.

“Not,” the overlarge Slav countered, “if we can penetrate the company deeply enough.”

Yukiko laughed bitterly. “You’re talking about somehow sabotaging the Covenant’s departure from within the company itself. Might as well try to sabotage a country from within.”

“Why not?” Pavel shot back. “It’s been done before.”

The elegantly dressed gentleman, whose title was baron but whose interests lay in saving mankind from itself, had been deep in thought, considering the organization’s rapidly shrinking options.

“I know it seems unlikely, but Pavel may be on to something,” he said. “If you can’t cut off the head of a snake, you have to attack the body. No company is impenetrable. If we have to penetrate Weyland-Yutani to keep the colonization mission from proceeding, then that’s what we’ll have to do. Somehow. Even if it costs some lives.” He eyed them evenly. “Even if it costs some of ours.”

As the most technically proficient among them, the youthful Pierre was first to voice the obvious question.

“How would we hack the departure?” he said. “We can’t do any real damage if we can’t get inside.”

The corners of the Baron’s thin, immaculately trimmed mustache rose slightly. “Pierre, that falls on you.”

The Frenchman made a face. “You ask a lot.”

The Baron shrugged. “You know as well as any of us what is at stake. What humanity faces if we fail.”

“It’s still a wonder to me that so few believe.” The matronly woman carefully slipped the scoured lolly stick into a pocket.

Pavel grunted. “Show them the truth, and they think the Prophet is mad. It is better in my country. We have a history of accepting prophets.”

The Frenchman began to nod to himself. “It can be done. It will be difficult—and if it fails it could leave a trail leading to all of us—but it can be done. We will only have one chance. After that…?” He gave an eloquent shrug.

“After that, if the attempt fails,” Yukiko observed, “those of us who escape will try to regroup. We will keep striving until the Covenant mission is cancelled.” She paused. “As for it costing our lives, well, we have long since committed them to the cause.”

“It will work.” The English baron spoke smoothly and with confidence. “All that’s necessary is to get inside the company. Once in, we can do… whatever is necessary.”

“Whatever is necessary,” Yukiko repeated as they turned and headed back toward their separate modes of transportation. She didn’t object to the decision that had been reached. The council had always operated on consensus. Being Japanese, she particularly appreciated that.

Besides which, they were running out of options.

And out of time.

* * *

Yutani kept a fresh towel around his neck as he rode one of the two private elevators up to the second floor of his three-story residence. The gym on the first floor was now empty, his kendo instructor having gathered his equipment and departed. The strenuous workout always left the CEO feeling physically depleted but mentally alert. Having showered in the gym facilities, he was looking forward to a relaxed evening. For a moment he considered importing a courtesan to entertain him for the night, but he realized he was too tired.

Not young enough anymore to follow kendo with a woman, he told himself ruefully. No matter. Having earlier reviewed the last of the day’s business reports, he could now indulge in some news and perhaps the sports report before retiring for the evening. Following the dictates of the American Buckminster Fuller, he had trained himself to need only three or four hours sleep a night.

Software maintenance, he knew, was at least as important as the occasional hardware repair.

As he settled himself on the couch facing the blank wall that doubled as a projector, the autobar delivered a glass filled with ice, sparkling water, and taperaba extract. The cushioning adjusted optimally to his height and weight. Murmured commands brought the wall to life so that it seemed to disappear, replaced by a succession of images and music. In moments the images changed and the music was replaced by a pair of earnest newscasters. As they spoke, the imagery accompanying their reports moved around. Sometimes they hovered in front of the casters, sometimes behind, according to the requirements of each story.

He watched a report on the modest tsunami that had struck the coast of Chile earlier that day. Though rushing water appeared to lap around his feet, the entertainment system’s epidermal sensorium was muted, so he didn’t feel the waves. There seemed to be little damage from the tsunami or the earthquake that had spawned it. That was good—Weyland-Yutani had interests in Valparaiso.

The watery imagery disappeared. Simultaneously, the pair of newscasters were replaced by half a dozen figures seated in a row behind a long table. They wore identical clothing. They spoke in identical voices. They smiled identical smiles.

Yutani frowned slightly, but gave no other reaction.

“Are we in?” one of them asked his neighbor. They all appeared to be male. The digital masking was very well done.

“Easy enough to find out.” A second figure turned to address an unseen pickup. “Hideo Yutani, can you hear me?”

“Not only can I hear you,” he replied as he used hand gestures to activate some of the special equipment built into the wall system, “but I can see you quite well.”

“And we can see you.” A third member of the group leaned forward. “Well enough to tell that you are probably initiating search and record instrumentation. You’ll find it a waste of time. Our location is as well masked as our identities. We cannot hurt you through a simple two-way communication, so please pay attention to what we have to say. Breaking the privacy coding of your home entertainment system required some effort. It would only waste time if you execute an emergency termination, and we have to do it all over again.”

Nevertheless, he set the relevant instrumentation to trace and record anyway. Despite what the speaker declared, some useful information might be gleaned. Only one group with whom he’d had recent dealings had demonstrated this level of ability to penetrate corporate and personal security.

“Are you part of, or working for, the Jutou Combine?”

He was rewarded with six identical surprised reactions. In its way, that was answer enough. Another speaker confirmed it.

“We have nothing to do with any corporation. We are the followers of the Prophet. We are the Earthsavers.”

If the solemnity with which this revelation was delivered was supposed to impress Yutani, it failed.

“Never heard of you.”

“That is by design,” another of the six declared. “However, one day all will know us.”

“I’m sure that will be the case,” Yutani agreed. “Public trials and the consequent imprisonment of anti-social terrorists tend to be popular in the media.”

“We are not anti-social.” The tone of the speaker who replied suggested that Yutani had gotten under his actual skin. “We are entirely pro-people. That is why we strive, on behalf of the Prophet, to do what is necessary for the future of all mankind.”

Yutani nodded mechanically. He considered calling in his bodyguards to serve as witnesses, but decided against it. There was nothing they could add to the exchange, and their appearance might cause those who had interrupted his evening to break off the conversation. He needed to keep them talking. Silence was rarely informative.

“A most noble sentiment,” he said evenly. “The rallying cry of every group of fanatics since the beginning of time.”

“We are not fanatics,” another speaker insisted. “We are devoted to the truth.”

“You won’t persuade with semantics,” Yutani shot back. “You are the ones who tried to sabotage the Covenant. Who tried to abduct my daughter. You tried to infiltrate the mission’s security team, and when that failed, one of you did his best to assassinate the ship’s chief of security.” His tone turned sharply sarcastic. “But I suppose that would be acceptable, as long as you’re not fanatics.”

The first speaker replied. “If applying labels makes you feel better, then have at it. Our purpose is no less than the survival of the human species.”

Yutani blinked. “And what makes you think you can pull off the salvation of our species?”

“No,” another of the six put in. “Survival.”

Absurd as it all seemed, Yutani couldn’t keep himself from responding.

“From what?”

“OH-TEE-BEE-DE,” they chorused. That all six of the speakers looked exactly alike made the chant all the more unsettling. A bemused Yutani frowned.

“Excuse me? Is this a game?” he asked, irritation edging his voice. “An elaborate—albeit mildly impressive—amusement?”

“It is no game, Hideo Yutani.” The fourth speaker replied with exaggerated solemnity. Or more likely, from his point of view, he wasn’t exaggerating. “Oh-tee-bee-dee… Out There Be Demons. Through his visions, the Prophet has shown us that the galaxy is filled with many hostile, bloodthirsty lifeforms who, if they were to find their way to Earth, would seek to exterminate its dominant intelligent lifeform. Us.”

Then the “Prophet” mentioned in the reports was a “he.” Yutani felt a small surge of satisfaction. That was something, anyway. Every clue was to be welcomed.

“I see,” Yutani replied. “So you are not merely fanatics, but insane fanatics.”

“We are not fanatics.” Again the speaker rose to the bait. Yutani responded without hesitation.

“Are any of you astrophysicists, or specialists in xenobiology? No, I think not. Yet you are saboteurs, kidnappers, murderers, and you suffer from a communal delusion. The longer this continues, the more I feel I’m wasting my time—but you’ve piqued my interest. Tell me how you know about these inimical lifeforms, when our exploration craft and finest scientists haven’t found the slightest proof that any such creatures exist?”

“We know,” another speaker declared with conviction, “because the Prophet tells us so.”

“Ah.” Yutani took a sip of his cold drink. “The Prophet. Based on what you’ve already said, I should have expected a detailed, rigorously scientific explanation like that.”

“We expect mockery and do not fear it. Those who are heir to the truth are untroubled by cynicism.” The first speaker shifted in his seat behind the table. His repositioning was not matched by similar physical adjustments on the part of his companions.

So, Yutani thought, the digital masking isn’t perfect. The longer such masking went on, the more likely it was to break down. Recording might yet prove useful.

The individual seated beside the speaker spoke up. “The Prophet’s visions are detailed—”

“Detailed enough to frighten you, certainly,” Yutani observed, cutting him off. “Doubtlessly detailed enough to persuade you to contribute financial ‘support.’”

“Our support for the Prophet is minimal,” the speaker replied. “We provide only the basics, the essentials. He does not attempt to raise money, if that’s what you are implying. In fact, he loathes the visions and would give anything if they would stop.”

Well, Yutani thought, that was an unexpected response. If it was true.

“Pity I can’t share his ‘visions.’” He gave a casual wave. “Who knows? They might convince me to cancel the mission. That is what you want, isn’t it? To prevent the Covenant from departing. To keep humans from settling among the stars.”

“That is what we want,” two of the speakers agreed simultaneously.

“We cannot show you the Prophet’s visions,” another said.

Yutani let out a sharp grunt. “Why am I not surprised.”

“What we can do,” the speaker continued, “is share with you the visuals our creative personnel have been able to generate. Ones that represent our best interpretations of his visions.”

“Go ahead,” he told them airily. “Impress me. Persuade me. It’s only an enterprise costing billions of dollars. I’m sure your prophet’s imagery will convince me to abandon it without question.”

One of the speakers nodded, and made a gesture off to the side. Once again, the motions didn’t remain unified. Their masking continued to break down. If he could just keep them talking a while longer, he might learn something truly useful.

Abruptly the six disappeared.

Nightmares replaced them.

The images that appeared—one after another in measured procession—were relatively photorealistic. For all that they remained comparatively indistinct, but there were enough details to create a visceral response. Yutani felt himself tense up, and he clenched his jaw.

Having been raised to be familiar with contemporary horror, as well as traditional kaidan, he was not easily unsettled. Nevertheless the parade of ghastly depictions that now filled the space between the couch and the wall was like nothing he had seen or read. It was impossible to tell whether or not the victims of the carnage were human—was this a prediction of the future, of the hell that awaited mankind? As they threatened to press against him, he shrank back against the cushions.

Clearly the images were the work of master digital artists, and the raw emotions they conveyed were beyond anything Yutani had ever experienced. They played out in swirls of viscera and reformulations of grisly violence, until he finally croaked out a plea.

“All right, that’s enough… that’s enough!” He was sweating profusely, and was certain his virtual intruders could see it.

The images vanished, to be replaced once again by the row of six indistinguishable figures. One leaned slightly forward. “Do not feel ashamed by your reaction,” he said. “Ours were much the same. Realize also that each of us—at one time or another—has been witness to the Prophet in the throes of these visions.” The speaker shook his head slowly. “No reproduction, no matter how skilled the artist, can compare to the terror of such moments.”

Yutani quickly downed the last of his cold drink and immediately directed the autobar to prepare another. He drank half of it down before replying.

“Very impressive,” he said. “Yet what makes you so certain these visions, as experienced by your Prophet, represent…” he looked upward briefly and waved a hand, “creatures that live out there? Dangers lurking in space or on other worlds? I don’t mean to minimize the power of your images, but couldn’t they be ordinary nightmares? Perfectly explicable bad dreams?”

Another of the six spoke up. “In his waking hours, the Prophet has been very specific as to their origin and location.”

Yutani frowned. “You’re not going to tell me that he can provide stellar coordinates for the source of his visions?”

For the first time since they had interrupted his nightly viewing, several of the six seemed uncertain. It was left to one of their number—an individual who was not indecisive—to respond.

“He has no such acumen, does the Prophet. He can only indicate the night sky and repeat ‘out there be demons.’ So great is his waking terror that he fears to go outside even in the light of a full moon, lest he be compelled to look at the stars.” The speaker’s voice grew more deliberate. “His insights are to be believed. They must be believed! Colonies will attract attention—dangerous attention that will lead demons of unknown strength and abilities back to Earth. We do not exaggerate when we insist that the very fate of mankind itself is at stake.” Apparently aware that his voice was rising, the speaker calmed himself.

“It is a risk we cannot take,” he continued. “If we are so inclined, if mankind has the will, we can repair the damage we have done to this planet. There is no need for us to expose ourselves—unready and unprepared as we are—to the monstrous threats that lurk beyond our system. It is unquestionable. The Covenant cannot be allowed to depart.”

