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Alien III (William Gibson)/Transcript

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The following is a transcript of William Gibson's first draft script for "Alien III".

TranscriptEdit

"A L I E N I I I"






                                   by




                             William Gibson






                     Revised first draft screenplay




               from a story by David Giler and Walter Hill






______________________________________________________________________________




FADE IN:




DEEP SPACE - THE FUTURE




The silent field of stars -- eclipsed by the dark bulk of an approaching


ship. CLOSER.




ANGLE ON THE HULL




A towering cliff of metal, Sulaco.




INT. SULACO -- HYPERSLEEP VAULT




TRACKING down the line of empty, open capsules. Frozen twilight. The final


four capsules are sealed, lids in place.




ANGLE -- INSIDE CAPSULE




NEWT, then RIPLEY. HICKS next, his head and chest bandaged. Then BISHOP in


his caul of plastic. But the lid of Bishop's capsule is misted with hothouse


condensation.




CLOSER




A tear of fluid streaks the condensation.




An alarm SOUNDS.




A monitor begins to scroll data.




TIGHT ON MONITOR




               TROOP TRANSPORT SULACO


               CMC 846A/BETA


               MISSION/LV-426/RETURN


               STATUS RED


               TREATY VIOLATION


               REF:  #99AG558L5


               CAUSE:  NAVIGATIONAL ERROR




Bland feminine voice of the ship's computer, as the alarm continues to SOUND.




                               COMPUTER


               Attention.  Due to failure of navigational


               circuitry, Sulaco has entered a sector claimed


               by the Union of Progressive Peoples.  Auxiliary


               systems are now on line.  Course corrected.


               Hardwired protocols prevent, repeat, prevent


               arming of nuclear warheads in the absence of


               Diplomatic Override, Decryption Standard Charlie


               Nine.  On present course, Sulaco will exit the


               U.P.P. sector at nineteen hundred hours fifty


               three point eight minutes.




EXT. SULACO




The ship slides past beneath us. A U.P.P. interceptor descends INTO FRAME,


matching course and speed with Sulaco. The interceptor settles on Sulaco


like a wasp.




INT. INTERCEPTOR




Three commandos climb into spacesuits. The Leader opens a hatch in the deck,


revealing one of Sulaco's airlocks. FIRST COMMANDO, a young Vietnamese woman,


scrambles down and attaches magnetic units to the airlock. SECOND COMMANDO


studies a monitor, tapping out a sequence on a keyboard. First Commando


gestures from hatch: no good. Second Commando tries again. A grating SOUND


as Sulaco's airlock begins to open.




INT. SULACO -- CARGO LOCK




Darkness. Armed commandos climb through opening and descend a ladder.


Reaching the deck, they fan out, weapons ready. Their leader examines the


damaged dropship. First Commando gestures urgently. She's found something.




Bishop's legs, broken, grotesquely twisted, still in fatigues, the white


android blood clotted into powder. First and Second Commandos exchange looks


through their faceplates.




                               COMPUTER


               Attention.  Integrity breach, Cargo Lock 3.


               Security alert.  Integrity breach, B Deck...




INT. HYPERSLEEP VAULT -- LEADER'S POV




The chilly aisle of capsules.




Commandos move down the line, guns poised. They peer in at Newt, Ripley, and


Hicks, but the lid of Bishop's capsule is pearl-white. The Leader tries the


controls at the foot of the capsule, where green and red indicators glow.


Nothing happens. He opens a panel, finds an emergency lever, tries it. The


green indicators wink off. The lid rises. A dense pale mist flows out,


spilling over the edges of the capsule, revealing the ovoid of a gray Alien


egg. Rooted in the center of Bishop's synthetic entrails, the egg instantly


ejaculates a Face-hugger, which strikes the leader's faceplate in a spray of


acid. He screams, blinded by the acid, grappling with the thing as it begins


to force its way into his helmet, its tail lashing furiously. Clawing at it,


he plunges blindly back down the aisle, stumbling, smashing into the empty


capsules. He vanishes through the entranceway, his screams giving way to


frenzied gagging SOUNDS.




The First Commando scrambles after him.




INT. CARGO LOCK




The Leader writhes on the deck beside the main cargo lock. First Commando


rushes in, crouches beside him, takes careful two-handed aim with her


sidearm -- she FIRES, attempting to kill the face-hugger without hitting the


Leader. The face-hugger EXPLODES in a gout of acid; ragged holes burn through


the side of his helmet. First Commando frantically works the lock controls.


As the inner lock opens, she shoves the leader over the edge with her foot.




EXT. SULACO




Helmetless, headless, trailing a cloud of blood and acid, the Leader tumbles


through space.




INT. CARGO LOCK




Eyes of the First Commando through her faceplate. Beat. Something moves,


behind her. She spins, bringing up her gun. Backlit in the entrance to the


vault, a black, multi-armed figure. The beam from her lamp finds it -- the


Second Commando, with Bishop in his arms.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




IN DEEP SPACE -- VARIOUS ANGLES




A station the size of a small moon, and growing; unfinished sections of hull


are open to vacuum. A vast, irregular structure, the result of the shifting


goals of successive administrations.




MOVE IN on hundreds of windows -- most of them dark. A light comes on in one


of the windows.




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- TULLY'S SLEEPING CUBICLE




A phone is RINGING. The cubicle, terminally sloppy, resembles the nest of a


high-tech hamster, not much larger than a berth of a train. The walls are


plastered with a wistful collage of posters, ads, photos torn from magazines:


beaches, desert, the Grand Canyon, redwoods, blue sky -- a hedge against


claustrophobia and the emptiness of space.




TULLY, sitting up in bed, knuckling sleep from his eyes, wincing at the light;


he slaps the phone console and the glum face of OPERATIONS OFFICER JACKSON


(female) appears. She wears a nylon baseball cap with a computer light-pen


attached to the bill.




                               JACKSON


               'Morning, Tully.




                               TULLY


               Morning?  Jesus, Jackson, it's the middle of my


               downtime...




CLOSE ON THE CONSOLE SCREEN




ANGLE




The room behind Jackson is Achorpoint's nerve-center, the Ops Room.




                               JACKSON


               None of us up here in the Ops Room have seen


               downtime for a while, Tully.  A Marine transport


               came in on automatic sixteen hours ago.




She bobs her head as she speaks, using the pen on her cap to move a cursor on


a screen in front of her.




                               JACKSON


                       (continuing)


               The Sulaco.  Departed gateway four years ago


               with a compliment of fifteen.  A dozen marines,


               an android, a company representative, and the


               former warrant officer of a merchant vessel...




                               TULLY


               So?




                               JACKSON


               So, the bio-readout gives us the warrant officer,


               one -- count him -- marine, and a nine-year-old


               girl.  Makes you wonder what happened out there,


               doesn't it?




                               TULLY


               So ask 'em.  Wake 'em up and ask 'em.  Them, not


               me.




                               JACKSON


               But that's the good news, Tully.  Three hours


               before Sulaco turned up, we docked a priority


               shuttle out of Gateway.  Two passengers. Milisci,


               Tully. Weapons Division.




                               TULLY


               That the bad news?




                               JACKSON


               They want the ship pulled in, with full biohazard


               precautions, by oh-eight-hundred hours.  BioLab


               techs are priority for the deck squad.  That's


               you Tully.




The phone screen goes blank.




                               TULLY


                       (heartfelt)


               Shit.




He begins to fumble through his sleeping bag, looking for his clothes --


disturbing SPENCE, a young technician, who sits up groggily, hugging the bag


to her breasts.




                               SPENCE


               What?  What is it?




                               TULLY


               It's called the military-industrial complex;


               it's called my ass out of bed; it's called


               jerking me around... Any way you wanna call


               it, it's the same bullshit...




INT. CORRIDOR




Tully, groggy and irritated, emerges from his cubicle, wearing a battered


leather flight jacket, its sleeves plastered with embroidered logo-patches


for various products. His photo, name, job description, and number are


slotted on the door in a transparent envelope -- TULLY, CHARLES A. TECH-5,


TISSUE CULTURE LAB.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- DRY DOCK




A plain of gray steel, the size of several carrier decks, walls lost in dark


and distance. Service vehicles lumber past in the b.g. Massive floods on


towers of raw scaffolding backlight twenty waiting figures, the Deck Squad.


