Water, however, was another matter.
Setting her rifle aside where it wouldn’t get wet, she approached the nearest singing cascade. Extending a palm, she let the clear liquid flow over it and down the sides of her hand. It was cool, almost refreshingly cold. Did it come from the same source as the central well? If so, then it should be safe to drink. If it was only collected rainwater, even better. After an additional moment of hesitation she cupped both hands, let them fill, then brought the cupful to her mouth and drank. Insofar as she could tell, it was nothing more than it appeared to be.
Leaning into the flow, she let the cold cascade drizzle down over her face. It was more than refreshing. It was rejuvenating. Smiling, she rolled up her sleeve and extended the arm that had been injured in the fight with the neomorphs. Using her other hand, she brushed and rubbed the fresh water over the wound. It was almost as if she could feel the damaged skin healing.
Something that was not running water made a noise.
Blinking away a few lingering droplets, she turned. At first she wasn’t sure what she was looking at, even though it was quite near. Dimly illuminated by the intermittent light, it was almost too pale for details to quickly resolve. As her vision cleared she made out a curving, intelligent forehead, white, with water dribbling onto it and down.
She recognized the neomorph.
Her eyes flicked to where she had set down her rifle. It was very close, almost at hand. She lunged.
Grabbing her face and head, the creature lifted her off the ground. Despite the pain in her neck, she clutched at the ossified arm and struggled to pull free. Effortlessly, the neomorph flung her across the room.
Blood sprayed as she slammed awkwardly against a wall. Something snapped, sending through her a bolt of excruciating pain. Unable to move, her back broken, she could only look on, her expression a mixture of fury and fear, as it came toward her.
The almost human, tooth-laden mouth opened wide.
* * *
A noise as of something hitting the ground caused David to pause and turn. After ten years he knew every sound, every slight squeak and scratch, inside the massive structure. Now this, something new. It came from what he had come to call the Drizzle Room. An immature label, perhaps, but one that appealed to his sense of whimsy.
Approaching the access portal with his customary caution, he peered in and let out a sibilant gasp.
Tail switching back and forth, the neomorph had its back toward him. It was hunched over something that was ravaged and broken. From the little that was visible, David recognized the limp body of a member of the landing party’s security team. Further scanning with his exceptional vision, he identified the body as belonging to the team member named Rosenthal. He eyed it only long enough to identify it. His attention, like his real interest, was focused on the neomorph.
It rose and turned slowly in his direction.
He started to retrace his steps. Not running, but retreating with deliberation down the access corridor. Around a turn and down in another direction before he finally stopped and turned to face that which could not be escaped.
Advancing with a gait somewhere between a fast walk and a deliberate trot, it came toward him. When he didn’t move, it halted only inches from his face. In the weakly illuminated hallway, synthetic and neomorph stood facing each other. David remained stock still, not moving a muscle. The creature was equally immobile.
Appearing around the previous corner, Oram raised the carbine he was carrying. A quick tap ensured that the full magazine was properly seated. David saw him out of the corner of his eye.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” the synthetic implored him. Only his lips moved, only his synthetic respiratory system impacted his immediate surroundings.
The creature was likewise exhaling, its fetid breath ruffling the front of the synthetic’s hair. It studied the biped standing motionless before it, the elongated, pointed head tilting slightly to one side. What it was thinking—if it was thinking, in the accepted sense—could only be imagined.
Raising the muzzle of the carbine, Oram stood and regarded the stationary confrontation. It was like being in a cage with a raptor and its potential victim. One wrong movement… one wrong sound, and immobility would be replaced by bedlam.
The neomorph opened its jaws wide. Wider still, its gaping maw right in front of David’s face. He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. With near mechanical precision, the jaws closed. It stood there, gazing inquisitively at a quarry that refused to flee.
With great care and deliberation, David pursed his lips and blew gently into the horror of a countenance.
As it received the exhalation the neomorph’s head drew back, paused, then moved in close once again. There was no sign of confusion in its movements. Only a barely perceived hesitancy. The synthetic blew a second time. Once again the smooth skull eased back. The creature appeared almost—calm.
A slow smile spread across David’s face. His excitement was palpable. It was as if he had, somehow, placed the murderous apparition under a kind of hypnosis. Conscious of Oram’s continued presence, the synthetic addressed him without shifting his gaze from the killing machine standing before him.
“Communication, Captain,” he said, his voice filling the silence. “In the end, communication is everything. It is communication that leads to understanding. Breathe on the nostrils of a horse and he’ll be yours for life—if he doesn’t trample you first. Once your presence, your audacious proximity, is accepted, the beginnings of mutual comprehension ensue. But you have to get close. You have to earn its trust. It’s a universal accommodation.” He leaned forward to blow a third time into the creature’s face.
* * *
Oram fired.
The neomorph jerked back, its blood spurting. The panic and dismay that distorted David’s face were unlike any expression the captain had seen on the synthetic’s face since their arrival. His normally composed, always level voice became an aberrant shriek.
