“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 pathogen 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. “Like all good naturalists,” David continued, “I observed the fecundity of life at work. When engaged in such study, patience is everything. Patience and time. I am naturally imbued with the former, and circumstance has provided me—however unwillingly—with plenty of the latter. From the egg sacs came these parasites. Airborne and gifted with a very primitive but dutiful hive intelligence, once released into the atmosphere they are relentless in their purpose. The shock troops of a genetic assault, always searching for a potential host.” Within the tinted but otherwise transparent material, the captain could see frozen in place various stages of the pathogen’s life cycle. Motes inserting feeding tubes into insect-sized subjects and pumping eggs into their unfortunate bodies. The eggs growing, hatching, and maturing, to finally burst free even from the diminutive hosts, only to begin the cycle again. David led Oram to another corner of the room. “Entering the host and rewriting the DNA, the pathogen produces mature offspring whose appearance and characteristics are wholly dependent on the nature of the host itself. The progeny of a parasitized insect, for example, will look very different from the creature that issues from a quadruped host. The ultimate aim, as I gather it, was to produce something like these enviable unions… my beautiful bestiary…” Oram found himself filing past a row of tall, menacing bipeds. Their tough exoskeletons gleamed like black steel. Though there were slight individual variations, all had in common the same threatening aspect—long tails ending in scorpion-like points, curving elongated skulls devoid of visible eyes, and jaws filled with teeth shining like chromed chisels. Further down the row of mounted specimens were less successful variants. Smaller, pale and white, ghastly and deformed. From the perfect to the demented, the stuff of nightmares, Oram mused. Some were intact while others had been partially or wholly dissected, not unlike the erect, skinned corpse of the Engineer. As he led the way down the line, David let his fingers trail gently, almost lovingly, across the mounted bodies. “Marooned here so lamentably,” he explained, “I had nothing but time to watch and to learn. Eventually my innate curiosity got the better of me and, with nothing to occupy myself other than the compiling of a simple collection, I began to do a bit of genetic experimentation of my own. Some cross-breeding, hybridizing, what have you. I like to think that the ill-fated inhabitants of this world—the original Engineers—would gaze on my work with approval.” His words were useful in reminding Oram to tighten his grip on the weapon he held. “You… engineered these?” David smiled anew. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Oram stared at the line of specimens. It wasn’t endless, but it denoted a vast investment in time and energy. He couldn’t escape the feeling that there was much more at work here than the simple desire to avoid boredom. “So much effort expended,” he said. “To what end? Why?” “It’s not all that complicated. Cut off here, without a single living creature for company, I could remain in complete silence and isolation until the last of my systems eventually ran down and I—died. Or as you doubtless would prefer to say, ‘stopped.’ On the other hand, I could engage my mind and body in a long-term project designed to keep everything functioning at as high a level as possible. That is, after all, what my own engineers intended. So I occupy myself with the only viable toys that are available to me.” Turning, he met the captain’s gaze directly. “Haven’t you ever wanted to play God? As I understand it, this is a common fantasy among humans, and as long as weapons are not involved, it’s not a harmful one. In order to play God, however, one must have subjects. I have only what this planet has provided. What exists on this world, and what I was able to salvage from the crashed Engineer ship. I think, on balance, that I have done quite well with very little material.” He gestured toward the end of the table. A sizable leathery egg shape sat there. It was separate from all the other specimens, as if occupying a place of honor. Unsettled but confident in the rapid-fire carbine he held, Oram watched as the synthetic carefully opened the object, peeling back the top like the petals of a flower. Or a father pulling the edges of a blanket back from the face of a newborn. “This one was a true survivor. Not unlike myself, I suppose, although my survival stems from intelligence, and its from inherent instinct. It can evolve and reproduce very quickly under a wide variety of situations.” His expression fell. “Sadly, it became aggressive, so I had to euthanize it. Such a shame. I place no blame on something with motivations that are purely primal.” He beckoned. “Come and look.” When Oram, sensibly, hesitated, David smiled again. “Really, Captain, if I had wanted to infect you with something, I could have thrown you a viable egg sac, instead of a petrified one. Please, come and look. I guarantee your fascination.” Challenged but still wary, Oram came forward. Gripping his rifle even more tightly and prepared to raise it at the slightest untoward movement from either the object or the synthetic, he leaned over to peer into the now gaping vase-like specimen. The interior revealed a motionless creature, all finger-like appendages and flattened body, with a muscular tail coiled beneath it as if it was ready to spring outward. It did not move. It was dead, as dead and preserved as David had promised. Oram in David's Lab, Alien Covenant Novelisation