Their spacesuits are white, clinical; over these they wear disposable


Biohazard Envelopes of filmy translucent plastic. Some are Colonial Marines,


armed with pulse-rifles or flame-throwers. Others are scientists and


technicians, carrying recording and sampling gear. Their voice, over helmet-


radio are furred with STATIC. Something CLANGS and BOOMS overhead, metal


thunder.




                               OFFICER (V.O.)


               Deck Squad brace for pressure drop.  She's in


               the cradle.  She's coming in.




A sudden WIND rushes across the deck, then dies. RUMBLE overhead as a


monstrous hanger door rolls slowly open, revealing the naked stars. The dark


hull of Sulaco blots out the stars as it descends.




                               OFFICER (V.O.)


                       (continuing)


               Entry team to secondary cargo lock.




A cherry-picker vehicle, with extended boom, WHINES up to Sulaco.




The lock SIGHS open on darkness.




BUZZ of static, indistinct RADIO exchanges, as a half-dozen lights play over


the drop-ship, the walls of the lock. Tully enters, stares around, eyes wide


through his faceplate. Beside his is a MARINE with a pulse-rifle -- obviously


psyched for combat.




                               TULLY


               Lights, how come they got no lights?




                               MARINE


               Hey, man...




He shines his light on a blackened scar on the bulkhead.




                               MARINE


                       (continuing)


               Lookit that.  Been some action in here...




                               TULLY


               Action?




                               MARINE


               Man, what the fuck you supposed to be doing here?




                               TULLY


               Forging a new home for mankind in the depths of


               space.




The Marine isn't amused. Tully raises an instrument; it makes a SUCKING


noise.




                               TULLY


                       (continuing)


               Collecting atmosphere samples.




                               MARINE


               So just do it, right.




He move away.




                               TULLY


               Sure.




But he doesn't want to be alone; hustles after the Marine.




                               OFFICER (V.O.)


               Technician Tully to the hypersleep vault,


               atmosphere sample...




                               MARINE


               Sounds like you.




                               TULLY


               Yeah.




                               MARINE


               Let's not keep the man waiting.




INT. ENTERANCE TO HYPERSLEEP VAULT




The Marine OFFICER holds up a tracker -- one of the small motion-sensors


familiar from the previous film. Beside him are TWO MORE MARINES. The


Officer raises the tracker and scans the face of the door.




EXTREME CLOSEUP




of tracker screen: zero.




ANGLE




                               OFFICER


               One sample, here.




SOUND of Tully's device sucking air.




                               OFFICER


                       (continuing)


               Get another on the way in.  Have they patched


               line in yet?




                               SECOND MARINE


               Yessir.  Lights on in there.




The Officer presses a button.




The door slides open. Bright, white. The aisle. Empty. The row of


capsules. Tully's Marine is first through the door, gun ready, slow, careful.


Tully steps in after him, raises his instrument, takes a sample.




INT. HYPERSLEEP VAULT




The other two Marines move past Tully. Soft SCUFF of their boots on the deck.


Tully doesn't know quite what to do. Lowers his sampler, hesitates. The


first Marine reaches Newt's capsule. He lowers his rifle.




                               MARINE


                       (something startled,


                        almost gentle in his


                        voice)


               They're here...




Eight inches of razor-sharp serrated tail plunges out through the back of his


suit as he's lifted off his feet by something we can't see. Ugly RIPPING


noise as the ALIEN withdraws its stinger -- blood tidily contained by the


translucent membrane of the biohazard envelope.




The stinger of a second Alien whips around the neck of one of the other two


Marines; the Alien is clinging to the ceiling. He screams. Tully's Marine


sags against the foot of Ripley's capsule, his arm across the controls -- the


green indicator lights go out -- as the first Alien lunges up INTO VIEW.




CLOSE




On the jaws.




ANGLE ON RIPLEY




Her eyes snap open.




RIPLEY'S POV




As the beast mounts her coffin, terminal nightmare.




ANGLE




                               RIPLEY


               No-ooooooooooooooooooooo!




Her hands claw frantically at the smooth curve of the plastic canopy.




The remaining Marine, crazy with adrenaline and terror, unleashes his flame


thrower. The first Alien and Ripley's capsule vanish in a napalm fireball.


The Marine spins, screaming incoherently, and liquid fire hoses the second


Alien, which drops its victim and falls burning into the deck.




The vault is an inferno. Ripley's capsule is sagging, melting.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




A scorched hypersleep capsule is wheeled in under brilliant lamps. The


waiting crisis team plug bio-monitor leads and a HISSING air-supply line into


sockets on the capsule. A technician with a small hand-held power saw


begins to cut away the heat-crazed canopy. Hands in surgical gloves lift the


canopy away.




Ripley lies curled in a tight fetal knot.




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- MEDLAB QUARANTINE




A small white room, a white bed surrounded by medical gear. Hicks, in his


underwear, is hunched on the edge of the bed, impatiently smoking a cigarette.


The dressing on his head and shoulders have been changed. Spence enters. She


wears a biohazard envelope over coveralls, bubble-goggles, a transparent


filter-mask.




                               SPENCE


                       (lightly)


               You know you can't smoke in here?




                               HICKS


               Yes, ma'am.




He takes a puff.




                               SPENCE


               I'm Spence.  I'm not a medic, I'm from the tissue


               culture lab.  I have to get a sample.




She opens a small white case and takes out a gleaming cylinder.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing)


               Uh, just stick your thumb in here.




Hicks gives her a hard look, inserts his thumb; she touches a stud -- SNIK! --


he winces, look ruefully at his thumb.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing)


               Sorry.


                       (putting the tissue-


                        sampler away)


               You're the last one...




                               HICKS


                       (grabs her wrist)


               The others.  Ripley, Newt -- they came through


               okay?




                               SPENCE


               Who's Newt?




                               HICKS


               The kid.




                               SPENCE


               Rebecca.  Rebecca's fine.




                               HICKS


               Ripley?




                               SPENCE


                       (hesitates)


               Ripley's fine, Hicks.




                               HICKS


               Bishop.  Where's Bishop?




                               SPENCE


                       (puzzled)


               Bishop?




                               HICKS


               The android.




                               SPENCE


                       (carefully, worried that


                        she's gotten in over her


                        head)


               There were three of you.  Three that I know of,


               anyway.  Maybe you should try to sleep now.


               You want the nurse?  They can give you something...




                               HICKS


                       (leaning forward, still


                        gripping Spence's wrists)


               Why haven't I been debriefed?  Where's the brass?




                               SPENCE


               All I know is, we've all been sleeping short


               hours since your ship came in, soldier.




A CRASH from the corridor, a pained BELLOW, and Newt scuttles in, wearing a


hospital gown. She backs into a corner as a large ORDERLY rushes in,


clutching his right hand. Like Spence, he wears biohazard gear.




                               ORDERLY


               Goddamn it!  She bit me!




He starts for Newt. Hicks comes off the bed like he's mounted on springs,


hand cocked for a trained blow. The Orderly backs off.




                               NEWT


                       (near hysteria)


               Where's Ripley?  Where is she?




                               HICKS


                       (straightens out of hand-


                        to-hand crouch without


                        losing any of the threat)


               She's asking you a question.




                               ORDERLY


               You looking to get yourself sedated, Corporal?




                               NEWT


               Where is she?




                               HICKS


               Now I'm asking you the question...




Spence yanks her mask down in a reflexive, very human gesture. Move slowly


toward Newt, extending her hand.




                               SPENCE


               Rebecca... Newt.  Honey.  It's okay.  Ripley's


               going to be okay.  C'mon now, I'll take you,


               you can see her...




                               ORDERLY


               Spence, there's no way --




He moves to stop them, but Hicks takes a very deliberate step forward.




INT. MEDLAB -- ANOTHER ROOM




Ripley lies in a coma, monitored by assorted white consoles. Her forehead is


taped with half a dozen small electrodes. Newt, expressionless, walks slowly


to the bedside as Hicks and Spence look on.




                               SPENCE


               She's sleeping.


                       (she and Hicks exchange glances)


               Sometimes people need to sleep... To get over


               things...




Newt looks up at a monitor that display's Ripley's EEG. Watches the jitter of


peaks and valleys.




                               NEWT


               Is Ripley dreaming?




                               SPENCE


               I don't know honey.