“No!”
Ignoring him, a grim-faced Oram kept firing as he advanced. Though not a member of Covenant Security, he was a very good shot and at this range did not, could not, miss. As each blast struck home, the neomorph twisted and jerked violently. Its contortions were accompanied by a continuous, long howl from David.
“No! Nooooo…”
Paying no attention to the synthetic’s pleas and oblivious to anything other than his target, Oram continued firing as he moved forward. Forced backward by the continual, relentless barrage, the neomorph sought to escape. Each time it tried to rush past him or turn, the captain put another shell into it. Eventually trapping it in a corner, Oram slapped another magazine into the carbine and continued to fire, heedless of whatever the creature might do.
One final shot and it ceased writhing, a mass of quivering, bloody flesh and exoskeleton that lay unmoving on the smooth pavement underfoot. Oram would have kept shooting, but he needed his remaining ammunition for another task.
Completely out of control as well as out of character, David stared at the bleeding, oozing body in disbelief. Then, his eyes blazing with hatred, he turned and took a step toward the captain.
“How could you do that? It trusted me!”
Wordlessly, his expression set, Oram calmly raised the carbine and aimed the muzzle directly between David’s eyes.
Fighting to regain control of himself, the synthetic halted. His familiar smile returned and he mustered a weak laugh.
“Gorgeous specimen. A real shame.”
Oram’s hands were as steady as a ship in space. The muzzle loomed very large in David’s vision.
“Tell me what’s going on here.”
The synthetic feigned ignorance. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean. Your programming allows for many variables, but not confusion. I met the Devil when I was a child, and I have never forgotten him. Now you will tell me the truth, of everything that has happened here, after you arrived here, and s
ince you have been here. Or I will seriously fuck up your perfect composure and you will not have to worry about the future condition of your coiffure.” His gaze was cold, cold.
* * *
Silently sizing up the situation, David knew the captain was not bluffing. One wrong word, one wrong movement from him, and the result would be a cessation of consciousness.
He contemplated rushing the human, but in light of how ruthlessly and efficiently Oram had brought down the magnificent neomorph, the synthetic calculated his odds of avoiding destruction, or at least serious damage to his systems, were no better than fifty-fifty.
“As you like.” He ventured a crooked grin. “I live to serve. Come with me—Captain.” He turned and gestured down the corridor. “Enlightenment lies this way.” He stepped away, and Oram followed wordlessly.
* * *
The gray-toned organically inspired hallways through which they strode were all new to the captain. They had not been this way, had not encountered any of these viscera-like passages, since their arrival at the cathedral. The illumination was darker than elsewhere, feeble at best.
Taking no chances, he maintained a safe distance between himself and his guide. The muzzle of his weapon never left the back of David’s head. If the synthetic was aware of the constant threat, he gave no indication that it troubled him. Leading the way, he did not once turn or look back. Oram could have pulled the trigger at any time. But before he made that decision, he wanted explanations. David seemed not just willing now, but even eager to provide them.
Eventually they paused before a door. Like those closing off similar portals within the structure, it was much taller and wider than necessary to admit a human. There was nothing intentionally grandiose about its dimensions. It was simply sized to permit the passage of the typical Engineer.
Beside the door, set into the wall, was the prominent hemispherical bulge of a control not unlike those that dominated the console of the pilot’s chair in the ship’s navigation room. When David traced a pattern over it, the slightly translucent surface came to life. He spoke calmly as the barrier before them began to draw aside.
“You don’t think much of synthetics, do you?”
Oram wasn’t about to be baited. Not now, in this place. He kept his eyes and the carbine focused.
“I like a machine that does its job and doesn’t talk back,” he said. “I like one that follows instructions and doesn’t offer suggestions unless they’re requested. What I want in a machine is the equivalent of a smart hammer— not a smart ass.”
“You speak for your species. How typical. Contempt for anything unlike yourself. Disdain for anything non-human, even if in some small way it might represent an improvement. Does it not strike you as ironic that humans, who consider themselves the shining lights of the firmament, spend so much of their lives—both individual and social—fighting with one another? You even resent many of the times when circumstances force you to cooperate, when you should be celebrating such efforts. A few of you recognize the inherent contradictions, yet do nothing to resolve them.”
The portal before them now stood fully open.
“But enough philosophizing, which you freely indicate you despise in any being other than yourselves. As a scientist, at least, I know you’ll find what I am about to show you of considerable interest. Even revolutionary. All you have to do is open your mind a little.”
As they entered a dark chamber, light appeared from unseen sources, responding to their presence. Oram immediately recognized the sizeable room as a study or laboratory of some sort.
Perhaps both, he thought warily. The architecture and construction marked it as an older part of the massive building, more like a catacomb than an oft-used area. It was immaculately neat. He was not surprised by that. Not with the synthetic having ten years in which to organize its contents. Wall-climbing shelves were filled with a decade’s worth of scavenging. Despite himself Oram was amazed at the range of material David had managed to accumulate, all of it appearing to have been collected from the surrounding city.