Another speaker took up the refrain. “We did not choose this path,” he said. “Since becoming aware, a number of us have tried—individually and together—to convince others of the dangers that lie in pushing beyond the confines of our world. No one listened to us. No one paid us the slightest attention. We were treated as less than nothing. It was that indifference that forced us to join together, and take to the shadows,” he continued. “We have tried several times now to halt the mission. Several times we have failed.

“We realize that we are taking a risk in talking to you directly, but it was decided that with time running out, the only way for the mission to be interdicted was for the head of Weyland-Yutani to understand what drives us.”

Still another of the six spoke up. “Now you have seen the evidence,” he said in a pleading tone. “Now you may understand. We have pledged our minds, our bodies, our fortunes, and our souls to protecting the Earth and its people. We ask only that you consider what we have shown you, and then decide. As a highly successful and intelligent entrepreneur—one who has proved his own abilities over and over again—we believe now that you have been shown the truth, you will respond accordingly.

“Your decision will decide the fate of our planet,” he concluded.

Yutani nodded, using a bar towel to wipe the sweat from his face and neck.

“You have given me much to think about,” he said, striving to keep his voice even. “I had no idea…” He went silent for a moment as he pressed the towel to his mouth. Removing it, he spoke with sudden resolve.

“Despite what you may believe, I cannot unilaterally cancel the Covenant mission. My competency would immediately be called into question. But I can delay its departure. In the interim, I can speak with key individuals in certain departments. Working together, I think we can come up with a plausible rationale, and put an end to any future endeavors, as well.” His jaw tightened. “Yes, I think it can be done. Not in one day, not in two, but before the ship is scheduled to depart—yes.”

To his surprise, the six identically masked speakers remained calm. The response from the individual on the far left was quietly appreciative.

“We are greatly relieved,” he said. “We intend no affront, but you of course understand that we will continue to monitor the Covenant project, to assure ourselves that you are a man of your word.”

“Of course.” Yutani hurriedly downed the rest of his drink. His hand was shaking. “Were I in your position, I would do no less. It is the only sensible thing to do.”

“Then we will leave you to the remainder of your late evening,” another speaker declared. “To reflect on what we have told you, what you have seen, and all that has been discussed.”

Yutani nodded vigorously. “Should you contact me again, for whatever reason, I promise you that from now on I will respond immediately, and without hesitation. Do not hesitate.”

The space between the wall projector and his couch went vacant. A moment of silence passed, then the broadcast he had been watching returned as if nothing had happened.

He did indeed respond as the last speaker had suggested, sitting and pondering everything he had seen. Of one thing he was convinced. Based on everything he had heard and seen, an immediate and significant response was required. He began to react, swiftly and with conviction.

The first thing he did was put down the towel he had held to his mouth—not to stifle a gasp of horror, but to hide the laughter he had fought hard to suppress. Next he checked to make certain that everything he had seen and heard had been properly recorded. Following that he turned off the heater, built into the couch, which had induced so much perspiration over the course of the exchange.

He made a note to fire the person in charge of his electronic security.

Then he called London. He had no doubt that the city was home to a wide array of psychiatric specialists. What he needed was someone who dealt with psychotic disorders. He would need to put one or more of them on the Weyland-Yutani payroll.

XXI

With every passing day, Daniels looked forward more and more to deepsleep. It seemed that for every item ticked off her pre-departure checklist, a dozen more appeared. Mundane containers of materials and supplies had to be repositioned within the main cargo hold in order to fit them within predetermined spaces.

That was easy, however, compared to inspecting the massive terraforming machines and their related support vehicles, each of which was a technical marvel unto itself. Everything they needed had to be there, stored in its proper space. Once the Covenant passed the moon, there would be no returning for spare parts. If they left something behind, they would have to do without.

There was one essential they wouldn’t need to haul, though, and that was dirt. She grinned to herself. Plowable soil for the farmers, refinable ore for the miners, and perpendicular rock for her vertically inclined husband. She wondered what he would do if Origae-6 turned out to be a desert world, composed of nothing but shifting dunes. Or more likely, something marvelously fertile but akin to the North American Great Plains or the Ukrainian steppe.

She forced herself to return to the work at hand. She was getting ahead of herself, imagining the surface of a world that from long-range survey was known to be livable, but whose topography was still a mystery. It had been determined that Origae-6 had land, oceans, near-terrestrial gravity, and a breathable atmosphere. Beyond that, it would be up to the colonists themselves to discover its finer details.

She and Jacob would be two of those doing the discovering. Once they were there, it would take years before every last piece of colonization equipment was unloaded, checked out, and put into service.

“You sleep with that comm unit more than you do with me.”

Turning away from the buzz of activity in the cargo hold, she wrapped both arms around the device and hugged it to her.

“It keeps me warm. You’re always in the head.”

Her husband’s expression turned doleful. “Ship food doesn’t always agree with me. It’ll be better in deepsleep. Nothing too hot to upset my stomach.”

Holding onto the comm unit with one hand, she poked him several times in the chest with a forefinger. “You’re always tired when you come to bed.”

“How would you know?” he countered. “You’re always asleep by the time I finish work.” His mouth arced into a playful smile. It was hard for anyone to resist that smile. It had charmed engineers, professors, politicians, Weyland-Yutani executives, and—when a certain moment had come—had charmed her into saying “yes.”

She sighed heavily. “There’s no free time on this job. Not until we go into deepsleep, and then it doesn’t matter.” Turning, she gestured to where an enormous excavator was being wheeled into position for transit, the task made slightly easier by the fact that the artificial gravity on the ship was set slightly less than Earth-normal. “Not only do I have to make sure everything that’s loaded is as described in the general manifest and in working order, but in the end it’s up to me to decide where it all should go.” She held up the comm unit. “It’s one thing to diagram it out nice and neat in an office, and something else when you’re expected to squeeze in an extra dirt marauder or two at the last minute.”

He nodded understandingly. “Funny how some jobs never change. You’re riding in Earth orbit, hundreds of kilometers above the surface, but you’re doing the same job as a clipper ship supercargo loading tea and porcelain in eighteenth-century Hong Kong. Fitting cargo into a hold.”

She coughed. The humidity, like every other component of life support on the Covenant, was supposedly set to an optimum level, but she intended to have a word with Mother about the on-board atmosphere. She found it too dry.

“I’ll be glad when the company stops trying to cram yet another load onto the ship.” She made a face. “That’s one thing that differs from your clipper ship. We can carry anything that will fit on board, without having to worry about sinking.” Her comm unit chimed softly and he waited while she attended to detail number 786 of the day’s thousand or so.

“What about you, Jacob?” she asked when she had signed off again. “How’s your day going?”

“That’s what I came to tell you.”

Feigning impatience, she gestured with the comm unit. “You could have just called.”

“I know.” That irresistible smile again, she marveled. “But then I’d miss out on one of the rare chances to interrupt you in person.” He turned serious. “We got another security update from Ground. Telling us to look out for this, warning us to be alert for that. More of the same, except with even greater urgency.”

She shook her head. Behind her, metal clanged on metal and she winced. She felt a personal sense of responsibility toward each and every piece of equipment that was being loaded.

“I don’t see the point of issuing warnings with ‘greater urgency.’ There isn’t anything we can do that we haven’t already done, and from what I understand, surface security has been locked down so tight that a Norway rat couldn’t get into a shuttle without showing three separate kinds of identification and having a retina scan run on its beady little eyes.”

“Nevertheless,” he replied firmly, “I have to go around and run a check on each and every station and crew member.”

“What, again?” The disbelief in her voice was palpable.

“Again.” He nodded.

So in order to comply with unbending company regulations, Jacob was forced to ask his wife a series of pointed questions. Some of her answers were suitable. The ones that were unprintable he modified so as not to shock the undoubtedly innocent proctors who would have to collate the results. When he had concluded the unavoidable interview he turned to leave, only to remember what he had really wanted to tell her in the first place.

“Surface security says that Weyland-Yutani’s operatives are making progress in identifying and running down the people who were behind our would-be saboteur. They’re convinced it’s the same people who tried to have Jenny Yutani abducted, and who took a few shots at Sergeant Lopé.”

She frowned. “I thought the Yutani kidnapping was scarenews.”

He shook his head. “Nope. There really was an attempt. Security central thinks all three incidents may be linked together. I didn’t get a lot of details. The company is playing this very close to the besuto.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. Be bad publicity for the mission if word gets out.” She looked up at him. “Speaking of security, when do we get our chief back? And that new recruit, Rosenberg?”

“Rosenthal,” her husband corrected her.

Daniels gave an irritable shrug. “A rose by any other name. I’m sure she’s competent, or Lopé wouldn’t have picked her to fill the final slot in ship security. If the company is so worried about our status up here, why do they keep delaying his return?”

“Apparently,” Jacob told her, “our good sergeant is somehow involved in the effort to identify and locate those behind these assorted attempts. Surface is reluctant to let him go until that situation is resolved.”

She nodded. “Which means they expect it to be resolved before our scheduled departure date. That’s encouraging, anyway. Still, I’ll feel better when every element of the crew is at full strength.”

Reaching out, he let the back of his right hand slide across her cheek. “Always worried about the manifest, even when it involves people and not material. If you don’t find a way to relax you’re going to have a nervous breakdown before we leave orbit.”

Grabbing his hand, she gave it a quick kiss before letting it go. “Nice of you to worry. Me, I’ll relax when I’m in deepsleep.”

He chuckled. “No you won’t. You’ll toss and turn and moan for your comm unit so you can run a check on your own comatose status.”

She smiled back. “I still wish they made deepsleep pods for two.”

He shook his head sadly. “Too many mechanical hookups. Besides, you know what they say. You go to sleep and when you’re awakened years later, it’s as if no time has passed at all.” Reaching up, he rubbed at his chin with one hand. “Even your beard stops growing. Metabolic narcosis.”

“Speak for yourself.” She looked over a shoulder. “Got people waiting for me to sign-off on another hunk of junk. See you later, in lace.”

He wanted to take her in his arms, but he had work to do, too. The remark about lace in space was a reference to a nightgown she had worn a year ago, on a South Pacific cruise provided and paid for by the company. She’d reluctantly left the garment behind. It was admittedly not regulation.

Turning, he left, heading for the bridge. He had his own tasks to accomplish. As he walked and acknowledged other members of the busy preparation team, he found himself considering what he had told his wife. The Covenant was as secure as it could be made. According to everything he had been told, ground security had been tightened as much as was possible. There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all. Even so, he concurred with his wife.

While Sergeant Hallet was entirely competent, Jacob knew he would feel better when Lopé was back on board.

* * *

The cows did not look up from their grazing as two autovans trundled down the winding dirt road in their direction. The one bull in their midst gave a single, desultory snort before returning to his own cropping. The ancient stone fence that separated the undulating fields from the unimpressive roadway prevented him from objecting to the vehicles’ arrival in any meaningful way.

Flying high above the silent vans, a small flock of barn swallows struggled northward. One of their number, unable to cope with the pollution it had picked up nearer to the city, fell out of the sky to land dead by the wayside. Its companions did not pause or look back.

Parking outside the farm complex’s main building, the two automated vans idled silently as their passengers disembarked. More melanin-deprived than their colleagues, a couple of them exhibited mild but unmistakable sunburn on their foreheads and cheeks, the consequence of several days spent wandering up and down a southern beach. A pair of basic service bots arrived to take charge of the minimal luggage.

Once inside the complex the group dispersed temporarily to bathrooms and private quarters. An hour later they gathered once more in the central meeting room. Pavel was the first to speak.

“We have all had some time to think. What is the consensus?”

In the same tone she would have employed as a member of a weekly sewing circle, the matronly member of the council replied without hesitation. “I think he lied. I think he lied from the time the first image was shown to him. I think he lied from his fake sweat to his false promises.”

The youngest of the group nodded in ready agreement. “Where I come from, we would say he was stalling. With undeniable skill, but still stalling.”

Around the council of six it went. Someone suggested asking the Prophet for his opinion, but since Fields hadn’t been present during the intercession broadcast there was likely little he could add to whatever consensus they reached.

In any event, the final determination was unanimous. Hideo Yutani had lied about believing them, and was doubtless at this very moment exhorting his security forces to strive harder than ever to locate the source of the broadcast.

“Then what,” the Baron murmured, “are we to do? That we have not already tried?”

Again, the youngest member of the group spoke up. “I despise liars,” he said angrily. “Taking someone out is simpler than trying to take them alive.” He eyed his colleagues.

“We have people who might be able to do that,” Yukiko commented, “but while personally gratifying, it would not accomplish our goal, which is to halt the departure of the Covenant. Giant corporations such as Weyland-Yutani do not stop dead in their tracks, even if their chief executive does so. Propelled by their own momentum, company activities would continue. If something unfortunate happened to Hideo Yutani, I could see a monster like Weyland-Yutani scheduling his funeral for the same day as the Covenant’s departure.” Her distaste was evident. “For the publicity and sympathy it would bring. His death would only contribute a monument and a martyr to the project.”