                               NEWT


               It's better not to.




EXT. RODINA, THE U.P.P. STATION -- VARIOUS ANGLES




Smaller than Anchorpoint.




INT. RODINA - CYBERNETICS LAB




CLOSE on Bishop. He stares straight ahead, the corner of his mouth twitching


mechanically. PULL BACK. Bishop's torso is mounted in the center of a large


square platform; tubes are wires snake from his ruined lower ribcage. The


walls of the labs are lined with monitor screens and printers.




Information is being reamed out of the android at high speed, printouts of


measurements, graphs, formulas. COLONEL-DOCTOR SUSLOV is beside the


Vietnamese Commando, who wears a sleeveless fatigue-blouse revealing


regimental tattoos: a yin-yang, hashmarks, an ID marker like a supermarket


bar-code. They watch as a graphics program generates a detailed anatomical


drawing of a face-hugger on a large monitor. She says something short and


emphatic in Vietnamese, repeats it: yes.




                               SUSLOV


               And this?




He taps a keypad and the face-hugger vanishes. The screen begins to draft an


Alien in side and frontal projections.




                               FIRST COMMANDO


                       (eyes fixed on the screen in


                        horror and fascination)


               No...




On the slab, the robotic tic still works the corner of Bishop's mouth.




INT. SULACO -- CARGO LOCK




Two TECHNICIANS in biohazard gear squat on either side of Bishop's legs. An


electronic microscope has been set up on a low tripod. A small monitor


displays magnified skin and a few dark gobules. One Technician extracts an


ultra-fine probe from its sterile package and leans forward.




                               TECH WITH PROBE


               You getting tape of this, Miller?




                               SECOND TECH


               You bet your ass.  Orders.




                               TECH WITH PROBE


               That's good because I'd swear I just saw a


               piece of this shit move...




On the monitor, the tip of the probe trembles, brushes one of the globules.


The Second Tech takes it, inserts it in a plastic tube, seals the tube in a


small metal canisters, and writes #17 on the side in red grease pen.




                               SECOND TECH


               Since when do androids get diseases?




                               TECH WITH PROBE


               I dunno.  Sure looks like something got to


               this poor bastard...




INT. ROSETTI'S OFFICE CUBICLE




COLONEL ROSETTI, Colonial Marines, is Anchorpoint's head of military


operations. His office is furnished in the best futuro-Pentagon style:


imitation rosewood, division insignia plaques, a desktop model of the drop


ships from "Aliens."




Rosetti glances up from his monitor as his SECRETARY enters, a young woman


in semi-dress Marine uniform.




                               SECRETARY


                       (hands him a stiff red plastic


                        envelope)


               Welles and Fox, Colonel.  Military Sciences,


               Weapons Division.




Rosetti eyes the envelope with evident distaste, scrawls his signature in the


required box before opening it, removes documents, and the empty envelope


back.




                               ROSETTI


               Show them in.




Secretary exits.




ROSETTI'S POV -- CLOSEUP




on two plastic microfiche cards, each with front and side views of Fox and


Welles, retinal I.D. images, scaled-down fingerprints, etc. Stamped "MILISCI,


WEAPONS DIV."




                               FOX (O.S.)


               Kevin Fox, Colonel.




ROSETTI'S POV -- FOX




is tanned, athletic, hyperconfident, his smile a heart-less display of state-


of-the-art enamel-bonding techniques. WELLES is just behind him.




                               WELLES


               Susan Welles.




Same spa-tuned look, same expensive casualwear.




                               ROSETTI


                       (flatly, with no other


                       effort at greeting)


               Welcome to Anchorpoint.




Fox and Welles seat themselves without waiting to be asked.




                               FOX


               We're impressed, Colonel.  Susan and I are


               definitely impressed.




                               WELLES


               The videos don't really give you an idea of the


               scale, do they?




She might as well be talking about a tour of Notre Dame.




                               FOX


               But we're particularly impressed with your


               handling of the situation, the situation so far.


               We're impressed with you cooperation...




                               ROSETTI


                       (flicking the cards down on


                        his desktop with suppressed


                        hostility)


               We call it "following orders."




                               WELLES


               Yes.  It would simplify things if everyone did,


               wouldn't it?  Particularly the civilian component


               of that Deck Squad.  I think we may have a


               potential problem there...




                               FOX


               We've been going over psyche profiles, Colonel.


               Anchorpoint seems to be the kinds of project


               that attracts... idealists.




                               ROSETTI


                       (with a thin grin)


               Liberals.




                               WELLES


               Let's just say we've noticed a certain antipathy


               to Military Sciences, Colonel.  A certain lack


               of sympathy with the goals of the Weapons


               Division...




                               ROSETTI


               Anchorpoint is under Colonial Administration


               authority.  This isn't a military operation.  If


               it were, we'd be in violation of the Strategic


               Arms Reductions treaty.




                               FOX


               Looks great on paper, Colonel, but we want the


               civilians who boarded Sulaco sewn up.  Tight.




                               WELLES


               Forfeit of shares, for starts.  Anyone talks,


               they lose their shares.  We've found it reasonably


               effective, in most cases...




                               FOX


                       (taking a sheaf of


                        printout from his attach_)


               But that's a simple matter.  This isn't.  Sulaco's


               data base indicates a boarding operation en


               route, Colonel.




                               ROSETTI


               A boarding operation?  Why wasn't I informed?




                               WELLES


               We're informing you.  You seem to have lost an


               android, Colonel.  The Union of Progressive


               Peoples have Bishop...




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- ENTRANCE TO ANTI-BUGGING BUBBLE




A MARINE ushers Hicks into a large bare chamber. Hicks wears his dress


uniform. The room is dominated by the bubble, a mirrored sphere.




                               MARINE


               This way, Corporal.




The Marine leads Hicks up a gangway. Hicks enters the bubble. The Marine


closes the door behind him.




INT. THE BUBBLE




Three members (Rosetti, TRENT, SHUMAN) of Anchorpoint's directorate are


seated at a round table; with them are Fox and Welles. Hicks comes to


attention and salutes.




                               ROSETTI


               At ease, Hicks.  Be seated.  My name is Rosetti.


               Station's military attach_.  From my right:


               Trent, exobiology... Shuman, Diplomatic Corps...


               From your right...




                               FOX


               I'm Kevin Fox, Hicks.  This is Susan Welles.


               We're with the Company.  We'd like to congratulate


               you on a successful mission.




                               HICKS


               Successful?  I lost my squad in that hole...




                               WELLES


               But you returned, Corporal.  And you've rescued


               the colony's sole survivor...




                               ROSETTI


                       (picks up a sheaf of printout)


               We've all read the transcript of you debriefing,


               Hicks...




                               HICKS


               Where's Bishop?  Sir.




                               ROSETTI


                       (blinks)


               If you don't mind, Hicks, we'll table that


               until --




                               TRENT


               I've read the transcript.  Are you certain,


               Hicks, that you have nothing more to tell us


               about the alien's life cycle?  Detail, Hicks.


               Detail is crucial...




                               ROSETTI


               Trent, the subject is classified.  Corporal


               Hicks' security rating need to be upgraded


               before we can --




                               HICKS


                       (ignoring Rosetti, he


                        addresses Trent)


               I've already told you everything I know.




                               ROSETTI


               Hick --




                               FOX


               Let the Corporal have his say, Colonel.  After


               all, he's seen these creatures in action.




                               ROSETTI


               You ordered the subject classified Maximum


               Security, Fox.




                               TRENT


               I seriously doubt the Corporal Hicks knows


               anything more than he's already told us.


               Which is a great pity.  But the android, Bishop,


               was designed for scientific observation.  A


               Hyperdyne model A/5, a walking data bank...




                               WELLES


               Corporal Hick asked the right questions to


               begin with.




                               ROSETTI


                       (stiffly)


               To answer your question, Hicks:  we aren't


               certain.




                               WELLES


                       (heavy sarcasm)


               But we can guess, can't we Colonel?




                               HICKS


                       (to Welles)


               Where?




                               FOX


               Rodina station.




                               HICKS


               The U.P.P.?  What's the U.P.P. got to go with


               this?




                               ROSETTI


               Sulaco's navigation system failed.  You were


               in disputed territory for something over


               eighty-five minutes, Hicks.  The U.P.P. would


               ordinarily respond to that as a violation of


               their space.  So far there's been no protest.