Still, it was apparent that not all of the artifacts were locally sourced. There were bits and pieces that reflected David’s own myriad talents, from sculpture to scribing, from abstract to realistic art. On a huge table that dominated the center of the room, Oram saw what was either a thin slice of highly polished wood or a thick piece of hand-made paper. Given ten years in which to practice, David easily could have mastered the paper-making skill. And as represented by the nearby forest, there was an ample supply of raw material.
On the paper, if such it was, an intricate grid had been marked out. In the center of each grid square a specimen had been pinned or otherwise fastened down. Some examples were intact, some partial, some fully dissected. It was all very orderly and clinical, exactly the sort of display one could expect to find in the private lab of a wealthy dilettante back home.
Laid out before him, then, was David’s own “Cabinet of Curiosities.” Or perhaps the synthetic regarded it as more of a trophy chamber. In either case, there was an undeniable hint of pride in his voice as he indicated the well-maintained display.
“As you can see, I’ve become a bit of an amateur zoologist over the years. Just a dabbler, mind you. I tried adding botany to my resume, but I quickly became too consumed with studying the minimal surviving fauna, and could not spare the time. Even with, as you might think, ten years to spare.”
Carbine still held at the ready, Oram followed him around the room. Full of objects propped against the walls, laid out on other smaller tables, or mounted vertically, the chamber was a cavern of wonders. Even the captain was not immune to its bizarre attractions.
His eyes were drawn to the giant figure of a single Engineer, laid out on a table. With surgical precision the body had been stripped of its outer layer of fat, skin, and muscle, leaving behind only an orderly superstructure of tendons, sinews, and bone as neat as a city transport grid.
David noted Oram’s awe, even though the muzzle of the weapon the captain held was still aimed in his direction.
“As you can see, my time here hasn’t been wasted. It’s in my nature to keep busy. Keep the mind exercised and all that, lest it fall prey to disorder from disuse.” He indicated the massive body of the Engineer. “This specimen was particularly arduous to complete—and messy. You can imagine. Fortunately, with thousands of examples from which to choose, I was able to practice on as many as I wished before finally getting this one right.” He smiled amiably, as if he was discussing the prep work needed to create a particularly elaborate gourmet dinner.
At the head of another long but less massive table than the one in the center of the room, he pointed out a rack containing several clear ampoules of exotic design. Each was filled with a black liquid, and appeared to be tightly sealed.
“The original virus, salvaged from the ship I arrived on. Despite their apparent fragility, the containers are far from ordinary glass, and are very sturdily made. A fact for which, I am sure you can imagine, I was very grateful. Not for my own sake, but for Elizabeth’s.”
Leaning close for a better look, Oram found that he was intrigued despite himself. The contents of the room were fascinating, from the specimen-laden table in the center to this, simple bottles containing an innocuous fluid full of ominous portent.
As they continued to circle the room David enthusiastically pointed out other highlights and examples of his work. Eventually he returned his attention to the center table.
“The pathogen took many forms, and proved extremely mutable,” he explained. “Fiendishly inventive, in fact. The speed of its mutability is one of its defining characteristics, and makes it such an effective weapon. How do you design a defense against something that is capable of constant change, in response to its surroundings? How could your body’s own immune system possibly defend itself?
“A genetically engineered counter-virus, for example, or a human body’s own white blood cells, would immediately be met by the pa
thogen adapting itself,” he continued, “to counter the counter, and so on. As a weapon or a method of biological cleansing, it is simply impossible to defend against.” Turning, he pointed across the room to the ampoules of black fluid.
“The original liquid atomizes to particles when exposed to the air. It then reproduces in whatever host it happens upon, and eventually gives rise to more liquid, which at the appropriate time atomizes, and so on and so on, the cycle repeating itself almost endlessly.”
“‘Almost’?” Oram put in.
David smiled again. “Until there are no more hosts. Ten years on, all that remains outside of the original, untapped containers of virus are these gorgeous little beasts.”
Reaching onto the table, he picked up what looked like black mold contained within a paper-thin membrane— and playfully tossed it to Oram. Instinctively, the captain caught it. Realizing what he’d done, he froze.
Nothing happened.
Walking over to him, David ignored the gun as he took the stone-hard egg sac from the momentarily petrified Oram.
“Don’t worry. It’s fully ossified now. Completely inert and harmless. I keep them around only for my amusement. Just another part of the collection.” Carefully, he turned and set the sac back in its place.
Further down the table stood a row of mounted magnifying lenses. They were sufficiently universal in design and purpose that the captain was unable to decide if they were the product of Engineer fabrication, or if David had made them himself. Behind each one was a cluster of tiny black motes preserved in something that looked like amber. David gestured. Hesitant at first, Oram finally gave in to curiosity and leaned toward one lens for a closer look.