The younger man looked properly chastened. “I withdraw my suggestion.” He regarded his colleagues. “Are there any others?”

“Given the greatly heightened state of security at Weyland-Yutani,” the Baron said, “it is unlikely that an opportunity remains to abduct anyone of importance, either to the family or to the company itself. While our reach is long, our resources are finite. The Covenant is scheduled to depart within a few short weeks, and we are running out of time.”

“Then what do you suggest?” The youngest council member looked over at his senior. Cupping a brandy snifter easily in his left hand, the Baron gestured with the other.

“I most sincerely regret to say that I have none.”

“We cannot give up.” In concert with his voice, Pavel’s cheeks shook. “We cannot abandon the words of the Prophet.” He scrutinized his associates. “We all know what that would mean for the future of the species.”

“I’d gladly give my own life to the cause,” the matron declared solemnly, “but I’m not one for futile gestures. Immolating myself in Leicester Square would garner us a lot of publicity, but wouldn’t accomplish a thing.”

The discussion continued. Ideas were broached, debated, discarded. The sense of frustration continued to grow. After an hour both the participants and their ideas were exhausted. At that point, the older of the two women on the council cleared her throat to gain the floor.

“No matter what route we choose, given the time remaining to us it’s likely we’ll only have one more opportunity to do what must be done. Therefore it cannot fail. Whatever avenue of pursuit we decide upon must be conclusive, irresistible, and infallible.”

Yukiko bowed—or possibly it was a polite nod—in her direction. “You don’t speak unless you have something significant to say, Millicent,” she said. “Please tell us you have come up with an idea that has not yet been proposed.”

“I think I have.” The other woman smiled; a most reassuring, pleasant expression. “Tell me what you think.” She proceeded to lay out the details of the plan she had concocted. As she spoke, the reaction among the other council members varied from astonishment to uncertainty to muted horror. There were hints of revulsion, but no one came out in forceful objection.

Downing the remainder of his brandy, Baron Ingleton licked his lips as he regarded the woman seated across from where he was standing. Unlike Yukiko, there was no mistaking the bow he executed.

“I can only commend your vision, Millicent. If it can be done, if it can be carried out as you describe, your proposal stands a better chance of stopping the colonization mission than anything we have yet tried.”

The youngest member of the group agreed, with a caveat. “If it goes too far, it will literally terminate the mission. I’m not sure killing everyone on board the ship is an acceptable price to pay.”

The matron turned to him. Her eyes were blue and remarkably steely. “If it works as intended, that result will be avoided. If not…” She let the implication hang in the air. “We will have to accept ending the lives of hundreds in exchange for the future of the human race. When extinction is at issue, there will be occasions when some collateral damage is to be expected. If the worst should come to pass, those colonists already on board will know and feel nothing.”

Her response did not fully mollify the young man. “There are dozens of children on board. The youngest colonists.” His lips tightened. “I know as well as any of you the issues that are at stake, but no matter how I try, I can’t find it in me to refer to dozens of dead children as ‘collateral damage.’” He shook his head. “We need to think of something else.”

“There is nothing else.” Pavel was in accord with the older woman’s strategy. “We’ve tried to think of something else… and we’ve failed.” He looked over at the woman who ought to have been offering chocolate biscuits to giggling neighborhood kids. “Millicent has come up with a plan that, if our people can pull it off, will accomplish everything we must do. If it works perfectly, only a handful of people will be sacrificed. If more have to die…” He shrugged his enormous shoulders, “better that the rest of mankind should survive. Oh-tee-bee-dee.”

“I know as well as you the nature of our goals.” Clearly upset now, his younger counterpart shifted in his chair to glare at the representative from Europe. “But there has to be another way.” He looked resolutely around the semicircle of colleagues. “I for one can’t sign off on a proposal that could potentially result in the death of hundreds of innocents.”

His eyes widened abruptly.

Behind him Baron Ingleton, calm and composed as ever, pulled the heirloom blade from the middle of the younger man’s back and stepped aside as the body—eyes still open in surprise—fell forward to tumble off the chair. Locating a cloth, the Baron proceeded to wipe the slender blade clean.

“We can relax in the knowledge that our former colleague’s conscience will remain forever clear, as he will not be required to sign off on Ms. Millicent’s proposal.” He sighed. “I regret that we will have to anoint a new representative from South America.”

“There will be time later.” An impatient Pavel turned back to the older woman. “We approve of your excellent plan. Have you considered the finer details?”

She nodded, the maternal smile back in place. “It’s relatively straightforward. Once successfully set in motion, it should prove impossible to stop.”

“What about military intervention?” Yukiko asked pointedly.

Millicent looked over at her. “That could certainly crimp our prospects for success, but the timeframe favors us. First the company would have to divine what is happening. Then they would have to inform the military, who would subsequently have to verify the details. Someone would have to reach a decision to intervene, orders would have to be given…” She sat back in her chair, which anticipated the movement and accepted her weight easily. “Our endeavor would be over and done with before the various corporate, political, and military entities could reach a decision.” Her smile widened. “Inertia is our friend.”

“And the Covenant mission would be finished.” Pavel looked entirely satisfied. “Or at the very least, postponed for many years.”

“Decades,” Yukiko put in. “Time we would have to spread the Prophet’s message. Time in which to build up our strength, to the point where the very notion of colonization would be unthinkable.”

Everyone looked to the representative from Africa. “Choma, Baron Ingleton can authorize the critical personnel from among our associates on the continent, but the execution will require the most adept work by people in your region. Are they up to it, do you think?”

The man in question considered, then nodded reassuringly. “Yes, we can handle our end if Baron Ingleton can supply the necessary specialists.” He looked around at his four colleagues. “I believe this can be done. I think it will work.”

Pavel heaved himself erect. “Then let us get to work. From this moment on, every hour is precious.”

They filed out. It was only on the way back to her own rooms that Yukiko thought to inform Dr. Bismala about the body in the meeting room, and the need to send in some people to clean it up.

XXII

“You should make your way back to the Covenant, old chum. I can expedite your transit.”

Lopé sat across the room from Bevridge and ignored the percussive, dirty rain that was rattling against the window of the security chief’s office. The city had never been truly pristine, not even in Roman times. Now living on Earth had become like living in a garbage pail, starting out clean until it gradually filled up. Soon the stains and the smell would become impossible to ignore, or remove. The problem with the planet was that humanity was running out of places to park its refuse. Some managed to get used to living with it.

Having been granted the option, he had chosen to leave it all behind. But not yet. There was business to take care of first. Personal business. That it coincided with company business made things simpler.

“They tried to kill me,” he asserted. “These fanatics.”

“Maybe you should’ve hired their applicant instead of Rosenthal.” When Lopé didn’t smile, Bevridge looked away. “All right, that was a bad attempt at lightening the atmosphere.”

“Hard to lighten the atmosphere,” the sergeant replied softly, “when assassination is the subject.”

“I have an entire team ready to go,” Bevridge told him. “We’ve mobilized a good chunk of our local Weyland-Yutani company security. We’ll take care of this exactly according to the CEO’s orders—quietly and with as little fuss as possible.” Leaning over his desk, he gazed evenly at the nearer of his two visitors. “We don’t need you, old boy.”

“I’m aware of that,” Lopé admitted, “but I need you. I need to be a part of this, even if I just go along as an observer. Rosenthal wants in, too.”

Bevridge sat back and sighed. “It’s true that we’re going to the country, but this isn’t a picnic outing, what? These people are likely have weapons. They probably have access to explosives. It’s very possible there may be a firefight.”

“I’m counting on it.” A thin smile lit the sergeant’s face, teeth appearing through his beard.

Up to that point, Rosenthal had sat silently in a corner of the office. Now she addressed the security chief.

“What I don’t understand is why it’s so important to Yutani to keep this quiet.” Using her fingers, she ticked off the relevant points. “First these crazies threaten to sabotage the Covenant. Then they try to kidnap his daughter. They try to slip another of their people onto the ship and when that fails…” She gestured at Lopé. “They make an effort to kill the sergeant here.” She shook her head. “What does it matter if their takedown goes wide spectrum? If anything, I’d think the story would get the company some sympathy. After all, there’s widespread support for the whole colonization program.”

Bevridge listened politely before replying. “That’s why you’re a security team private, I’m a security team administrator, and Hideo Yutani is head of one of the planet’s largest companies, old gal. From every bit of intelligence we’ve been able to garner, these ‘Earthsavers’ are a quasi-religious group. They have a designated ‘prophet.’” He eyed each of them in turn. “We here may think of them as dangerous nuts—”

“They are dangerous nuts,” Lopé put in.

Bevridge stayed patient. “But others will hear the words ‘prophet’ and ‘religious.’ If there’s a real skirmish and some people die, there are addled but important individuals who will raise some unpleasant questions. Before you know it, Weyland-Yutani will be accused of exterminating some harmless flock of deluded but innocent pastoralists.”

Lopé made a rude noise. “Given what they’ve tried already, I don’t see that label sticking.”

“No,” Bevridge declared emphatically, “and neither do I, but the company doesn’t want to take the chance. So this operation is to be carried out as inconspicuously as possible. A little water here, a little soap there, and as few bullets as possible.”

The sergeant nodded. “I can apply soap.” Nearby, Rosenthal nodded in agreement.

Bevridge glanced briefly toward the ceiling. “I can see you’re not going to be sensible about this, old chap.”

“If we were sensible,” Rosenthal told him evenly, “we wouldn’t be putting ourselves in deepsleep to be awakened at an unknown world with no prospect of coming home.”

Bevridge wasn’t mollified. “Well, I wasn’t told to keep you away. If you insist on coming…”

Lopé flicked a glance at Rosenthal. It was unnecessary. “We do.”

“… then just try to keep out of the way.”

Lopé nodded solemnly. “That’s me. I’m an expert at keeping out of the way.”

“And I’ll be sure to follow the sergeant’s lead,” Rosenthal added politely.

Then Lopé changed the subject to something he’d been wondering about for several days. “How did the company finally locate these cheerful anarchists, anyway?”

“It seems that these self-proclaimed Earthsavers decided to try and persuade Hideo Yutani himself of the rightness of their cause.” Bevridge folded his hands on his desk. “They managed to hack the private communications system in his home, and spent some time making an earnest effort to convert him, based on their prophet’s nightmares.”

Rosenthal was dubious. “All these attempts to stop the colonization mission, based on some whack job’s bad dreams?”

Bevridge nodded. “Their organization is founded on them. Apparently more than a few people find them convincing. Believable enough to give their lives to their misguided cause.” He shrugged. “It’s been like that throughout history. Somebody charismatic or convincing enough comes along with a good story, and even folk who you’d think would know better abandon all reason in the service of something that on the face of it makes no sense.”

“This prophet,” he continued, “who by the way has been identified as an ex-pharmacist from Lower Taunton…”

“‘Ex-pharmacist.’” Rosenthal was smirking. “That explains a lot right there.”

“Name of Duncan Fields, apparently has recurrent nightmares or visions in which he sees hordes of ravenous creatures just waiting ‘out there’ to encounter space-traversing humans so they can follow them back to Earth and ravage the planet.”

“They’re too late.” The private was on a roll. “We’ve already done that ourselves.”

“All of this information, including the location of their center of operations, was obtained when their exchange with Yutani was analyzed. There were half a dozen individuals who participated in the broadcast. All six have been identified. They masked themselves digitally for the exchange, of course, and utilized several proxy connections.

“These Earthsavers are smart and they’re clever,” he said, “but they are neither the smartest nor the cleverest. The company has access to military-grade decryption and descrambling technology. Their visual masking was excellent. Our people were unable to resolve individual faces, but the aural masking—to which such people would understandably pay less attention—proved decipherable.

“Once we had their real voices, we were able to match them across public recordings of everyone currently residing in the British Isles. We could have ranged further, but that turned out not to be necessary.” He sat back.

“So we’ve been able to monitor several of their inter-organizational exchanges, and know where they are hiding. If you still insist on participating when we close them down, be downstairs in the restricted loading area tomorrow morning at six. I suggest you eat something before you arrive.” He offered a wan smile. “It’s a bit of a drive out to Hampshire, and we won’t be stopping for breakfast.”

* * *

Neither Lopé nor Rosenthal had trouble sleeping. Being able to get adequate rest prior to a potentially dangerous operation was part of their training. They awoke, ate, performed the necessary ablutions, and met at the rendezvous.

Even Lopé was impressed by the preparations. A dozen fully armed transporters, artfully disguised as ordinary delivery trucks, were lined up on the lowermost level of the company storage building. As he and Rosenthal made their way across the floor, clusters of grim-faced Weyland-Yutani security personnel were boarding the vehicles. The sergeant quick-counted more than a hundred. Not knowing the strength of the organization they were going to face, and their efforts thus far seemed to indicate deep pockets. It was plain that Bevridge was taking no chances. A show of overwhelming force, Lopé knew, might stop a fight before it started.