               Nothing.


                       (he hesitates)


               Sulaco's computer indicates a covert boarding


               operation...




                               FOX


               "Indicates"...




                               SHUMAN


               To put it in diplomatic terms, Hicks, they've


               got our ass in a sling.  If they want to regard


               the Sulaco incident as a hostile act -- and let


               me assure you that they will, eventually -- they


               can compromise our position in the current round


               of arms reduction talks.  We're talking serious


               ramifications here.  Then we have the communications


               lag to and from Earth.  A week either way.  So


               we're looking at a fourteen day wait for policy


               clarification.  We may have a major crisis on our


               hands.




                               WELLES


               We arrived with a policy brief, Shuman, and you've


               seen it.  We're here to implement that brief.




                               ROSETTI


               And you orders predate knowledge of U.P.P.


               involvement.




                               FOX


               We're here to do our job, Colonel.




                               SHUMAN


               In this case, "doing your job" might involve the


               distinct possibility of precipitating nuclear


               war --




                               ROSETTI


                       (quick to break in; the


                        subject's too sensitive for


                        enlisted ears)


               Any further questions for the Corporal?  No?


               In that case, Hicks...




                               HICKS


               Sir.




Hicks stands, salutes.




INT. ACHORPOINT -- R & R ZONE, "THE MALL"




Tully slopes along looking haggard and spaced. He wears his trademark


jacket. The Mall is a cross between a Hyatt atrium and an airport shopping


concourse: shops, vegetation, fast food outlets, a bar. He arrives at what


are apparently elevator doors. The doors open on a miniature subway car.


Tully steps in and the doors close.




INT. TISSUE CULTURE LAB




Spence is working with cultures. Her arms are up to the elbows in a pair of


white gloves mounted in round openings on the side of a transparent plastic


tank. She looks up as Tully enters.




                               TULLY


               Hey.




                               SPENCE


               You look like homemade shit.


                       (she withdraws her hands,


                        the gloves pop out)


               What happened down there, Tully?  There's some


               kind of security blackout on...




                               TULLY


               Yeah.  And I'm part of it... I can't tell you


               anything.  Had to sign a whole new set of papers.


               Talk to anybody and I lose my shares.  All my


               shares, right?




                               SPENCE


               You joking, Tully?




                               TULLY


               Wish I were...


                       (changes the subject)


               What's the old man got for me to dick around


               with this shift?




She crosses to a lab bench and takes something from a white wire basket.




                               SPENCE


               Here.  All yours.  Orders are, you use the


               manipulators for this.




She hands him something wrapped in a sheet of white printout held with a


rubber band. He removes the band, unrolls the paper. The canister. Number


17.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing)


               What the hell did happen on the ship, Tully?


               How come all the biopsy work on those three?


               and his very quiet sudden backlog of autopsy


               material?  How come it's all triple-classified?


               What's going on?  We had these two spooks from


               Gateway in here today acted like they just


               bought the place...




                               TULLY


                       (with a nervous glance


                        around the lab)


               Okay, okay... But later, okay?  Not here...




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. TISSUE CULTURE LAB




Tully at the controls of a pair of high-tech servo-manipulators visible


through the tick glass of an ultra-heavy duty rectangular tank. The controls


are gloves. A cable leads from the wrist of each glove to the face of the


tanks. Tully move his hands, testing. The skeletal steels waldos inside the


tank mimic each move. He uses them to open the canister. An electronic


microscope is built into the tank, its monitor just above the window. He


positions the probe's tip under the microscope.




ANGLE OVER TOP OF MONITOR




for his reaction.




                               TULLY


               Spence... What is this?  Where did it come


               from?




Spence strolls up behind his with a cup of coffee, a pen tucked behind her


ear.




                               SPENCE


               C'mon, Charlie, don't you read the spec sheets


               anymore?  It's off the shop.  Off your transport.


               It's... God.




SPENCE'S POV -- CLOSE ON THE MONITOR




The tip of the probe is encased in a sheath of glittering back filigree.




ANGLE




                               SPENCE


               Up the rez...




Tully taps a lapboard; magnifications increases by twenty powers.




EXTREME CLOSEUP -- MONITOR




As the screen fills with an image that might be a bizarre landscape, its lines


and textures recalling the interior of the derelict ship in "ALIEN."




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. ECO-MODULE




An experimental pocket Eden: a half-acre of artfully ragged concrete


Disneyland into lush rainforest, sun-dappled miniature meadows, patches of


African cactus. Newt crouches in long grass, her hand extended toward a small


animal. A lemur. Hicks stands nearby.




                               NEWT


               Have you been there, Hicks?  Africa?




                               HICKS


               Morocco.  Four weeks of Basic.  But was


               mountains.  Not like this.




The lemur scoots away, spooked by his voice; Newt watches as it scurries up a


tree.




                               NEWT


               I'd like to go there...




                               HICKS


               No problem.  You're going to Gateway station on


               Sulaco, right?  Then you catch a shuttle down and


               you're in Oregon.  Just a jump over a puddle, to


               Africa, once you're there.




Spence walks out of the miniature jungle, carrying a white wire tray of


samples in plastic lab bottles.




                               NEWT


               I don't remember them...




                               SPENCE


               Your grandparents?




Newt nods.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing)


               Well, guess they remember you.  Sure.




                               NEWT


               But what if Ripley wakes up and I'm not here?


               Can't I wait?




                               HICKS


               Hey.  She'll know where you're going, right?


               Anyway, Sulaco's the only ship back to Gateway


               for two months.  But look, you want to make double


               sure, then you leave her a map, exactly where


               you're going...




Spence grins at Hicks.




INT. NEWT'S DORM CUBICLE




Newt at a fold-down desk, at work on an elaborate multicolor feltpen starmap.


A dotted line zigzags from Anchorpoint to Portland, Oregon. She carefully


prints her new address:




               NEWT JORDEN


               c/o


               MR. & MRS. RICHARD JORDEN


               34877 GREENLEAF AVE. #582


               NEW PORTLAND, OREGON AB994J2




Ripley wan and comatose. Hicks waits awkwardly in the doorway, dangling


Newt's knapsack, as she enters and tapes the finished starmap to the wall;


the first thing Ripley would see, waking. Newt beside the bed, look down at


her friend.




                               NEWT


               Ripley?  Ripley, it's Newt.  I... I gotta go


               now.  I'm going to stay with my grandparents,


               in Oregon.  Hicks says that's a good place...


               There's a map for you, Ripley, how to get there.


               You can come there and stay with me, okay?


               You have to, okay?




Tears on her cheeks as Hicks puts his hand on her shoulder and they leave the


room.




INT. DEPARTURE BAY




Newt and Hicks amid a bustle of power-loaders, assorted robot vehicles. They


approach the entrance to a narrow corridor. Sign: DEPARTURE BAY -- CREW


ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.




                               HICKS


               That's you.




                               NEWT


               I know.




                               HICKS


               Good luck in Oregon.




He holds the red knapsack as she slips into the straps.




                               NEWT


               Hicks...




                               HICKS


               Yeah?




She look at him: ghost of a grin. She gives him the thumbs-up sign.




                               NEWT


               Affirmative.




He returns the sign




                               HICKS


               Affirmative.




She turns and makes her way up the narrow boarding corridor. It's long,


tapers to nothing. Tiny figure, receding, bright dot of the knapsack. She


turns, waves. He waves back. She's gone.




EXT. ANCHORPOINT




Sulaco pulls away, begins to accelerate, dwindles against the stars.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. RODINA -- CONFERENCE CHAMBER




Cigarette-smoke drifts above a long narrow table in a narrow space. A half-


dozen ranking TECHNOCRATS are jammed along wither side in folding chairs, with


Colonel-Doctor Suslov at the head.




                               BRAUN


                       (Rodina's chief of R&D)


               Obviously, Colonel Doctor, the purpose of their


               mission was to obtain specimens of this lifeform.


               The android dissected a single specimen.  One


               of the pre-larval forms -- like the thing that


               killed Lenko.




                               AN OFFICER


               And you believe that these creature are of


               potential military importance?




                               BRAUN


               Yes, provided it's possible to clone the alien


               spores recovered from the android's skin and


               clothing...




