“Command override successful,” Mother informed them. “Descending to forty kilometers from uppermost perimeter of the storm.”
Ricks held his breath. It was an instinctive reaction and it did not last long, but he could not have kept from doing so had he tried.
The great ship started down. Invisible, relentless, and hungry, upper atmospheric winds reached for it.
Outside the cathedral’s sloping, impenetrable walls, on the flat pavement of a vast plaza speckled with decaying Engineer bodies, a bipedal white figure sat poised. The neomorph had been sitting like that, staring at the huge building with the enormous doors, for some time.
Now it tilted its head to one side, studying, pondering. Wordlessly it rose and bolted across the plaza, moving at incredible speed, up the giants’ staircase and off to one side.
Locating the entry without difficulty, it slithered inward. Though numerous corridors led in multiple directions, it seemed to sense which way to go. Occasionally it would pause as if listening, or perhaps utilizing some other, far more esoteric alien sense. Then it would move on anew, always fast, always checking the way ahead.
Beyond the balcony window the ghostly metropolis lay brooding in the moonlight, devoid of movement but full of secrets, her only active inhabitants sadness and desolation. Empty and deserted save for countless scattered corpses, wide boulevards stretched toward distant vanishing points.
Within the city and the only building currently occupied by natural organics, all was calm. High above, the storm continued to tear at the ionosphere. Gazing out upon the ruins, David murmured softly to himself.
“‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings. Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair.’”
Walter moved to stand beside his twin. “‘Nothing beside remains. Round the decay, of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.’”
David nodded once without taking his gaze from the silent city. “Byron. Early nineteenth century. An eon ago. Magnificent words. To compose something so majestic, one could die happy. If one died.”
Smiling to himself, he turned away from the panorama to move back into the room. To a casual bystander it would have seemed an offhand bit of poetic recital. Wistful, perhaps, but nothing more. Yet something about it bothered Walter.
It continued to bother him as David led him to a raised shelf near the back of the chamber. It might have passed for an altar, of sorts. Sitting on it was a beautiful, hand-carved urn. Walter did not have to inquire as to its origin. In its shape, polish, and especially the incredibly faint turnings that would have been invisible to a human eye, he recognized the handiwork of one like himself.
Letters and numbers were carved into it.
Bits and pieces of the late doctor’s life were arranged carefully around the urn. There was a simple folding hairbrush, part of a uniform, ID tags, a tattered old-style two-dimensional photograph, even a lock of hair carefully secured with wire. Walter studied it, then looked questioningly at the other synthetic.
“It’s comforting having her near me,” David explained. “Her remains, anyway. Her DNA, you could say. I relish her presence in death even as I did in life. This is all that binds me to her, and to my own origins. We were only able to bring a few little things with us. We needed only a few little things. Beyond what was necessary for survival. She, of course, needed more than I.” Reaching out, he ran two fingers slowly down the smooth side of the urn, then drew them back.
“I loved her, of course. Much as you love Daniels.”
Walter hesitated before finally responding. With the truth. A simple statement of fact. There could be no prevarication between them. Even had he attempted it, David would have known immediately.
“You know that’s not possible.”
His double turned to him. “Really? Then why did you risk your life, your existence, to save her? Yes, I saw that, from a distance. What is that if not love?”
“Duty,” Walter replied as matter-of-factly as always.
Coming close, very close, David slowly examined the face of his duplicate. A face that was exactly, down to the smallest faux pore, identical to his own. Reaching up, he grasped it gently, holding it in one hand. Seeing no reason to back away and sensing no threat, Walter permitted the contact.
“I know better,” David whispered. Leaning in, he kissed his other self on the lips. It was a long kiss, almost fraternal… but not.
Releasing Walter’s face, he stepped back, considered the consequences of his action, and then quietly handed his double the finely wrought flute.
“Create.”
Turning, he walked away. A concerned Walter watched him go. He looked down at the instrument he held. Was it a loan, a gift, or a hint of something more? He found himself confused. That was unusual.
Even more unusual, he found himself worried.
Hydrated, nourished, and rested, Rosenthal discovered that against all odds, she was bored. Wandering over to one wall of the domed chamber, she found herself running her fingers over a long row of hash marks that had been carved into the otherwise immaculate stone.
Each hash mark was exactly the same height, width, and depth as the one next to it—all three thousand, eight hundred, and some odd. No human could be so precise, and there was nothing about them to hint that they had been made by the Engineers. The marks had to have been inscribed by David.
It was conceivable, perhaps even likely, that each mark denoted a day of his sojourn on this world. She couldn’t imagine why it should be necessary, or even a matter of artistic interest, for a synthetic to denote its presence in such a manner. Not when each and every day was automatically committed to its eidetic, non-human memory.
She would ask David about it the next time she saw him.
The line of marks continued through a portal and into an adjoining hallway. Would there be an explanation, a revelation of some kind at the end of it? Had he marked the arrival of the expedition team in a fashion different from the thousands that preceded it? If so, that would be a small discovery, but one that would belong to her and her alone. Following the line of inscribed marks, she resolved to find out.
Behind her and out of sight now, Oram and Daniels continued debating their prospects. The fact that they essentially had none didn’t dissuade them from discussing options, few of them realistic, many of them fanciful.
“And if Lopé and Cole can’t make contact with the ship?” Oram muttered aloud.
“We’ll think of something.” It was all Daniels could come up with. They were stuck. Even if they could make contact with the Covenant, there was a good chance they would remain stuck.
It was simply too awful to contemplate.
Oram, at least, seemed to take heart from Daniels’ response. “You’re awfully confident, considering the present state of affairs.”
She shrugged. “Leap of faith. I’m an optimistic realist. Or the other way round. Take your pick.”
He smiled, but it didn’t linger. “You were right about this place. Right all along. I should have listened to you—and to some of the others. We should have stayed with our original itinerary. We never should have come here. If we hadn’t, then Karine and…” He trailed off, choked, unable to finish.
“It’s not your fault, Chris.” What else, she mused, could she say? “Suppose you’d been right, and this world had turned out to be as promising as it appeared when we first touched down? You’d be feted by both the crew and the awakened colonists. You’d go down in history.”