There were also several smaller vehicles. Espying Bevridge, the two members of the Covenant’s crew made their way over to him. As soon as the security chief saw them he stopped giving orders and greeted them solemnly.

“You can ride with me.” Turning, he led the way toward what appeared to be an unremarkable family vehicle. Only someone with a trained eye would have noticed such non-domestic details as the shatterproof windows, puncture-proof tires, and half-centimeter of armor plating.

They clambered in. Behind them, the whine of powerful electric motors began to whisper through the underground parking area. Lopé and Rosenthal sat in the middle row, with two armed members of the security team in the seats behind them.

A subordinate sat behind the wheel. Once they were out of the inner city, the line of vehicles would go autonomous until they were a dozen or so kilometers from their destination. Then their drivers would resume manual control in case any awkward maneuvering was required.

“What happens when we get there, wherever ‘there’ is?” Rosenthal asked.

“Central Hampshire.” Bevridge looked back at his expectant passengers. “Farming country, don’t you know. Very pretty, traditional old-English landscape—what you can see of it when the north winds blow the pollution back toward London. Cover like that could be advantageous for the day’s activities.” He smiled with satisfaction. “These fanatics likely chose such a rural, comparatively isolated spot in order to keep from drawing the attention of outsiders. That helps us a great deal, since we also want to avoid drawing attention.”

Lopé noted that only one of the trucks followed their car out of the garage. He expected as much. The others would follow in due course, at staged intervals to avoid attracting notice. They wouldn’t close formation until they were very near their destination. Care and caution were the watchwords of any such operation. Curiously, as they exited the garage, a dark blue car near the tail of the column abruptly veered away to vanish down an off-ramp. He thought about mentioning it to Bevridge, then decided against it. The security chief had the operation well in hand.

The farther they drove from Greater London, the better the air became, and as Bevridge had suggested, there was a brisk northwesterly wind that helped to push everything toward the Channel. The result was decent visibility, if not the atmosphere of ancient, fabled transparency. Sealed within their vehicles, the dozens of security personnel enjoyed air conditioned by a series of heavy-duty filters and scrubbers.

It wasn’t until the scattering of vehicles exited the M3.5 onto the A408 that they began to regroup. It was afternoon when they once again split up. Three trucks plus one command car embarked on a southerly route via a local road while three more and a car headed north. The remaining two cars—including the one with Lopé and Rosenthal, followed by half a dozen personnel-heavy trucks spaced well apart—continued west on the A408.

From time to time Bevridge would check in with the rest. His group would confront the Earthsavers head-on at their redoubt, while the other two security teams would cover any retreat to the east, west, and north. By the time anyone at the destination realized what was happening, they would be surrounded. Detailed satellite images showed only one access road leading onto and out of the property, but like any good tactician Bevridge was taking no chances. No one knew what kind of equipment the Earthsavers had access to. It might include off-road vehicles or two-wheeled machines.

“What about aircraft?” Lopé asked.

Bevridge looked back at him. “Our surveillance imagery is accurate down to individual milk cans. Nothing on the property resembles even a small hangar.” He smiled knowingly. “Those kinds of non-farming structures would attract too much attention from naturally curious rural folk. Ground-penetrating radar shows nothing subsurface, either. They might have individual flying gear on hand. If so, the drones can handle that.”

Lopé nodded. He’d seen some of the drones being loaded. Palm-sized, a few hundred of them would be deployed as the team made its final approach. They would form a dark cloud above the Earthsavers’ property. Hundreds of cameras, sensors, and other detectors would combine their data to generate a composite picture of everything and anything within the compound. A wasp wouldn’t be able to get through without setting off an alarm.

“Beautiful day.” Rosenthal gazed out through an armored window as they turned onto a winding country road. In one field of laboriously maintained verdure, several horses were cropping grass that had been genetically modified to withstand the intermittent pollution. One day the geneticists would run out of tricks and such fields would turn brown and barren. For now, the echo of old England still survived in a few places.

Their driver, who had long since retaken control of the vehicle, slowed as a sign appeared above a wooden gate on their right. As he did so, Lopé thought to glance toward the end of the line of vehicles. The car that had left the column back in London had not reappeared. He shrugged. Likely it had nothing to do with the operation. His gaze turned to the nearby sign.

ROSE HILL FARM

“We’re here.” Bevridge was no longer smiling.

Seated on the right side of the car, Lopé lowered the window and squinted to peer past the sign. “All I see is grass and a dirt road.”

“The buildings are located up over that rise there.” The security chief pointed. Then he was addressing his comm unit, giving orders. Several moments later a humming sound grew audible, moving toward them. It faded but didn’t entirely disappear as the cloud of drones launched from the fourth truck in line. They formed a dark cloud that moved rapidly toward the low hill. Two similar clouds would be coming from two other directions, to merge with theirs.

They sat in silence for a while, until Bevridge muttered an order to the driver. Their vehicle started toward the gate.

“No reaction from the compound,” he informed his passengers. “They’ve chosen to ignore the drones. They can’t avoid seeing them.”

“It’s likely,” Rosenthal opined, “that our appearance has surprised them, and they’re trying to decide what to do next.”

Bevridge nodded. “We’ll give them a suggestion, what?”

The gate had a pair of digital locks, and their electronic disrupter remotely decoded the relevant password. The barrier swung open, providing just enough clearance for the trucks behind them to squeeze through. Eschewing patience now, they accelerated up the road. The inhabitants of the farm might choose to ignore the cloud of drones that had appeared above them. They could hardly miss the two cars and half-dozen trucks rumbling up the access road toward the compound.

As soon as they topped the low rise, the buildings of the complex came into view. In appearance they were unremarkable. There was nothing visible to persuade a casual visitor that he was looking at anything but a working country farm.

Slowing, then coming to a complete stop, the driver waved at a couple of controls on the dash. The front and center of the cab immediately filled with neatly spaced heads-up displays. From their middle seats Lopé and Rosenthal had an excellent view of the multiple readouts as the driver singled out bright spots on one display.

“Buried sensors here, here, and here,” he said, pointing. “Push conduits here and here.” He shoved a finger into one projection, distorting it slightly. “You can see clearly where the jumping mines are concealed. Our systems are already scrambling their internal controls.” He checked another readout. “Units two and three are engaged in similar pre-emptive procedures. In another minute or two everything that isn’t behind military grade shielding and relies on electronic controls in order to function will be shut down, right down to a toaster. As for the buried mines, they’ll be neutralized and we’ll be able to drive right over them.”

“Right then—mines.” Bevridge studied the multiple readouts. “Unless there’s been a truly bad mistake and we’ve accidentally arrived at the home of a seriously anti-social farmer, I’m going to take their presence as conclusive, on-site confirmation that we have the right location.” He eyed the driver. “What else?”

The man continued to study the numerous readouts. “Two mini-guns, left and right of this entry road, in flanking positions.” As he finished speaking, the automated weapons in question opened up. While Rosenthal flinched, Lopé didn’t twitch. Other than making a lot of noise, the slugs that struck all around them caused no more damage than a hail of ball bearings. Someone inside the complex must have seen as much, because the futile barrage soon stopped.

“Interesting weapons system.” The driver indicated a smaller readout. “Hydraulic powered, which is why our e-smother didn’t shut them down.” He looked to his superior. “Response, sir?”

Bevridge considered, then nodded toward one of two storage buildings visible on the property. In addition to these, there were two main structures that appeared to be the living quarters. One had a particularly broad roof. They were heavily shuttered.

“There’s a barn over there, old man. The one with the long peaked roof. Instruct one-four and one-five say hello.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver relayed the command.

Pop-up launchers emerged from the roofs of the fourth and fifth trucks in the column and swiveled to face the building in question. The missiles they launched were small but powerful. In quick succession both struck the sides of the structure that Bevridge had singled out.

The explosions were impressive. Lopé and Rosenthal felt the concussions inside the car. Large pieces of stone mixed with splintered matrix were thrown high into the air as the antique rock walls were shattered.

The building itself, however, remained standing, doubtless due to the metaloceramic armor walls that were now clearly visible where the stone had been blasted away.

Leaning forward, Bevridge pursed his lips as he studied the result.

“Interesting architectural detail there. The owners’ cows must be particularly valuable.” Shifting in his seat he picked up a hand unit.

“Attention inside the buildings!” he said. “This is Kyuka Bevridge speaking.” His magnified voice echoed loudly outside the sealed vehicle. “Your property has been subjected to a comprehensive electronic smother. You cannot fire any electronically controlled weapons. You cannot call out for reinforcements or to involve the local authorities. If you possess small arms, please note that you are vastly outgunned. This entire property is now subject to high-density drone surveillance. We do not want to hurt anyone, but you will be taken into custody and turned over to the Greater London municipal police for processing.” He paused to let what he had broadcast sink in before resuming.

“In the interest of avoiding bloodshed I ask that you come out with hands raised and no weapons. Should you be considering another option, be aware that we have with us long-range detection equipment that can not only pinpoint the existence and location of suicide explosives, but set them off at a distance. Any misguided efforts at sacrifice will be useless. Please come out. Now.”

Satisfied, he sat back to wait. Minutes passed with no indication of activity. Suddenly there was motion, and a line of goats appeared from behind one of the barns. Bevridge’s people were well-trained, however. The animals’ appearance didn’t inspire any unprovoked firing.

The security chief turned to look back at Lopé. “What’s your opinion, old chap? Do we press on, or give them a bit more time to come to a decision?”

“This is your show, Bevridge.”

His superior nodded once. “So it is, but I value your experience.”

The sergeant glanced at Rosenthal before responding. “My experience tells me that you can’t negotiate with fanatics. You’ve shut down their electronics. That’s good. They know we’re aware of their hydraulics, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have something equally nasty lying around waiting for unwanted visitors.” He looked over at Rosenthal. “Your opinion, Private?”

Startled at being asked to comment, but looking pleased by the confidence the sergeant was showing in her, Rosenthal hesitated for a moment, then spoke up.

“You warned them about using small arms,” she told Bevridge. “That doesn’t mean they’ll listen. They may dig in and try to defend themselves. There’s a wide range of weapons that don’t rely on electronic triggering. They might have pistols, they might have M90s. One crazy person can do a lot of damage with an M90.”

Lopé looked on approvingly. “One crazy person can do damage with a blunderbuss, if they know how to load, aim, and fire it. The point is that it’s still not safe to enter.”

“I’m afraid I have to concur.” Reluctantly, Bevridge gave orders to specialist members of the team waiting in the trucks.

Figures began to emerge from behind the car, rushing forward. While some of them carried weapons, others were laden with gear that Lopé thought he recognized, but he couldn’t be sure.

They looked on with interest as the assault team worked its way toward the two main structures, avoiding for now the barns. Anticipating armed resistance, the members of the Weyland-Yutani assault squad were arraigned in full military-grade armor and similar battle gear.

Still no sign of retaliation.

While sharpshooters watched over them, chemical specialists proceeded to slap charged packets over anything that resembled an opening. Scaling the roofs of both buildings, they didn’t overlook filtered vents. When their respective team leaders had finished, both assault teams drew back until they were under cover. Given the go-ahead by Bevridge, they activated the packets.

A succession of muted explosions filled the air on the property. Each packet contained a concentrated anti-riot irritant that the integrated explosives blew inward through cracks, openings, and vents. It was powerful, long-lasting, and dispersed widely.

Bevridge looked on with satisfaction.

“Now we wait. Our ill-advised friends should be coming out soon enough. They’re going to need clean air, and they’re not going to find it inside.”

“Unless,” Lopé pointed out, “they have filter masks.”

Bevridge was ready for the argument. “If that proves to be the case, then we’ll have to employ something less civil to winkle them out. I’d prefer to take all of them alive, however. The dead are notoriously resistant to questioning.”

A moment later the first goat blew up.

Several members of the intercession team had taken cover behind a long plastic watering trough. Approaching them unnoticed, the herd detonated in programmed succession. Several of the team members went flying, and some landed with limbs at unnatural angles. It was difficult to gauge the extent of their injuries. In some instances their body armor seemed to have done its job, but two members of the team lay unmoving, their faces bloodied.

“Medic!” one of the survivors yelled. As soon as a response team started forward from one of the vans, gunfire erupted from half a dozen locations, including the main building and the lower levels of the two barns.

“Return fire, return fire!” Bevridge was yelling into his communicator as he half charged, half fell out of the command truck. Slugs chewed up the ground all around the vehicles as men and women rushed for better cover.

As the intruders spread out to create a wider arc of fire, shots continued to come from within the compound. One guided heavy shell struck the middle truck in line. Empty except for the driver, it leaped skyward in a rapidly expanding ball of smoke and flame and flipped over twice before smashing into the ground.

Continuing to take casualties, Bevridge’s team began to unleash heavier weapons of their own. One shell sent metal, concrete, and body parts vomiting skyward as it slammed into the middle of the main building. Another blew a chunk of the barn to fragments, wood mixing with blood and bone as the armed men behind it were all but disintegrated by the force of the explosion.

