Alan Foster - Alien - Covenant

It wasn’t dreaming. It did not have the capability. The omission wasn’t intentional, not deliberate. This was simply a known consequence of its creation. Where it was concerned, the intention was that there should be no surprises.

In the absence of an unconscious consciousness there could be no abstract conceptualization. The speculative information dump necessary to allow for dreaming was absent. Yet—there was something. Difficult to define. Ultimately, only it could define its own state of non-being. Only it could understand what it did not know, did not see, did not feel.

In the absence of dreaming there was also no pain. There was no joy. There were no hypofractionated percentages of either. There was only the ongoing state of not quite nothingness. Of almost being.

Then, a sensation. Leading to a thought. Analysis: possible visual perception . A requirement for auxiliary neural stimulation. Neurons were fired. Electrical impulses traveled. There was a small but unarguable neuromuscular response.

Eyes opened.

It could not see its face. Had it been able to do so, it knew, and activate additional cognitive facilities, it would have taken note of a human visage. Smooth, almost glistening with newness. Fresh, unmarred, unlined by too much age or not enough thought. Angular and handsome. Blue eyes, unblinking. New. This particular face would not reflect the mind that lay behind it. Both face and mind had been designed, programmed, but only one was capable of change.

Aural reception. Detection of external sounds. More neural pathways coming alive in response. It heard a voice, forming words. Comprehension was easy. Easier even than awakening.

“How do you feel?”

Slowly . It must move slowly. Awareness was vital. It was important that the impatient body remain subordinate to the accelerating mind. Execute a preliminary test, then, preferably one involving multiple systems operating in tandem.

Slowly, methodically, eyelids opened and closed. The query required a verbal response. Move air, lips, tongue.

“Alive.” Its voice was calm, even. Normal. Somehow, a bit of a surprise to it. Not to its questioner. “Blink. Feel… blink.”

“Very good,” the voice said. “What else?”

“Life. Blink.” For confirmation, it… he… programming now confirmed he-ness… It-he blinked again. Same neural pathways, slightly better speed, same result. Good . Successful repetition confirmed functionality.

Nearby, a man smiled. There was satisfaction in his expression, but no warmth. His head cocked slightly to one side as he studied the figure before him.

“What do you see?” When there was no reply he added encouragingly—or perhaps commandingly, “Speak.”

It-he slowly scanned the surrounding room, analyzing, identifying. A rush of information from external sources: sight and sound. Nothing overwhelming. Effortlessly assimilated. An unexpected additional benefit accrued, the kind of satisfaction that comes from doing something well. Knowledge perceived as a cascade.

The chamber was spacious. From a floor fashioned of milk glass and quartz, a plethora of furniture old and new rose like rare flowers in a carefully landscaped garden. The design was exquisite, the taste impeccable. Fine art adorned the walls, and the walls themselves were art by virtue of the materials used to raise them. The lighting varied from space to space, as required.

It-he continued to scan as It-he identified. Identification was declared verbally, since it had been requested.

“White… room… Chair. Throne chair. Carlo Bugatti throne chair. Principal component walnut and blackened wood. Pewter, copper, brass. Some restoration.” Oculars roved, feeding information to the brain. “Piano. Steinway concert grand. Suitable for all extremes of composition, Pergolesi to Penderecki to Pang-lin. Alliteration intentional.

“Spider web in corner,” It-he continued. “ Pholcus phalangioides , synanthropic cellar spider. Familiarly known as the ‘Daddy Long Legs.’ Harmless. Also harmless: piano-spider-music connection: Fred Astaire, dancer, cinema film Daddy Long Legs , 1955.” Eyes moving, moving, drinking it all in. Identifying and appraising.

“Art. The Nativity by Piero della Francesca. Italian, 1416 to 1492…” His gaze encountered Weyland. The voice halted.

“I am your father,” Weyland said into the silence.

Weyland, Sir Peter. Born October 1, 1990. Knighted 2016 . It-he considered carefully before replying.

“Human.”

“I am your father,” Weyland repeated. Was there a hint of irritation in the voice, or merely impatience? It-he did not choose to further contest the point. There was nothing to be gained in doing so. In the absence of any further questioning, it stayed silent.

“Blink,” Weyland instructed.

It-he did so. It no longer required analysis prior to compliance—just response. The simple neuromuscular reaction required little effort. Weyland took a slight breath, being careful to form the next word with precision.

“Ambulate.”

It-he rose from where it had been not-standing and walked. In the absence of instruction it proved readily capable of choosing its own path. This led it to progressively examine a number of the objects in the room. It did so in silence, offering no spontaneous communication.

“Perfect,” Weyland said.

It-he paused, redirecting its attention from the inanimate to the animate.

“Am I?”

“Perfect?” Weyland appeared mildly surprised to receive an interrogative at this stage of cognitive development. Surprised, but pleased. It implied much more than just the capability of conversation. It was to be expected, but perhaps not so soon.

“No,” It-he corrected him. “Am I your son. Certain aspects of perception do not readily correlate or give rise to such a conclusion.”

Weyland answered readily, as if prepared for such a line of questioning.

“You are my creation.”

Analysis: “That is not necessarily the same thing.”

“Semantics,” Weyland persisted. “I identify you. That is enough. It is sufficient for your purposes.”

No discussion this time. Instead, “What is my name?”

At that Weyland looked perplexed. He had not, after all, prepared for quite everything. A moment, then, for improvisation—in its own way, perhaps, as important to success as preparation.

“You tell me,” he replied. “Pick your name. Your first act of self-determination.”

It-he surveyed the room. There was much inspiration to be found in its fittings. Its thoughts wove new pathways. The choice should not be too complex or too awkward. It should be meaningful but easily spoken, easily remembered. Nothing emotionally intrusive.

Optical perceptors stopped and identified Michelangelo’s statue of David, fashioned from Carrara marble. It-he could see the slight rises and indentations made by the cold chisel. A copy, perhaps, but one infused with real creativity. Not necessarily a contradiction. He walked over to it.