                               SUSLOV


               With the goal of programming these "machines"


               for use as weapons?




                               BRAUN


               The adult form, Colonel-Doctor, is evidently a


               killing-machine of great strength, extraordinary


               sophistication.  No evidence of intelligence.


               Purely instinctual.




                               INTELLIGENCE OFFICER


               Our sources in the corporationist infrastructure


               are aware of the existence of a special project


               with Weyland-Yutani's Weapons Division.  We have


               been unable to penetrate their security...




                               SUSLOV


               The Intelligence Officer suggests that this


               special project concerns the alien?




                               DIPLOMATIC OFFICER


               I remind you, Colonel-Doctor, that we experiment


               with the alien genetic material only if we are


               prepared to violate primary biological warfare


               limitations in the Strategic Arms Reduction


               treaty...




                               BRAUN


               An I reminds the Diplomatic Officer that the


               Weyland Yutani corporation is obviously prepared


               to do so -- that they may already be doing so...


               As ever, our level of technology lags slightly


               behind that of the capitalist cartels... But now,


               by chance --




                               MILITARY OFFICER


               By chance?  You refer to the proven bravery and


               constant initiative of our People's Commando


               Division --




                               BRAUN


                       (smoothly, a seasoned


                        political infighter


                        covering his bases)


               Not at all, Major.  Their courage is unquestioned.


               Nonetheless, consider:  we are in possession of


               a potential weapon -- a whole new technology, if


               you will -- which Weyland Yutani clearly intends


               to develop.  We are in, as they might put it, on


               the ground floor.  But only if we choose to be, if


               we choose to hold our advantage.




                               SUSLOV


               I agree.  We have no choice but to proceed.




                               DIPLOMATIC OFFICER


               Then I go on record as strongly advising that


               the android be returned to Anchorpoint.  Are our


               technicians capable of repairing the thing?




                               BRAUN


               Repairing it?  Why?




                               DIPLOMATIC OFFICER


               You lack a sense of the importance of gesture,


               Braun.  Let us avoid their customary accusations


               of barbarism... And buy ourselves time...




                               SUSLOV


               Our technicians will repair the thing.  Return


               it to them... And we will proceed.  We will clone


               the alien...




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- TISSUE CULTURE LAB




TRENT, head of BioLab, Rosetti, and Fox wait, seated, as Tully wheels a


Holographic Display Module into position. The lights dim. A faint, ghostly


cube shimmers in front of the three men.




                               TRENT


               Initially this was merely routine, you


               understand.  We attempted to determine its


               compatibility with terrestrial DNA.




                               FOX


               What kind of DNA exactly, Doctor?




                               TRENT


               Human, of course.




Something shivers and shakes and takes form in the cube of light: a double


helix threaded with green and red beads of light.




                               TRENT


                       (continuing)


               Watch closely, please.




The alien genetic material looks like a cubist's vision of an art deco


staircase, its asymmetrical segments glowing Day-glo green and purple.




                               ROSETTI


               That's a biological structure?  More like


               part of a machine...




The alien form makes contact with the human DNA. The transformation is


shockingly swift, but its stages can still be followed: the thing seems to


pull itself into and through the coils, and for an instant the two are meshed,


locked, and then the final stage. A new shape glows, a hybrid; the green and


red beads have been altered beyond recognition.




                               FOX


               Like a high-speed viral takeover...!  What's


               the real-time duration on this, Trent?




                               TULLY


                       (from the shadows beyond


                        the glowing cube)


               That was it. What you see is what you get.


               That's how fast it is...




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- MACHINE SHOP




Hicks enters the cavernous shop, dodging out of the way of an emerging power-


loader. The place is an oily forest of steel; machines of various kinds


await repair. WALKER is at a workbench, a big man in a grease-stained vest.




                               HICKS


               Hicks.  Temporary duty assignment.




Walker works the joystick on a handheld remote control unit. An unmanned


power-loader comes to life and lumbers toward the bench. He brings it to a


halt expertly, exactly where he wants it, with few casual twiddles of the


stick.




                               WALKER


               Walker.  Know how to blow out the hydraulic


               lines on a force-feedback system?




                               HICKS


               No.




                               WALKER


               Never too late to learn.




He offers Hicks a cigarette, lights it for him with a micro-torch from the


bench.




                               WALKER


                       (continuing)


               You off the mystery ship, Hicks?




                               HICKS


               Sulaco?  What's the mystery?




                               WALKER


                       (lighting his own


                        cigarette)


               Popular question.  Whole thing's triple-classified


               now and word's getting around that two of the


               deck party never came back.




                               HICKS


                       (shrugs)


               I was iced.




                               WALKER


               Sure...




                               HICKS


               You ready to show me his feedback system?




                               WALKER


                       (eyes Hicks narrowly)


               Anytime.




INT. OPS ROOM




PAN along Jackson's multi-screen array in Operations, video images of various


Anchorpoint locales: space-suited figure and robot welders making routine


hull repairs.




HIGH ANGLE -- THE MALL




A buzzer SOUNDS. Screen directly in front of Jackson displays:




               INCOMING TRANSMISSION


               SOURCE: U.P.P. RODINA


               DIPLOMATIC INCRYPT>>>


               >>>DIPL CORPS SHUMAN




Jackson bobs her head, moving the cursor-cap to various "windows" on the


screen.




                               JACKSON


                       (speaking into headset


                        mike)


               Somebody find me Shuman -- tell his we got


               incoming Rodina coded standard diplomatic.


               His opposite number must've decided it's time


               for the weekly bullshit session...




INT. ANTI-BUGGING BUBBLE




Shuman is seated alone at the round table. A miniature video camera is set up


on the table. Opposite him is a large wall screen displaying an image of the


U.P.P. Diplomatic Officer, also alone, seated at the far end of the narrow


table in the Rodina conference room.




                               SHUMAN


               Androids, by law, are afforded the status of


               persons.  Citizens.




                               DIPLOMATIC OFFICER


               Under your system, yes.  We prefer to afford them


               the status of machines.




                               SHUMAN


               You're holding one of our citizens captive.




                               DIPLOMATIC OFFICER


               The "citizen" in question, the synthetic, Bishop,


               has been held in regard to a treaty violation


               involving an armed vessel.




                               SHUMAN


               Sulaco was homing on Anchorpoint.  The so-called


               violation was the result of a malfunction.




                               DIPLOMATIC OFFICER


               The matter is under investigation.




                               SHUMAN


               I repeat:  you are holding one of our citizens.




                               DIPLOMATIC OFFICER


               The incident is also being investigated with


               regards to an apparent violations of the Strategic


               Arms Reductions treaty.




                               SHUMAN


               Sulaco's weapons-systems fall entirely within


               the prescribed --




                               DIPLOMATIC OFFICER


               I refer to those sections of the treaty concerned


               with biological warfare.




Beat. The U.P.P. Diplomat has just scored, but Shuman maintains his poise.




                               SHUMAN


               The allegation is false.




                               DIPLOMATIC OFFICER


               We make no official allegations at this time.


               The matter remains under investigation.  Bishop,


               however, is of no further use in the inquiry.


               We are returning him to you.




EXT. ANCHORPOINT -- SHUTTLE BAY -- A U.P.P. SHUTTLE




docking. They bay closes behind it. (V.O.: STATIC, VOICES of Anchorpoint


docking crew.)




INT. SHUTTLE BAY




Shuman and two Marines enter the bay. They wear biohazard envelopes, masks.


The shuttle's hatch opens and the Vietnamese Commando steps out. Bishop


emerges. He looks at the Commando, then at Shuman and the Marines waiting at


the bottom of the gangway. The Commando gestures: go.




                               SHUMAN


               You're under quarantine orders, Bishop.


                       (to the Marines)


               Escort him to MedLab.




INT. THE MALL




Hicks has just come off shift; the Mall's bar catches his eye. The facade


says it all: ye olde pre-packaged genuine simulated wood-grain generic tavern


and the only joint in town.




One wall is a screen showing a stale rerun of a Brazilian soccer match. Some


of the customers play hologram game-consoles. Tully is seated at the bar.


Hicks takes a stool beside him.




                               HICKS


               Beer.




He fishes his dog tags out and detaches one, passes it to the bartender; the


bartender inserts it in a terminal, rings up the beer, hands it back.




                               TULLY


               You're Hicks.  Sulaco...