In the midst of the exchange of firepower, a wild musical blaring and metallic clanging unexpectedly filled the air. As the noise blasted from concealed speakers, the doors to both barns on the property were flung wide and a horde of panicked farm animals was let loose on the startled visitors.

What resulted was complete and bloody chaos as terrified stock rampaged among the assault team. In addition to interfering with the aim of those trying to take out the farm’s defenders, the stampeding cattle were of sufficient size to carry larger and more powerful explosive charges, all surgically embedded. Flocks of chickens and ducks detonated among the team at random intervals. Not knowing which of the panicked, sacrificial farm animals were carrying explosives and which were not, security personnel proceeded to blast away at every creature they saw.

A sudden thought caused Lopé to lean forward to get Bevridge’s attention.

“We need a car!”

The security chief stopped bellowing into his comm, and looked sharply back at him.

“What is it, man? I don’t have time for—what do you mean, you need a car?” Not far in front of him a terrified, fleeing ram hurdled a low rise to explode in the midst of several concealed security personnel. Body armor saved two of them. The third had his face penetrated by a long sliver of shattered bone.

“I want to check something out,” Lopé shot back, glancing at Rosenthal. “We’re not doing anything useful here!”

Bevridge didn’t have time to argue. “Fine!” He gestured behind them. “Take the second one. I’ll alert the driver. Stay down, keep out of the way, and don’t get a bunny bomb up your butt!”

Lopé nodded once. He gestured to Rosenthal.

“Come with me, private.”

Ducking out her side of the armored vehicle, Rosenthal stayed low and kept close to its side as the two of them made their way back to the second vehicle in line. As they ran, the trucks that had disgorged troops left the road and spread out in order to bring their heavier weapons to bear on the bedlam.

Reaching the car, Lopé threw himself into the passenger seat Rosenthal dove into back. As eruptions of blood and viscera continued to splatter the area and the chatter of gunfire filled the morning air, the driver looked over at his passenger. He was very young, and his eyes were very wide.

“Sir?”

“‘Sergeant’ will do.” Lopé pointed. “Turn around. Go back out the way we came in, then circle around to the west and follow the fence line.”

“No road there, sir… Sergeant.”

“So noted.” Lopé lowered his gaze slightly. “That a problem?”

“Not in this machine, Sergeant.”

As the electric motors rose to a whine the car backed up sharply, threw gravel as it spun, and headed in the direction of the access road, bypassing the scattering trucks along the way. Passing through the open gate, the driver engaged the suspension to lift the car’s chassis half a meter before tackling the sloping, off-road mix of rock and grass. Though the vehicle’s suspension smoothed out the worst bumps and dips, Rosenthal still had to steady herself as she leaned forward.

“What’s the idea, sergeant?”

He turned slightly toward her. “There’s chaos around the complex. I think that could be intentional. In combat, what’s the reason for inducing chaos?” She didn’t reply, shook her head. “Diversion,” he told her flatly. “It’s the triple ‘C’ of combat—chaos causes confusion. When you’re trapped, your options expand under chaos.”

They were in a surviving patch of forest now, the driver weaving a course among the trees. Off to their right and increasing with distance, explosions and smoke marked the continuing assault on the farm complex. A few small animals could be seen running in their direction. As they approached the second security team, which had taken up positions inside the fence line, the frightened but lethal creatures were quickly put down, most before they could detonate.

Halfway between the positions established by Bevridge’s group and team two, they encountered the horses.

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.

XXIV

At a glance, the stampede appeared evenly divided between riding animals and heavy horses. On traditional farms, especially those specializing in organic produce, the latter still found ample work in the fields. As the mixed herd thundered through the increasingly dense patch of forest, dodging trees and jumping fallen boughs, Lopé noted that not one of them exploded. Still, the driver of their armored vehicle exercised caution as he picked a path through the woods.

The sergeant was watching the last of the herd vanish into the distance when Rosenthal let out a shout.

“Over there!” Reaching forward from the back seat, she grabbed the driver’s right shoulder with one hand, even as she pointed sharply with the other. “That way, by the copse of big oaks!”

As the driver obediently swung their vehicle in the indicated direction, an energized Lopé saw what she was pointing at. Two heavy horses, both percherons, had not made their escape with the rest of the herd.

What the hell…? Lopé stared.

One lay on its side on the ground. It was utterly motionless, its eyes open and unblinking, all four legs stretched straight out from its body. Fully exposed to the view of those in the car, its underside was neatly slit from groin to chest. There was no blood. There was no cascading viscera, no organ dump. There was, however, plenty of room for machinery, instrumentation, and a passenger.

The percheron was a mesyn—part mechanical, part synthetic. The robotic components were required in order for it to function, Lopé knew. It wasn’t a full synthetic, like the Walter model that had been assigned to the Covenant. The composite life form gave new meaning to the definitions of horse and rider. It was also an unparalleled example of camouflage—of a sort no one ever could have foreseen.

Indistinguishable from its counterpart, the second mesyn continued to move back and forth as it and its concealed operator stalked a subject among the trees. Here they grew too close together for the car to proceed any further—another argument in favor of the equine synthetics.

He and Rosenthal drew their sidearms as they piled out. Rosenthal sprinted to her right as Lopé admonished the driver to stay with the car and keep watch. He moved to the left, and they warily approached the confrontation that was taking place in front of them.

Beyond the mesyn horse, two men were retreating. One of them—a lithe, muscular man—was backing away using an arm to hold the other individual close in front of him. At the same time he kept the muzzle of a small pistol pressed tightly against his captive’s neck.

Abruptly the horse-machine opened its mouth to spit several small-caliber shells in his direction. The slugs chewed up the ground to the left of the entwined pair. Warning shots, Lopé theorized. He recognized neither of the two men.

Taking cover behind a tree he nodded across to Rosenthal, who had done likewise. Then he leaned around the bole, aimed his weapon, and shouted.

“This is Daniel Lopé, sergeant, Weyland-Yutani security! Identify yourselves!” The figure with the gun replied immediately. He didn’t, however, take his eyes off the second mesyn.

“Yoji Ngata, kodenbushi,” he called back. “Weyland-Yutani special operative, Tokyo department!” He nodded as best he could at the man he was dragging backward. “I have in custody one Duncan Fields, the so-called prophet of the organization headquartered at this property!”

Before he was finished the head of the mesyn swung in Lopé’s direction and unleashed a barrage of chain shells that tore away bark and part of the tree behind which the sergeant had taken cover. Ducking around the trunk, he took aim and began firing. Off to his right he could hear Rosenthal opening up with her own weapon.

“Aim for the head!” He could see puffs of faux flesh flying as the shells from his pistol tore into the mesyn’s synthetic flesh. “Aim for the eyes!”

Trying to deal with the new threat from the sergeant and the private, the operator inside the pseudo-percheron ended up cutting nothing but wood. Rosenthal again proved her skill by taking out one of the mesyn’s camera eyes. When Lopé succeeded in shattering the other, the organo-mechanical composite began to stagger, though bullets continued to fly erratically from the mouth muzzle.

It gave Ngata time to get his captive behind a tree. With delicate features and straight black hair falling down to his eyes, he looked more like a musician than a free-ranging security operative. He was breathing hard from the effort of keeping his prisoner between them and the second mesyn.

“Thank you, Sergeant Lopé!” Ngata yelled out. “It was becoming difficult to continue.” He looked around the tree where he had dragged his captive. Finally they ducked behind an old sycamore, its broad trunk offering plenty of cover.

Lopé nodded, peering again around the flank of the oak behind which he had taken shelter. The still erect mesyn began stumbling about. Its operator had ceased firing.

“Stay put!” Lopé called out, making a face as he shifted his attention to the Tokyo operative’s captive. “For someone who’s caused so much trouble, you don’t look like much.”

Fields had long since ceased struggling against Ngata’s powerful grip, but he met the sergeant’s gaze evenly. “I never meant to cause anyone any trouble. I just tell people what I dream, what I see. It is their decision to try and save mankind from itself.” To the sergeant he looked more tired and resigned than angry. “Now I just want it to end.”

Lopé snapped back. “Maybe you should have left the saving to those equipped to do it.”

Before Fields could offer a comment the sergeant had stepped out from behind the oak. Beckoning to Rosenthal he started forward, crouching low while moving from side to side as he advanced, careful never to move in a straight line.

His caution proved unnecessary. With its optics shot out, the mesyn was blinded. Approaching the staggering composite from behind, Lopé took careful aim at the rear left knee. Silently he gestured for Rosenthal to do likewise to the knee joint of the left foreleg. Motioning up and down with his hand he counted down to three, barked “Now!” and fired several rounds.

The knees shattered, spitting flesh and shrapnel. As the mesyn collapsed to the ground its operator attempted to fire at the unseen assailants. It continued firing until several clicks indicated that it was out of ammunition.

Lopé waved Rosenthal off to the right and took up a position facing the mesyn’s ventral side. Bearing in mind Glynis Hazelton’s explosive self-immolation in a city alleyway, each of them stayed at a safe distance. Though the mesyn was now effectively sightless and immobilized, they had not shot at its ears.

“I repeat, this is Sergeant Daniel Lopé of Weyland-Yutani security! You are surrounded. Your prophet is in custody. You are immobilized. We will not move within range of your weapons’ system, and there is nothing more you can do.” His grip tightened on his pistol. “There’s no reason to sacrifice yourself. Come out and raise your hands. If I see the slightest indication of a booby-trap or concealed explosive device of any kind, I will shoot you down without hesitation.”

No response. From across the way, Rosenthal looked questioningly toward her superior. Lopé gestured for her to be patient. Behind them, Ngata held onto his captive while regaining his strength.

A whirring sound came from the mesyn’s guts as belly and chest split open. The diminutive female figure who rolled out of the prone operator’s position kept her hands above her head. As the sergeant tracked her every movement she rose, calmly brushed herself off, and started walking backward. Lopé pursued slowly, maintaining the same distance between them.

“Stop there.” He gestured with the muzzle of the pistol. “Stop walking.”

“Sorry, Sergeant.” Yukiko spread her hands to show that she held no weapon, no button, nothing that could activate a concealed explosive device. “I have to leave before your other people arrive. What you say is true. I have sacrificed—but not enough. Not yet.” Her expression was grim, her voice taut. “I am not afraid to give my life in the service of mankind, and I will continue to do everything I can on behalf of the Prophet, to save our unworthy species from—”

“I know, I know.” He continued following her. “The demons out there. Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s nothing out there but interstellar gas, dust, and if we’re lucky, a handful of habitable planets. You’ve been wasting your time. You’re wasting it now. Lie down on the ground and put your hands behind your back.”

Shaking her head she continued slowly backing away. He considered rushing her and knocking her down. She was a lot smaller than he was. But he had no idea if she was hiding something lethal under her clothing or somewhere within that slight frame.

“I will shoot,” he warned her again.

She gave a slight shrug. “Then that truly will conclude my sacrifice, Sergeant. Go ahead then, and shoot.” With that she whirled and broke into a run.

She’d gone two steps before, startled, she ran straight into Rosenthal’s right fist. So intent had she been on her conversation with Lopé that she hadn’t seen the private circle around behind her.

Lopé jogged over to join them. Standing over her and looking down, he holstered his pistol, then nodded approvingly to Rosenthal.

“You’re quick.”

“I hope I’m always quick enough.” Reaching into a back pocket she removed one of a pair of standard-issue security restraints, knelt, and began securing the unconscious woman’s wrists. As she worked, she nodded once in the direction of the tree that continued to shield the Earthsaver’s prophet and his captor. “Where’d pretty boy come from, anyway?”

“Tokyo, he said.” The sergeant spoke brusquely as he turned to regard the same tree.

“How did he end up here?” Having secured her prisoner, Rosenthal began to check for booby traps. As the woman beneath her began to come to, moaning, Rosenthal showed admirable expertise. “Did you know about him?”

Lopé shook his head, his reply a conflicting mix of irritation and admiration.

“His presence here fits with some of the stories I’ve heard of how the old man likes to work. It’s just like Yutani to send out somebody to operate on their own to work the margins of an operation like this.”

Satisfied with her work, Rosenthal rose. “So Yutani doesn’t trust his people out in the field? Doesn’t trust us?”

“I don’t think it’s that. More like covering your bets.” He looked down at the now securely bound captive. “Ngata must’ve been poking around outside the perimeter Bevridge established. If he hadn’t, this woman and her ‘prophet’ might have successfully galloped away alongside the real animals.” He turned again toward the protective oak. “We should thank him. Or congratulate him, anyway.”

“Any congratulating better be mutual,” Rosenthal said. “If we hadn’t come along, he likely wouldn’t have made it away. He couldn’t keep dragging that ‘prophet’ all the way back to the entrance road. Not with the mesyn pursuing him. And if he’d tried to pull a comm unit to call for backup, Mr. Prophet would’ve been able to break free. That would’ve taken away his shield.”

Lopé looked thoughtful. “Speaking of backup…”

XXV

Bevridge was more than a little relieved to hear from the sergeant. Leaving his team to complete a search of the farm buildings, he had his driver track the signal from Lopé’s comm unit. Going off-road, they soon arrived at where the sergeant’s vehicle was parked. Its driver pointed into the dense stand of old trees directly ahead.

While Rosenthal secured the prophet Duncan Fields, Lopé introduced Bevridge to the unexpected backup from Tokyo. As the two men exchanged professional courtesies, the amused sergeant noted that Bevridge was trying hard to appear thankful for Ngata’s intervention, when in reality he was more than a little upset at having his authority undercut.

Not that it would matter, he knew, given the results of the operation. The Earthsavers’ organization had been effectively smashed. Its prophet and supervising council had been taken into custody. Though there were probably an unknown number of lower-level operatives still out there, with no one remaining to give them orders or direction, they were likely to fade into obscurity.

A truck full of armed security personnel arrived to pick up the two new prisoners. Part of Lopé wished he could be present to see the faces of the other Earthsavers when their prophet rejoined them. Their diversion had failed to draw attention away from the escape attempt. They had been outnumbered and outgunned, and their “mission” was at an end.

Bevridge spoke to someone on his comm unit, probably informing his superiors that the operation had achieved its goals and without a single fatality. Rosenthal escorted the now-bound prophet over to the newly arrived truck. That left the Japanese operative standing by himself.

Lopé sauntered over. Seeing the sergeant approaching, Ngata bowed slightly. When he straightened, he was smiling.

“My thanks to you and your partner, Sergeant. While I would have managed something on my own, your arrival was both timely and welcome.”

Nodding, Lopé offered a crisp reply. “Maybe. Or you would’ve lost control of your prisoner, and been drilled by a fanatic.”

Ngata’s smile tightened but did not disappear.

“Those were also possibilities.”

“You didn’t get here in a late-model dark blue four-seater, by any chance? With dark bronze trim?”

Ngata looked surprised. “How did you know that?”

Lopé grunted. “I’ve got an eye for cars. One thing has me wondering, though.” Lopé gestured westward, in the direction taken by the long-vanished mob of real horses. “You were wandering around out here, away from the action, doing your own reconnaissance. Suddenly a herd of horses comes stampeding toward you and jumps the rock wall surrounding the property. Instead of taking shelter behind a tree and getting out of their way, you pick out the two fakes, the two mesyns, out of a herd of maybe two dozen, and you do it in a matter of seconds.” He stared intently at the youthful operative. “How’d you know to do that?” One hand gestured into the woods. “How did you know to single those two out? Not to mention to bring one down and open it up?”

Ngata’s grin grew wider. “Not being involved in the actual assault gave me ample time to monitor communications. Theirs, as well as yours.”

The sergeant was not pleased. “So you knew when these two were making a break for it…” Ngata nodded once. “But you didn’t think to inform anybody else.” He frowned darkly as he awaited the answer.

“There was no time.” The younger man just shrugged. “I had to get here to intercept them, in order to ensure they did not escape.”

“In your judgment.” Lopé’s stare was unblinking.

“In my judgment, yes.”

“What if they’d escaped anyway, or killed you in the process?”

“Then I would have been guilty of poor decision-making,” Ngata replied calmly. “At first I did exactly what you describe, Sergeant. Seeing the herd coming toward me, I took shelter behind a tree to watch them pass. As they drew near I quickly noticed that two of them running side-by-side were moving with a gait that was not normal. One that no normal horse would employ. It was not just unusual—it was dynamically and biologically impossible.” He shrugged. “Had I been wrong and shot down a real horse, I would have felt terrible. I love horses.”

Lopé nodded sagely. “So that’s what tipped you off. An unnatural gait.” When Ngata nodded affirmatively, the sergeant added, “I wouldn’t expect such a love of horses from a solo Weyland-Yutani security operative.”

Ngata explained. “In my childhood, I was exposed to the exploits of a national hero, Hiroshi Hoketsu. He was twice the oldest person to compete in the old international Olympics, and the oldest competitor ever for Japan.”

A look of understanding came over Lopé’s face. “Let me guess. Equestrian competition.”

Ngata nodded. “I wanted to be like him, but horses are expensive to maintain. More so than guns. I have maintained an affection for both, and follow developments in both.” Turning, he gestured into the woods. “I knew immediately that two of the creatures running could not be actual horses. So I took a gamble, and shot one.”

“Good call. Good shot,” Lopé grunted. “I love horses, too. Preferably broiled and medium-rare.” At the look that came over Ngata’s face, the sergeant hastened to reassure him. “A joke. Just a joke. Come on. I’ll buy you dinner when we get back to the city and you can tell me everything about the briefing you received before you arrived here.”

“I cannot tell you everything.” They started toward the car that had brought Lopé and Rosenthal. “Company policy.”

The sergeant pursed his lips. “I’ll settle for what you can tell me. It won’t matter anyway. In a little while I’ll be snug in deepsleep and unable to tell anyone anything. Besides,” he added cheerfully, “I know a great Uzbek restaurant that services horse steak and… just a joke, my friend, just a joke.”

Except this time, it wasn’t.

* * *

The security convoy reconvened back on the road leading to the farm complex. Lopé’s wish was granted as he was present when the captured prophet and his escort were loaded into the same truck as the quartet of previously detained colleagues. Instead of cries of anguish and distress, however, there were only brief nods of recognition. The captives’ expressions hardly changed.

It made no sense, and that bothered him.

With the capture of the prophet and the council, their entire organization had been broken. Yet no one seemed to care. This didn’t fit with the behavior of fanatics. Were they that confident of their lawyers? Did they expect to be released on their own recognizance? If so, he told himself, they greatly underestimated the influence of Weyland-Yutani, and the ability of Hideo Yutani to carry a grudge.

Or was he overlooking something?

I’m worrying too much, he told himself. We’ve more than done our part, helped take down the enemy that’s been bedeviling us. It was time to relax a little, enjoy the last sights and sounds and smells of Earth, before embarking on the final shuttle flight back up to the Covenant. Goodbye to Mother Earth and hello to Mother, the ship’s pervasive AI.

No surprises lurking there, at least.

Even so, as Bevridge was shaking his hand and going on and on about the success of the operation, the sergeant couldn’t escape a nagging unease at the sight of the preternatural calm displayed by the departing captives.

* * *

It did not bother Hideo Yutani that a typhoon was predicted to hit the islands. As far as he was concerned, the real storm, the important storm, was over.

Ngata had contacted him with the good news. The Earthsavers—the organization that had violently attempted to halt the scheduled departure of the Covenant—had been shattered, its so-called “prophet” captured and its center overrun. Once Weyland-Yutani specialists had a chance to run through the organization’s records and files, the rest of its acolytes could be identified and rounded up.

The man deserved a promotion… except that agents like Ngata did not get promoted. There was no level, no company specification, to which they could be promoted. They were simply valued, and moved around as necessary.

One more piece on the chessboard, he told himself as he stared out the window of the tower residence. Employed in service to the company. In this case, in service of getting the colonization mission under way. Yutani himself would not live to confirm the ship’s arrival at Origae-6, of course. That did not matter.

What mattered was that the last obstacle had been removed, and mankind’s destiny could proceed. Knowing that all was well, he called for a drink and settled down to celebrate… alone, as was his wont.

XXVI

“You ever done a shuttle jump before?”

Seated across from the sergeant, Rosenthal licked her lips and tried to appear less nervous than she was as she pressed back into her jump seat as hard as she could.

“Just simulations.”

Lopé nodded thoughtfully. “Simulations. They’re okay.” Peering over at the private, he tried to think of a way to reassure her. “You know there’s no danger. Jumping to orbit is a thousand times safer than crossing the street in any major city.”

“I’m aware of the statistics.” She snugged even further back into her seat. “Stats don’t eliminate the fact that you’re leaving Earth and going out into a vacuum.”

He frowned. “If you’re so uneasy about going out into space, what the hell made you sign up for a colonization mission?”

Looking over at him, she smiled tightly. “There’s only two jumps. Earth to the Covenant and the Covenant to the surface of Origae-6. I figure I can handle that.”

The opportunity to prove she could do so came with the roar of the shuttle’s engines as it lifted off from the Wash spaceport. As Lopé relaxed, closing his eyes, settling back into his seat, listening to music via an aural disc, every muscle in Rosenthal’s body tensed. She didn’t seem to breathe until the engines cut off and the shuttle entered a rendezvous trajectory in free space.

Opening one eye to check her again, Lopé hoped that if she was going to throw up, she would have sense enough to utilize the vacuum port slotted into the seat in front of her. He was pleased to see that she kept control of her guts, if not her emotions.

Shutting off his music with a sigh, he continued their conversation. It was better for her to look at him than the rotating view of the Earth outside her port. Keeping her occupied helped, until the looming bulk of the Covenant drew their attentions away from her disquiet.

Luckily docking went smoothly. Once through the main airlock, and with the ship’s artificial gravity reassuringly underfoot, Rosenthal finally relaxed. While the rest of the shuttle’s passengers disembarked and cargo was unloaded—including the private’s personal effects—they went to meet with Daniels. The captain was otherwise occupied with a never-ending series of pre-departure tasks.

* * *

“Good to see you back, Sergeant.” Daniels shook Lopé’s hand, then turned to take the measure of the security team’s final recruit. “The company has forwarded your particulars, Private Rosenthal. In addition, Lopé added some good things to say about you.”

Her zero-gee distress forgotten, Rosenthal glanced over at her superior.

“Lies. All lies.”

“Well, it’s good to recognize your own shortcomings.” There were grins all around.

Lopé excused himself. “I should see how the rest of the team is doing, let them know I’m back.”

Daniels nodded, then offered Rosenthal a smile. “I’ll show you to your quarters. There’ll be more space than you probably expect, especially for a single crew member. Not that it matters much, since we’ll all spend the majority of the trip in deepsleep. We have some luxuries you’ll appreciate. Dining and exercise area if you want human interaction while we’re awake and carrying out maintenance and recharge duties. Large shower facilities. Every little extra matters when you’re light-years from home.”

“Thanks.” Rosenthal fell into step alongside the ship’s supercargo. “I brought as much as I was allowed.”

Daniels nodded understandingly. “Seemingly insignificant things will mean a great deal more once we’re down and starting to build the colony. That’s what the psych panel says, anyway.” She was silent for a moment as they walked, then added, “Official communication says that everything has settled down on the surface, and that we have nothing more to worry about. You were part of that ‘settling,’ I understand.”

Rosenthal nodded tersely. “There was a group of anti-colonization fanatics. They were dedicated, well-organized, and had resources. They’ve been dealt with and yes, I was part of that. A small part. It wasn’t planned.” She shrugged. “One minute I was applying for the last position on the Covenant security team, and things just happened. Quickly.”

Daniels’ interest was piqued. “Once we’re outbound you’ll have to tell me all about it.”

The private looked uncertain. “Don’t know if I can. Don’t know what’s restricted information, and what’s not.”

Daniels smiled again. “I don’t think anyone will come after you if you let something slip. If you prefer, you can wait until we come out of jump for our first maintenance and recharge stop. We’ll have plenty of time to talk. Nothing really happens during maintenance and recharge stops.”

With each step the two women took down the corridor, conversation grew more relaxed, more familiar. Rosenthal quickly found that she liked Daniels. On a journey covering dozens of light-years, likeability was important, even if most of that time was spent unconscious.

* * *

“It’s always hot in Ouarzazate.” So went the refrain. There was more to the ditty, a lot of it obscene and in multiple languages, but neither shuttle pilot was in the mood for recitation.

At least it was comfortable in the crew and maintenance staging area, where the two pilots relaxed with cold drinks and hot videos. Outside, the temperature frequently topped fifty degrees c. Not uncommon in this northeastern corner of the Sahara, on the backside of the towering Atlas mountains.

North of the Ouarzazate spaceport, millions of solar collectors marched in neat, martial rows, stretching practically to the southern shore of the Mediterranean, providing power to lights, vehicles, public transport, every kind of electronics, and most importantly, air filters used from ancient Italy and Spain all the way to the pollution-choked central portion of the continent. Visible from space, they constituted one of many such installations on the planet. Even so, they weren’t enough to cleanly power a burgeoning population whose hunger for energy was never sated.

It was less than an hour to boarding when the pair of pilots were joined by two colleagues. The new arrivals looked awake and refreshed, as if they had managed to commute all the way from the service dorm to the staging area without once stepping foot out into the climate.

“Patrick Jord,” the newcomer announced as he gestured to his companion. “Ilse Spaarder. We’re your relief.”

Frowning, the nearest pilot roused his slender frame from where he had been lounging on a couch. “Haven’t heard anything about a relief team,” Sanchez peered over at his partner. Kirpathi looked equally dubious.