Tully, in his trademark jacket, is obviously drunk.




                               HICKS


               Who're you?




                               TULLY


               Tully.  Tech Five.  Tissue lab.  D-fucking-NA.


               Jesus... Sulaco... Lucky.




                               HICKS


               Lucky?  Who?  You lucky, man?




                               TULLY


               You.  You're one lucky sonofabitch, Hicks.




Knocks back his drink.




                               HICKS


               How's that?




                               TULLY


               All that way.  All the way back here with those...


               Those fucking things, man...




Tully has just gotten his sudden, undivided attention.




                               HICKS


               Things?  What things?




                               TULLY


               Shit... We had to sign.  All of us.  Lose our


               fucking shares we tell anybody, right?




                               HICKS


                       (his whole body tense)


               They were on the ship...




                               TULLY


               Yeah.  Jesus.  I saw 'em...




Reaches for his glass, but it's empty.




                               HICKS


               Where?  How many?  When?




                               TULLY


                       (Suddenly remembering


                        his shares)


               Look, I...


                       (cuts a glance around the


                        bar)


               Bad place to talk... I gotta go now, leave...




                               HICKS


                       (grabbing Tully before he


                        can slide off the stool)


               You aren't going anywhere, buddy.




Tully, sudden energy, not so much at Hicks as at his whole situation:




                               TULLY


               I didn't come out here to work on shit like that.


               Came out here to help design ecosystems, not


               build designer for the next year... You want an


               earful?  You got it.  Shift after next, place


               called DP-54, Level 7 map.  Can't talk here...




He twists out of Hick's grip and into the crowd.




Hicks sits at the bar, staring at his untouched beer.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. THE BUBBLE




Rosetti, Trent, Fox, and Welles.




                               WELLES


               And Bishop has agreed to undergo complete


               physical and chemical analysis?




                               ROSETTI


               He requested it himself.




                               FOX


               Results?




                               TRENT


               No irregularities so far.  No trace of the alien


               cellular material...




                               WELLES


               Tampering, then?  Reprogramming?  Any new circuits


               in our Mr. Bishop?  Any little surprises courtesy


               of the U.P.P.?




                               TRENT


               No.  Nothing.




                               FOX


               And his data on the Aliens?  All there?  Intact?




                               TRENT


               Yes, it seems to be.  But if his memory's been


               tampered with, we'd have no way of knowing.


               Neither would he...




                               WELLES


               In any case, we have to assume that the U.P.P.


               accessed Bishop's memory.  That they have the


               data.  They may also have specimens of the alien


               genetic material...




                               ROSETTI


               In other words, you want to get on with your


               brief, don't you?  You want Trent to clone the


               cultures.  And you didn't want Shuman at this


               meeting.




                               FOX


               This isn't a question of diplomacy, Colonel


               Rosetti.




                               ROSETTI


               Isn't it?  A violation of the S.A.R. treaty?




                               FOX


               Has anyone mentioned military applications,


               Colonel?  Trent?




                               TRENT


                       (smiles)


               No.  I think a very nice case can be made for


               applied exobiology.  We do have a standing order


               to study alien life-forms when we encounter them.


               Preliminary analysis of the material from Sulaco


               reveals a remarkable adaptive capacity.  The


               potential for cancer research alone...




                               WELLES


               Imagine, Colonel:  if it can be programmed to


               only kill cancer cells...




                               ROSETTI


               And what exactly is it you propose to do, Trent?




                               FOX


                       (before Trent can answer)


               We'll nourish the cells is stasis tubes, under


               constant observation.  We'll terminate them before


               they become embryos...




                               ROSETTI


               I see.  Cancer research.  And our motives are


               exclusively humanitarian.  Is that it?




                               WELLES


               Colonel, when Shuman gets his reply from Earth,


               priority will go to military development of the


               Alien.  We know that because we know where our


               orders came from.  The decision has already been


               made.




                               FOX


               And potential U.P.P. research in the same direction


               only adds to the urgency, Colonel.




                               ROSETTI


               The decision rests with me.




                               WELLES


               Perhaps you misunderstood, Rosetti.  The decision


               has been made.




                               FOX


               They won't just break you, Colonel, they'll see


               to it that it's as though your career never


               happened.  They're top people.  That can do that.


               And you know it.




Rosetti, with a long, cold look for both of them; he got the message:




                               ROSETTI


               Shuman, of course, will have to be informed.




                               FOX


               Of course.  "Cancer research"...




INT. MEDLAB -- SCAN UNIT




Bishop patiently undergoes a scan; he lies on his back on a narrow support as


a massive donut-shaped sensor moves down the length of his body. A life-size


color scan-image is displayed on a large screen: his "organs."




                               TECHNICIAN


               The knees.  Looks like they do the joints in


               polycarbon...




                               MEDIC


               How about it, Bishop?  Knees okay?




                               BISHOP


               Yes...




Tentative smile.




                               TECHNICIANS


               Polycarbon.  Won't hold up worth a damn...




INT. RODINA -- BIOLAB




smaller than the Anchorpoint lab. Equipment look less advanced. The only


light is the yellowish glow from a stasis tube; Braun and two assistants are


clustered around the tube, observing the thing suspended there: thumb-sized,


grayish-pink. An embryo.




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- A TUNNEL AT THE EDGE OF THE CONSTRUCTION ZONE




Hicks jogs through the tunnel. Its brightly-lit arc of white ceramic recalls


London tube stations, but the floor is paved smooth and black, with freshly-


painted traffic symbols. He passes a woman jogging in the opposite direction,


keeps going. Small video cameras are mounted at intervals overhead, panning


slowly form side to side. As he continues, less of the tunnel is finished;


sections of tile are missing, revealing pipes, wiring, structural steel. Past


a certain point eh's jogging the raw steel tube, splashing through shallow


puddles of condensation. Fewer lights, widely spaced. He reaches a junction


and pauses, chooses a tunnel.




INT. CONSTRUCTION ZONE CHAMBER -- HIGH, LONG SHOT -- HICKS




comes out of the lit mouth of a tunnel. The space he enters is the size of a


football stadium, but dark and industrially Gothic. Stacks of hull-plate and


geodesic struts. A shower of sparks as he passes a robot welder (a la the


machine in the opening sequence of "Aliens"). Down the aisle of material and


heavy machinery. Spence is waiting.




                               SPENCE


               Hicks.




She's in the shadows, smoking a cigarette.




                               HICKS


               You, huh?  Why you?




                               SPENCE


               I work in the lab with Tully.  He couldn't


               make it.




                               HICKS


               Hangover?




                               SPENCE


               Sacred... That forfeit agreement he had to sign.




                               HICKS


               Doesn't scare you?




                               SPENCE


               I haven't signed.  Not yet.  They've only given


               them to the ones who saw what happened.




                               HICKS


               Why you?




                               SPENCE


               Tully's okay, Hicks.  I know him.  Believe it or


               not, he doesn't scare that easy.  He told me what


               was on that ship, Hicks.  What he saw.  You know


               what is was.




                               HICKS


               I don't think anybody knows what it is...




                               SPENCE


               They've got us growing the stuff.  We've been


               running recombinant DNA routines on it, using


               human genetic material...




                               HICKS


               You've been what?




                               SPENCE


                       (stubbing out her cigarette)


               Cancer research.  Tully says that's just a


               cover.  Says it's like trying to cure cancer


               with a shotgun.  Anyway, everybody know those


               two spooks from Gateway are MiliSci...




                               HICKS


               Fox and Welles?




                               SPENCE


               Weapons Division.  Not even supposed to exist,


               these days.  Not officially, anyway.




                               HICKS


                       (lights a cigarette


                        of his own)


               I still don't see why you're telling me this.




                               SPENCE


               Maybe I don't either.  It's just... we've got


               to tell somebody... Now there's a rumor somebody


               came in on a U.P.P. ship today, somebody off


               Sulaco...




                               HICKS


               Bishop...




                               SPENCE


               I don't know.




                               HICKS


               Maybe Progressive Peoples'll get their own Alien


               too.  Maybe they'll grow some...




                               SPENCE


                       (horrified)


               Shit!  You'd better hope not...




                               HICKS


               Why's that?




                               SPENCE


               Their lab gear's five years behind ours.


               They'd never be able to control it.




                               HICKS


               Think you can, huh?