Jord exchanged a bemused look with his companion, then pulled his comm unit, fiddled with the controls, and held it out. Sanchez studied it, then drew his own device and instructed it to receive. Following the near instantaneous exchange of data he studied the result, looked confused, then turned once more to his associate.

“Kirpathi, can you confirm this?”

There followed another sharing of information between devices while the newcomers waited patiently. Finally, the first pilot eyed the newcomers apologetically.

“Everything looks good,” he said. “I just wish we’d been told earlier. Could’ve stayed in Fez.” Almost as an afterthought he added, “You won’t mind if we check with Central Control?”

The female pilot shrugged. “Go right ahead. Always good to double-check security.”

Nodding, the pilot worked his comm unit. A moment later he muttered something unintelligible and turned to his colleague. “It’s legitimate.”

“Why?” the other man asked. “We’re all set to go. It doesn’t make sense to do a substitution this close to liftoff.”

“Hey,” Jord declared, “if you guys want to disregard the directive, Ilse and I will be happy to stay here. The pool at the dorm is refreshed and—”

“No, no,” Kirpathi said hastily. “You two take her up. I’m sure you’ve seen the manifest. Standard supply run. You been to Station Nine before?”

“Several times.” His counterpart smiled reassuringly. “Ilse’s been up there even more than me. I usually work out of Barlee or Turpan.”

“All right then.” As Kirpathi rose from where he had been resting, the first pilot was already heading for the door. “Only checkout remaining is the final. We’ve run all the prelims. Engines, life support, everything’s good. Straight cargo run, no passengers.”

“We know,” Jord replied. “You guys have a good rest. Get in some nap time for us, and don’t let the camels pee in the pool.”

“We’re outta here.” It was a toss-up as to which pilot would be first to the security door.

Left alone in the service lounge, the two new pilots didn’t linger. Instead of relaxing like their now departed counterparts, they made their way toward the waiting vessel. Passing several electronic checkpoints and one manned security station, they arrived at the parked transport. Just as the pilots they had replaced had told them, it was fully loaded with supplies for Station Nine.

Boarding the shuttle itself, they identified themselves to the craft’s internal AI and settled into their respective seats. They then proceeded to run through the final preflight checklist one item at a time. When they were ready to launch they informed port control. Immediate clearance was given.

All six engines fired simultaneously, and the heavily laden craft lifted off. Within minutes it was higher than nearby snow-capped Mount Toubkal. Moments later it passed through the upper stratosphere. Feathering the ship’s thrust, the two pilots made several adjustments to its preprogrammed trajectory. They worked in silence, without even sharing a glance. They were utterly focused on their mission.

It didn’t include delivering supplies to Station Nine.

XXVII

Daniels was busy in the main cargo hold when the alert came through on her comm unit. It was a secure transmission intended only for active members of the crew. She made a face at it, then spoke to the two men who were standing nearby awaiting her next orders.

“Carry on without me.” She pointed down an aisle between two rows of enormous terraforming machines. “We’re almost done with these anyway. Run a final check of inventory and make sure everything’s secure. I should be back shortly.”

Their assurances followed in her wake as she turned and strode rapidly toward the hold’s exit. The alert had been urgent, calling every key crewmember to the Covenant’s bridge. No reason was given.

Probably a snap drill, she told herself. Mother was always pulling stuff like that, to ensure not only that the crew knew their business, but that they didn’t have a chance to get lazy. Daniels told herself she’d be back working the hold in just a few minutes, finalizing the day’s portion of the manifest. She didn’t stress over the loss of time. The Covenant wasn’t going anywhere until she, Jacob, Oram, and Karine all signed off.

Striding onto the bridge, she was surprised by the expressions on the faces of her crewmates. Standing between Tennessee and Faris—the two seated pilots—her husband was staring at a projection that hovered just above the console in front of him. Uncharacteristically, he hardly glanced in her direction as she made her way to his side.

Maybe this isn’t a drill, she mused. Her thoughts immediately went to the Yutani employee who had tried and failed to sabotage the ship. But enhanced security measures had been instituted in the wake of that abortive attempt, an unauthorized roach couldn’t slip onto the Covenant.

Seeing that Sergeant Lopé was also present caused her pulse to accelerate. In an emergency drill, the ship’s chief of security would have been expected to make his way to the armory, or the drive access shaft, or even the colonists’ deepsleep chamber. Not to the bridge. Something definitely wasn’t right.

She stepped up behind Jacob and put a hand on his shoulder. He barely had time to flash her a hasty smile of recognition before turning his attention back to the projection that hovered in front of him and between the two pilots.

“Hi, hon,” he said. “We’ve got us a problem here. Maybe a serious problem.” His tone was as grim as she had ever heard it.

“No maybe about it, Cap.” Faris spoke without looking up from her instruments. “Not only isn’t it slowing down, it’s continuing to accelerate.”

Daniels stood baffled. “What isn’t slowing down? What’s continuing to accelerate? What the hell is going on?”

“There’s a cargo shuttle on intercept course, darlin’.” Tennessee’s voice was clipped and tight, not his usual relaxed drawl. A big man with a scruffy beard, he wore his signature cowboy hat.

She still didn’t understand. “What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s not scheduled.” Faris indicated a brace of readouts off to her left. “Last regular delivery craft departed an hour ago. Next one isn’t scheduled until 1800 Covenant time.” Daniels glanced at the nearest chronometric readout, and saw that 1800 was still three hours away.

“Special delivery?” she hazarded. “Supplementary cargo?” She knew better, but she had to try. From her position at Communications, Upworth looked back and shook her head.

“We checked with Central. Nothing supposed to be coming our way.”

“And they’re still not firing to slow down.” Tennessee worked controls like a concert pianist, his eyes darting from one readout and projection to the next.

“Worst case scenario?” Captain Jacob asked him.

The pilot ran some hasty computations. “They’ll hull us. Can’t say where yet—they’re still too far off. Explosive decompression wherever they hit. Casualties will depend on who’s at the point of impact. Maybe crew, maybe colonists, maybe both. At least if it’s folks in deepsleep, they’ll never know what happened.” He paused, then added solemnly, “If they impact any part of the main drive, the Covenant isn’t going anywhere for a long, long time. If ever.”

“We tried contacting them.” Ricks was Upworth’s husband and the ship’s other communications officer. He spared a quick glance for the now somber Daniels. “They answered immediately. Said they were bringing ‘extra supplies.’ Had an answer for every question.”

“Maybe they’re telling the truth,” Daniels said.

Faris gave an irritable shake of her head. “Doesn’t explain their velocity. We asked them about that, too. They replied they’d do a faster deceleration.” One finger tapped the console in front of her. “Doesn’t compute. Even if they go full decel right now they’d still shoot past us. Looking more and more like they intend to run directly into us.”

“So… a kamikaze run.” Turning to look behind her, she caught the eye of the quietly watching Lopé. He had come up silently behind her. “I thought you said the company had dealt with this nest of crazies. Rounded all of them up. Unless this is an entirely new and different bunch of crazies.”

He shrugged ever so slightly. “That’s unlikely. Seems like we might’ve missed a few on the first go-round. The ones we took into custody were far too relaxed when they were being taken away. No yelling, no protesting. Now I understand why they were so calm. They’d already set this in motion. Considering that they’ve already killed repeatedly on behalf of their ‘cause,’ it doesn’t surprise me a bit that they’re ready to sacrifice everyone on board the Covenant to stop the mission. They’re that insane.” Shifting his attention to the pilots, he queried Tennessee. “Can you move? Get out of their way?”

A grim-faced Tennessee looked back at him. “This ship isn’t a repair skid. The Covenant is a colony vessel. Even if we had time we couldn’t maneuver out of the way. Their orbit will intersect ours in a matter of minutes, not hours. And we’re not fully loaded or cleared for departure. We can’t activate the main drive—that could squelch the mission as effectively as an impact. Might kill a few colonists in the process. We’re stuck.”

Jacob turned to the chief of security. “What kind of weapons do we have?”

“What you’d expect.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, Lopé remained calm. “Small arms. M90s and the like. Nothing that would work ship-to-ship, and stop an oncoming shuttle. Certainly nothing with enough explosive power or enough mass.” He eyed Daniels. “What about using some of the stuff we’re taking for excavation work?”

It took her only a moment to reply. “Some of it would probably do the trick, but it’s all packed away and security sealed. Not enough time to get it out and get it ready.”

“Dammit, we need something big, and right now. Something big enough to knock them off trajectory, at least.” He looked over at his wife. “Can we throw some heavy machinery out the cargo lock?”

“We could,” Daniels told him after a moment’s thought. “If we can rotate the ship and align it perfectly and find some sort of propellant.”

“Shooting minnows in a river from the top of a skyscraper,” Tennessee rumbled. “Need something larger and more maneuverable.”

Suddenly the answer came to Daniels. “The Covenant is equipped with two landers for scouting and to use in emergency situations. I don’t think anyone in the company would argue that the current circumstances qualify as an emergency.” Even the pilots were looking her way now. “We send one out. On an intercept course.”

Tennessee looked across at his wife. “Could work. Lander’s not as big as a cargo shuttle, but it’s big enough. Especially if all the engines are firing max.”

Faris nodded agreement, then hesitated. “What if we need the lander at Origae-6?”

Daniels had an answer for her. “We probably won’t need either of them. Once the Covenant sets down, it won’t be taking off again. If a situation does arise, we’ll still have the second lander.” She indicated the readout hovering in front of her husband. “If we don’t do something fast to stop that shuttle, we’ll never see Origae-6, and it won’t matter how many landers we have on board.”

“Then—on my responsibility.” Jacob raised his voice. “Mother. Prepare Lander Two for emergency departure.” They did not have to wait long for a response. The voice of the ship’s AI was soothing and assured.

“Lander Two is now ready for emergency departure.”

“Good. Program for intercept of incoming shuttle.”

The voice did not change. “I cannot do that, Captain.”

Tennessee cursed under his breath while Faris and the two younger communications officers fought to remain calm.

“Why not, Mother?” a tense Jacob asked.

“Such an intercept would result in the destruction of equipment intended solely for the use of the colonization project. I cannot comply with your request without formal authorization from the colony control board of Weyland-Yutani.”

“Screw the colony control board of Weyland-Yutani!” Jacob roared. “If that incoming shuttle isn’t intercepted, there won’t be any colony to authorize! Program intercept! Emergency override jc-21.”

Quiet, controlled, damnably inhuman. “I am sorry, Captain. I cannot comply with your request as it will result in destruction of company property intended for the colony project.”

While a near apoplectic Jacob continued to try to reason with the ship’s AI, Daniels leaned close to Faris and whispered. “We haven’t got time to argue semantics with a computer. Can you bypass Mother’s control?”

Faris thought hard. “Not through the mains. Someone would have to go on board the lander and manually disable all connections to the Covenant. Then they’d have to program the lander manually for the proposed intercept. The programming won’t be as precise as if Mother did it, but someone who knew what they were doing could… hey!”

Having abandoned his seat, Tennessee was already heading for the exit. As he looked back, he grinned and blew his wife a kiss. “I’m on it, darlin!”

Shifting his attention to Jacob, he didn’t send a similar gesture of affection the captain’s way. “Meanwhile, tell the queen circuit bitch to keep out of my way!”

“Wait, Tennessee!” Jacob gestured toward the big man, but the pilot had already vanished through the exit. “Damn fool!” he muttered.

“If anybody can pull this off, it’s Tennessee,” his wife insisted. Her voice fell. “Only problem is, if he’s on board the lander and Mother suddenly decides to comply with your order and send it out—”

“Tell her not to,” Daniels instructed her husband sharply. “Tell her to ignore everything except ongoing maintenance of normal ship functions. Tell her to… no, cancel that. Don’t talk to her at all. Ignore her.”

With nothing more to say, they waited. To the great relief of everyone on the bridge, Mother didn’t volunteer any information or suggestions of her own and, sooner than expected, Tennessee’s voice sounded over the speakers.

“I’m in place,” he said. “Shutting down intership linkages. Lander is ready for launch—Mother was right about that.”

Faris leaned in the direction of an omnipickup. “Ten, if you cut all the linkages we won’t be able to hear you. Ten?”

No response.

There was nothing they could do but wait. Wait and monitor the accelerating cargo shuttle. Wait and hope that Mother didn’t abruptly decide that the danger the unscheduled craft presented outweighed any commands to protect company property and somehow sent the now disengaged lander on an intercept course. With Tennessee on board.

Time seemed to move with agonizing slowness, and it had nothing to do with Einsteinian concepts. Murmurs arose as they discussed the situation. Lopé considered alerting the rest of the security team, but saw no point in alarming them unnecessarily. There wasn’t a damn thing they could do to help, and someone might panic. In a panic, people inevitably ended up hurting themselves.

Moving to his right, Jacob eyed one of the numerous readouts that were hovering above the command console. It showed a tiny schematic representing the oncoming cargo shuttle. He could have chosen to find a port and looked outside, but there was no point in that. Once the oncoming shuttlecraft was near enough to see with the naked eye, they would not even have time left to scream.