                               SPENCE


               I don't know...




INT. OPS ROOM




A BLEEP as Tully appears on one of Jackson's screens, looking up at a camera


in the tissue culture lab.




                               TULLY


               Get me some maintenance people down here, will


               ya?  Run a check on the stasis system.  Pressure


               differential's off and the read keep fluctuating.


               And punch it Priority One; Trent'll cover it.




                               JACKSON


                       (with a characteristic little


                        jerk of her head, light-pen


                        winking)


               Sure.  You want a piece of the Superbowl, Tully?




                               TULLY


               Nah.




                               JACKSON


               Denver...




                               TULLY


               Denver?  No way.  Gimme a tenth on Chicago.




INT. RODINA -- BIOLAB




Braun is seated at a computer, entering data. Suslov is staring into the


stasis tube containing the developing Alien.




                               SUSLOV


               There's an irony in this...




                               BRAUN


                       (engrossed in the data)


               Irony, Colonel-Doctor?




                               SUSLOV


               The readiness with which it lends itself to


               genetic manipulation, Braun.  The speed with which


               its cells multiply.




                               BRAUN


               Yes. Remarkable.




                               SUSLOV


               As though the gene-structure had been designed


               for ease of manipulation.  And this apparently


               universal compatibility with other plasms...




                               BRAUN


                       (reluctantly abandoning


                        his task)


               And you find this ironic?




                               SUSLOV


               Ironic that we are attempting to program it as


               a weapon, yes.




                               BRAUN


               How is that?




                               SUSLOV


               Perhaps it is the fruit of some ancient


               experiment... A living artifact, the product of


               genetic engineering... A weapon.  Perhaps we are


               looking at the end result of yet another arms


               race...




                               BRAUN


               A defeatist attitude, Colonel-Doctor.  Our


               project can only strengthen the Union of


               Progressive Peoples...




CLOSE -- THE STASIS TUBE -- A CHEST-BURSTER




is suspended there like an eyeless fetal dolphin.




INT. MACHINE SHOP




Hicks, alone in the shop, mechanically going through the motions of the


busywork he's been assigned to keep him out of the way.




                               BISHOP


                       (from the doorway)


               That's quite a piece of machinery, Corporal


               Hicks...




                               HICKS


                       (looking up, grinning)


               That's what we used to say about you.  How the


               hell are you, Bishop?  Brass said you were


               snatched by the U.P.P.  How're things in the


               socialist paradise?




                               BISHOP


               I was returned.  I assume they had no further


               use for me.




He moves among the silent machines, touching them as he speaks.




                               BISHOP


                       (continuing)


               There are rumors, Hicks, that Weapons Division


               intends to develop the Alien.




                               HICKS


                       (with a glance at the


                        video camera on the wall)


               Where'd the bastards get one, Bishop?




                               BISHOP


               One of them managed to board Sulaco, Hicks.


               Ripley killed it...




                               HICKS


               Good for her.




                               BISHOP


               She called it "the queen."  It was larger than


               the others.  Very large.  Somehow is deposited


               genetic material in the ship.




                               HICKS


               Then they're stone cold crazy, man.  I hear the


               U.P.P. might try it themselves.




                               BISHOP


               Given the current state of the arms race, it's


               entirely possible.  I'm programmed to protect


               human life, Hicks.  It's my... nature.  Everything


               I am, everything I know, tells me this experiment


               must be aborted.




                               HICKS


               Yeah.  I know the feeling.




                               BISHOP


               But I can't be entirely sure you can trust me,


               Hicks.




                               HICKS


               You can't what?




                               BISHOP


               The U.P.P. may have reprogrammed me.  I've been


               very thoroughly examined, of course, but the


               possibility does exist.




                               HICKS


               Wouldn't you know?




                               BISHOP


               No.  I may be functioning as an enemy agent.




                               HICKS


                       (beat)


               What the hell.  We have to kill it, don't we?




                               BISHOP


               I have to try.




                               HICKS


               I'm in man.  And I think I know where we can find


               us a little help...




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. TISSUE LAB




Spence and Tully are alone.




                               SPENCE


               What coffee?  I'm going to the machine.




                               TULLY


               No.




He peers into one of the stasis tubes; a small ovoid of tissue suspended


there.




                               SPENCE


               Maintenance cure your pressure differential


               problem?




                               TULLY


               Said there wasn't any.  Said it was a glitch.




                               SPENCE


               Didn't want to get his hands dirty?




                               TULLY


               It settled down by itself.




Spence exits; Tully moves closer to the tube.




CLOSE -- THE SINGLE DEVELOPING SPORE




inside; it looks like a much smaller version of the alien egg.




WIDER ANGLE




                               TULLY


               Hey there.  Hi ya.  How ya doin'?  Nutrient


               solution agreeing with you, hm?  We're looking


               lots bigger today, aren't we?  You bet.


               Terrific.  Just absolutely fucking wonderful...




His monologue is interrupted by Welles' entrance; he's startled, looks up


guiltily. The heavy glass doors HISS shut behind her.




                               WELLES


               Communing with nature, Tully?




                               TULLY


               Your not wearing a badge.


                       (taps the plastic ID


                        clipped to his lab coat)


               White strap registers contamination.  Turns


               red if you're accidentally exposed to something.


               Got it?




                               WELLES


               Where's Trent?




                               TULLY


               Lunch.




                               WELLES


               And how's our friend?




She moves to the stasis tube, looks in.




                               TULLY


               Friends.  Our little friends.  Growing.




                               WELLES


               Get me hard copy for the past six hours.




                               TULLY


               Sorry.  Ask Trent.




                               WELLES


               I don't think you understood me, Technician


               Tully...




She's following him as he nears the main computer console; in the b.g., a


stasis tube begins to HISS. CRACKS loudly, a hairline fracture emits a


superfine spray of fluid. An alarm SOUNDS.




                               WELLES


                       (continuing)


               What does th --




                               TULLY


               O Jesus...




Two of the tubes BLOW OUT. Nutrient fluid and plastic shards everywhere.


Welles and Tully go down. A louder ALARM cuts in; red lights strobe. Locks


in the doors THUNK shut, an automatic containment measure, as Spence, outside,


throws down her coffee and begins to struggle with the door-controls, trying


to reach Tully. Tully, facedown in a pool of the fluid, see that he's nine


inches away from the gray pigeon's-egg of alien tissue. His eyes widen. Gets


to his knees as carefully as he can. Reaches slowly -- slowly -- sideways,


manages to snag a pair of plastic tongs and a shallow lab tray from the


counter...




Welles tries to scramble to her feet, loses her balance in the slippery goop,


and snatches at his arm. He nearly falls on top of the thing, but cuffs her


roughly away, kneels, tongs poised... Beat. A tiny orifice opens; for a


split-second something glitters above the thing, a faint, fist-sized cloud of


dark mist. Then it's gone and Tully's moving, swooping in with tongs and


tray.




                               SPENCE (V.O.)


                       (intercom)


               Tully!  Tully, Goddamn it!  What's happening?


               Are you okay?




                               TULLY


               De-con.  Get us down to De-con!




Welles is struggling to her feet.




INT. DECONTAMINATION CHAMBER




Drenched, naked, furious, Welles is nearly invisible behind a scalding


downpour as techs in biohazard gear scrub her down with detergents and


antibacterial agents. She shoots eye-daggers at Tully, who's being worked


over by two more techs.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. OPS ROOM




Jackson at work. PAN ACROSS screens to security camera view of the DNA lab,


clean now but minus two stasis tubes -- image identified: TISSUE CULTURE /


25 AUGUST / 1900:15 HOURS. Jackson's attention is elsewhere.




INT. A CORRIDOR




Hicks keeps watch as Bishop open a panel, exposing complex wiring; no


hesitation whatever as he strips two wires, removes a Walkman-sized VCR from


his belt, and clips lead to the stripped wires.




INT. OPS ROOM




CLOSE on monitor image of the lab. The picture fuzzes out, scrambles,


returns -- but now reads: TISSUE CULTURE / 23 AUGUST / 1200:02 HOURS and


the missing tubes are back in place.




INT. ENTRANCE -- OUTSIDE LAB




                               BISHOP


               We have three minutes at the outside.




                               HICKS


               Go.




Bishop punches the code-sequence and the door hisses open; they're through,


moving.