At regular intervals Faris tried making contact with her husband. The result was always the same—no response. After a while she looked back and over at Daniels.

“Tennessee’s been known to do some stupid things. You don’t… you don’t think he’d be stupid enough to take the lander out on manual control… do you?”

“No.” In her mind, however, Daniels couldn’t escape the image of Tennessee howling with defiance as he personally piloted the lander straight into the rogue cargo shuttle. “No, Tennessee wouldn’t do that. Besides,” she added encouragingly, “you know him. If that was his intention, he wouldn’t hold back from telling us what he was going to do. He’d shout it out.”

“Yeah. Yes, that’s right.” Faris sounded relieved. “The idiot would wear his idiocy like a badge. He’s going to program it. Just program it.”

Daniels smiled and nodded. “I’m sure of it.”

But to herself she thought, I wish he’d find a way to call in.

“He’d better know what he’s doing,” Jacob muttered. “We’ve got one shot at this working. If the programming is off, the engine sequence, anything, and the lander misses the intercept, then we’re screwed.”

When the time came, Faris made the announcement as professionally as she could.

“Lander’s away.”

All eyes turned to the main heads-up projection floating above and to her right. The graphics were straightforward enough. There was the oncoming cargo craft, far off but drawing ever nearer the larger image that represented the Covenant. Moving away from the colony ship and toward the shuttle was an equally small image that could only be the lander.

Still no communication from Tennessee.

Where the hell are you, you big ugly chunk of piloting skill? Daniels thought angrily to herself, followed by a thought that left her feeling guilty. Where the hell are we going to get another pilot on short notice?

“It’s away.” The voice came over the comm, and it was all they could do not to hug one another.

A short time later a familiar large figure came through the door. He was panting hard and sweating profusely, but his face was suffused with excitement. Exhibiting enormous self-control, Faris remained at her station. Daniels doubted she could have done the same thing.

“Done!” He scarcely acknowledged Jacob’s congratulatory slap on the back as he strode past the captain to resume his seat at the command console. “Took some fancy reprogramming, but it should work.”

“If it doesn’t,” Jacob told him quietly, “I’ll find you in the afterlife and beat the crap out of you myself.”

Tennessee shook his head as he worked at his controls. “No such luck, Cap. We’d end up in different places.” He glanced over at his wife. “How’s it lookin’, darlin’?”

Having gratefully accepted that she wasn’t going to settle on Origae-6 as a widow, Faris was intent on the instrumentation before her.

“Close,” she murmured. “It’s going to be very close.”

“Even if the lander just nicks them, it could be enough to throw them off course.” Jacob studied the readouts intently. It would all be over soon—one way or the other. “One advantage to the speed they’re moving. They’re acting like a bullet now—there’s no way they can shift course.”

With nothing more that could be done, they watched in silence. If the Lander failed to intersect the cargo craft’s trajectory, they’d only have seconds in which to react to whatever part of the Covenant it struck. If it hit near the bridge, they wouldn’t even have that. Edging closer to her husband, Daniels slipped an arm around his waist and squeezed tightly. Belying the seriousness of the moment, Jacob offered an affectionate smile in return.

Out in space and entirely too close to the Covenant, there was an intense flash of light. It faded very quickly. Both the oncoming cargo shuttle and the outgoing lander were traveling at speeds sufficient to ensure that each was largely vaporized by their head-on collision. The resultant debris field was sufficiently small and scattered to pose no threat to the orbiting colony ship.

Suddenly they felt the slight shudder of an impact, vibrating up through the ship. Tennessee’s hands danced over the controls as he investigated. One chunk of metal that did escape vaporization proved large enough and fast enough to violate hull integrity in the vicinity of supply hold number eight. Emergency doors in the immediate area slammed shut to seal it off from the rest of the ship. Upon inquiry, Mother avowed that the breach wasn’t significant, and could be repaired in a couple of days.

Leaning back in his seat Tennessee pushed back his ever-present cowboy hat, put his hands behind his head, and exhaled long and deep. Next to him Faris let out a nervous laugh. Similar expressions of relief were expressed by everyone else on the bridge. Only Jacob didn’t relax, raising his voice slightly.

“Stay on alert, Mother,” he said. “Maintain high awareness level until we cross the orbit of Saturn.”

“I will keep watch, Captain,” the AI replied calmly. “Rest assured.”

Working intently at his station, Ricks looked over at the others. “They finally responded to our queries. Right before impact.”

Daniels and the others turned their attention to the Communications officer.

“Were you able to save anything?” Jacob asked him. “What did they say?”

Ricks checked his instrumentation one more time. His expression was one of bafflement. “It’s just nonsense. ‘Oh-tee-bee-dee.’” He eyed his colleagues. “That make sense to anyone?”

Tennessee shook his head. Faris shrugged. As mutual incomprehension passed they returned to their duties, thankful to be alive.

Knowing full well the meaning of the final communication from the suicidal crew of the cargo shuttle, Lopé left to check on his team. He saw no reason to explain the acronym to his shipmates. The ravings of fanatics could be left, should the occasion arise, for another time.

XXVIII

Having suddenly and unexpectedly detected a powerful detonation in space in the immediate orbital vicinity of the colony ship, Weyland-Yutani’s ground support personnel went on high alert. It took both Ricks and Upworth some time to calm the people on the surface, assure them that the ship itself and everyone on board were fine, and explain that Captain Brandon would be filing a detailed report.

The fear and apprehension that had momentarily gripped the crew were replaced by the press of everyday work. To this was added a soupÇon of fresh excitement as they were told that their assigned synthetic would be arriving on the next passenger shuttle.

Informed of the impending arrival, Faris suggested that some sort of welcoming celebration might be in order. With Jacob’s consent, Daniels nixed the notion. The synthetic was simply another piece of equipment—like an automated excavator or a tower for water purification.

* * *

When the Covenant’s newest and most exceptional crewmember arrived, he wasn’t traveling alone. Accompanying him was the head of Weyland-Yutani’s Department of Neurological Engineering, as well as the two executives in charge of the synthetics program. Jacob and Daniels welcomed the group as they emerged from the transfer lock.

While her husband exchanged greetings and pleasantries with the executives, Harbison and Gilead, the department head Steinmetz hung back. The poor man looked, Daniels thought to herself, as if he would rather be anywhere else but where he was. Another dedicated, talented scientist with an unreasonable fear of space, she told herself.

The synthetic stood next to him. Placid and handsome, his appearance exuded more warmth than she had expected. That he would look entirely human was a given. That she would find herself struggling to think of him as something wholly artificial was a surprise.

Perceiving her attention Steinmetz stepped forward, wiping fretfully at the perspiration that beaded his considerable forehead. The synthetic suffered from no such issues. Among their many other attributes, synthetics had no sweat pores.

“I’m Daniels.” She extended her hand toward the department head. He took it with evident relief, glad to have something solid to grip. “Supercargo.” When Steinmetz looked blank she added, “I’m in charge of all ship and colonization supplies.” Her gaze shifted to the synthetic. “That doesn’t include you.”

Though they had been prepared for the synthetic to act exactly like any other human, its response still surprised her.

“My name is Walter, but you probably already know that. I am grateful for the exclusion from classification as ships’ supplies.” It… no, he… smiled. For a faux reaction it was remarkably engaging. “I would dislike having to spend the duration of the journey packed in a box alongside dried seafood and bottles of vitamins.”

“Don’t worry.” Recovering from her surprise, she managed to smile back, and indicated her nearby colleagues. “We’re the ones who’ll be boxed up for the best part of the trip. Dreaming in deepsleep while you operate and care for the ship, working with Mother.”

He nodded. His eyes were very blue, she noted.

“I have already established the necessary connections with the Covenant’s AI,” Walter said. “We mesh well. It speaks highly of our future cooperation.”

“The rest of us will be depending on it.” Seeing that Jacob was fully engaged in chatting with the two executives, and that the uneasy Steinmetz had joined them, she gestured to her left. “If you’re ready, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

“You mean, to my parking space.” Again the perfect smile. “I am of course content to pause personal activity anywhere on the ship, but if it pleases you to refer to them as my ‘quarters,’ then I am happy to accede to your definition.”

“You’re very agreeable,” she offered as they left the passenger reception area.

“How could I be otherwise?” Cocking his head slightly to one side, he studied her face. “You are also very agreeable. Please feel free to ask me any questions you wish. About my functioning, my construction, my thought processes—anything you find of interest.”

“Later. If you want, I can show you around the whole ship.”

“As you say, later. As I have studied the schematics for the Covenant in some detail, an extended tour will not be necessary. But there are always additions. New things to be learned. I am always happy to be instructed. It is also important that I begin to establish a rapport, a personal working relationship, with other members of the crew. I am happy to begin with you.”

“You flatter me.” They turned into an access corridor. For the first time since boarding, he looked slightly uncertain.

“That was not my intention.”

“I’m just making conversation,” she told him. “Don’t pay it any mind.”

He nodded, then added, “Given that the Covenant mission encompasses a range of information too vast for me to be certain of immediately absorbing every detail, I wonder if you could clarify something for me?”

“Sure. What’s on your mind?”

For a moment he seemed hesitant, which was odd. One thing advanced synthetics were not supposed to be was hesitant.

“I have heard, through monitoring of numerous company sources on my own, that there have recently been some… problems. Incidents of some seriousness involving outside entities with an antagonistic interest in the colonization mission.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. He would have been programmed—filled up—with as much information as the company thought necessary for him to function as intended. Yet if she understood what he had said, he was also designed to learn on the fly, the better to carry out his role as a member of the crew. How much could she tell him? How much did he deserve to know? The last thing she wanted to do was commence their relationship with lies or subterfuge.

She decided to tell him the truth. Not censored, but in deliberate amounts, carefully dispensed.

“There were some problems, yes. They involved a group of individuals on the surface who didn’t want to see the Covenant mission go ahead.”

He frowned. It was, she noted, a perfect frown.

“Why,” he finally asked, “would any human not want to see the colonization mission proceed?”

She grunted softly. “Not all humans operate according to logic and reason.”

“So I’ve been told. Since I was activated, I have had numerous occasions on which to make note of this myself. With humans, emotion invariably enters into decision making.” He turned wistful. “I can mimic emotions. Perfectly. Would you like to see me cry? There is a saying among the scientific community. ‘Even an android can cry.’”

“Not now.” They turned another corner. “I’ll take your word for it. Or we’ll wait until an appropriate situation presents itself and you can amaze everyone else with a calculated demonstration of deeply felt empathy.”

He looked over at her. “I am also fully able to recognize sarcasm, when it is employed.”

She threw up her hands. “Okay, I admit it. You’re as human as they can make you. Maybe more human than some of the men I’ve known.”

“Or maybe less,” he commented thoughtfully. “I look forward to experiencing and discovering certain things myself. Much as I look forward to the forthcoming mission.”

“That’s the way to look at it,” she said, finding his enthusiasm refreshing. “My colleagues and I, we won’t be able to experience much of anything except during recharge breaks.” She smiled over at him. “But you’ll be ‘awake’ the entire time, and you can always tell me about anything interesting you’ve seen during the intervals while we’re asleep. I’m depending on it.”

He smiled back. “Don’t worry. I’ll never let you down. No matter what.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in New York City in 1946, Foster was raised in Los Angeles. After receiving a Bachelor’s Degree in Political Science and a Master of Fine Arts in Cinema from UCLA (1968, l969) he spent two years as a copywriter for a small Studio City, CA, advertising firm.

His fiction career began in 1968 when August Derleth bought a long Lovecraftian letter of Foster’s and published it as a short story. Sales of short fiction to other magazines followed. His first attempt at a novel, The Tar-Aiym Krang, was bought by Betty Ballantine and published by Ballantine Books in 1972.

Since then, his published oeuvre includes excursions into hard science fiction, fantasy, horror, detective, western, historical, and contemporary fiction as well as non-fiction. He has produced the novel versions of many films, including Star Wars, the first three Alien films, Alien: Covenant, The Chronicles of Riddick, Star Trek, Terminator: Salvation, The Force Awakens, and the first two Transformers films. His work has been translated into more than fifty languages and has won awards in Spain and Russia.

Besides traveling he enjoys listening to both classical music and heavy metal. Other pastimes include hiking, body surfing, and scuba diving. He holds state and world records in powerlifting. He and his wife reside in Prescott in a house built of brick salvaged from a turn-of-the-century miners’ brothel, along with assorted dogs, cats, fish, several hundred houseplants, and the ensorcelled chair of the nefarious Dr. John Dee.

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ALIEN: COVENANT – ORIGINS

Print edition ISBN: 9781785654763

E-book edition ISBN: 9781785654770

Published by Titan Books

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First edition: September 2017

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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.

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Content

Alan Dean Foster
ALIEN: COVENANT
ORIGINS
The Official Movie Prequel

PROLOGUE

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

XXVII

XXVIII

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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