INT. TISSUE CULTURE LAB




They move down the row of stasis tubes. Bishop pauses when they reach the two


units with missing tubes, then quickly moves on. He opens a wall panel,


exposing controls and a large, very serious-looking red switch. Label above


switch:




               STASIS SYSTEM MICROWAVE STERILIZATION




Then, he hesitates. Turning slowly, as if under compulsion, he looks back;


the line of glowing tubes.




                               HICKS


               Do it!




And still he doesn't move... Hicks darts his arm past Bishop, breaking the


trance and yanking the red switch.




A burst of unpleasant high-frequency SOUND as the fluid in the tubes instantly


begins to boil.




CLOSE ON ONE OF THE ALIEN CULTURES




as it bursts, disintegrates into a film of slime lost behind a storm of


bubbles. The lab's ALARM system goes off. The doors slide open as three


MARINES cover Hicks and Bishop with handguns.




                               MARINES


               Just don't you fucking move, Jack.




Hicks stonefaces the Marines. Then cracks a grin.




INT. DETENTION UNIT




Hicks and Bishop, in white plastic "medical restraints" (like arm and leg-


irons) precede the grim-faced Marines along a corridor and are thrown into


separate cells.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. THE BUBBLE




Meeting of Anchorpoint's full directorate, including Welles and Fox, Jackson,


and a number of new faces. Welles is white-lipped with fury.




                               JACKSON


               They knew the code, didn't they?  The code for


               the door...




                               FOX


               You got it, Ops.  And they knew just where to


               go which button to push to poach our eggs for us,


               didn't they?  Struggling with an idea, Ops?


               Think it may even have been an inside job?




                               JACKSON


               You're a Grade A Company prick, aren't you,


               mister?




(Her bitch truckdriver side; a tough lady, used to taking a lot of life-or-


death responsibility in her job.)




                               WELLES


               The Anchorpoint phase of the project is terminated,


               Rosetti.  You'll keep Hicks and the android in


               solitary until they can return with us to Gateway


               to stand trial for treason.




                               TRENT


               The Anchorpoint phase?  What do you mean?  We


               have no more material to work with...




                               FOX


               You have no more material to work with, Trent.


               In any case, it's become obvious that you aren't


               quiet the man for the job.  We took the precaution


               of obtaining our own samples.  They're on their


               way to Gateway.




                               WELLES


                       (with cold satisfaction)


               ... and everything, every move each of you have


               made, since our arrival, is going to be gone


               over with a fine toothed c-c-c-c--




As Welles begins to stammer, her eyes betray a terrible consternation. She


rises from her chair, lurches forward, catching herself on her hands. The


C-C-C-C-C phases into a chattering palsy as a thick strand of blood-streaked


drool descends toward the table. Fox, seated to her left, has instinctively


shoved his own chair back, ready to run. Everyone else is frozen with shock.




As the chittering tooth-burr becomes a shrill SHRIEK of inhuman rage, the


transformation takes place. Segmented biomechanoid tendons squirm beneath the


skin of her arms. Her hands claw at one another, tearing redundant flesh from


alien talons. Then the shriek dies. She straightens up.




And, rips her face apart in a single movement, the glistening claws coming


away with skin, eyes, muscle, teeth, and splinters of bone... SOUND of ripping


cloth. The New Beast sheds its human skin in a single sinuous, bloody ripple,


molting on fast forward.




An instant of utter silence as the featureless mask moves. From side to side.


Scanning.




Trent vomits explosively. The Marine guard snatches his pistol from its


holster and FIRES wildly across the table. Blind screaming chaos.




OVERHEAD SHOT




as the directorate plunges, like a single panicked organism, to the far side


of the bubble. The thing is on Fox before he can get up from his chair.




CLOSE




On his scream as the sucking, fanged tongue plunges through the orbit of his


eye.




ANGLE




A Marine with a flamethrower bursts through the door, torching Fox and the New


Beast, setting fire to the bubble's acoustic foam baffles.




INT. CORRIDOR OUTSIDE TULLY'S SLEEPING CUBICLE




Spence is coming down the corridor, carrying a clear plastic bag of styrofoam


food containers. Nobody else in sight. She look tired, but not particularly


worried. She reaches the door to his cubicle. Thumps on it with the heal of


her hand.




                               SPENCE


               Tully!  Hey!  Open up.. Got you some food...




No reply. She thumps again, then punches the combination (the lock look like


a telephone key-pad). Door opens. Dark inside.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing)


               Tully?  You sleeping?




She climbs in. Dark. Very. A red LED glows on the phone console. She


crawls through the detritus of Tully's housekeeping and fumbles with the


lights. Can't find the switch.




                               SPENCE


               Tully?




Lights CLICK on. Nobody there. Nothing. Looks even messier then she last


saw it. She sighs, puts the bag of food on a ledge, scoops up a mound of


dirty cloths off the pillow in an automatic cleaning-up gesture. And sees


Tully's lab badge. Picks it up.




CLOSE ON THE BADGE




The contamination indicator strip is red.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. DETENTION CELL




Hicks sitting on the narrow bunk.




Door opens. One of the Marines who arrested his in the lab; he wears combat


armor now.




                               HICKS


               What's your problem, bud?  Got a war on?




The Marine steps back, admitting a haggard Rosetti.




                               ROSETTI


               Get up, Hicks.  We need you in the Ops Room.




                               HICKS


               We didn't kill it.




                               ROSETTI


               No. It killed Fox and Welles...




INT. TUNNEL, CONSTRUCTION ZONE




Small vehicle WHINES TOWARD US through puddles of condensation: a skeletal


electric motor-jeep with heavy roll bars, scratched and paint-scarred. Walker


driving. Hick behind him in partial combat armor and communication rig,


cradling a pulse-rifle.




Walker is pushing it, driving fast; the jeep bounces and sways, skitters


around a corner. Into the gloom of the big construction chamber. Halts.




                               HICKS


                       (into mouthpiece)


               Gimme a read.




                               JACKSON (V.O.)


                       (from headset)


               You're close.  Hang a left.




                               HICKS


               Is he moving?




                               JACKSON


               No...




Walker swing the jeep around and they roll toward a narrow gap between massive


stacks of geodesic struts.




INT. OPS ROOM




Jackson studies a simulator screen; a moving cursor, the Jeep, navigates a 3D


grid-representation of the construction zone.




                               JACKSON


               No left again.




The cursor turns. Nears a blinking red dot.




Spence, drawn and anxious, looks over Jackson's shoulder. Bishop and Rosetti


are beside her.




                               SPENCE


               You're sure it's him?




                               JACKSON


               It's his locator frequency, isn't it?  No two


               alike.  Surgically implanted.  Just like yours...




                               SPENCE


                       (gnaws at her lip)


               He's not moving...




                               ROSETTI


               Why would he go down there?




                               BISHOP


               The badge.  He knew that he's been infected...




                               SPENCE


               Scared.  He's scared.


                       (shudders)


               Tully...




INT. CONSTRUCTION CHAMBER




Dark. The Jeep creeps along between stacks of prefab hull units, emerges


into a open space, junctions of several corridors. The deck is an inch deep


in water.




                               JACKSON (V.O.)


               He's there!  You're right on top of him!




Walker stops the jeep. Hicks stands up, plays the beam of a flashlight around


the area. Presses the mute button on his headset.




                               HICKS


                       (bellows)


               Tully!  Tully!  Yo!




ECHO. DRIP of water.




Hicks clips the flashlight beneath the barrel of his gun and jumps down.


Reflections ripple as he moves forward. Swings the beam along the surface --


something there... The logo-patches down a sleeve of Tully's ruptured,


blood-soaked leather jacket. Drifting shred of human tissue...




                               JACKSON (V.O.)


               Can you see him?




                               HICKS


               Yeah.




And the thing that was Tully launches itself from the top of one of the stacks


of construction material. Lands on top of the jeep, going for Walker, through


the roll bars.




CLOSEUP ON JAWS




CLOSEUP




as the thing's tail lashes past Walker's face, taking a nick out of a steel


bar.




on the controls, a pair of levers: he yanks one back, shoves the other


forward, thumbs both drive buttons simultaneously.




ANGLE




The jeep (separate drive-trains for each wheel) pulls two three-sixties on a


dime, hurling the thing toward Hicks. It smashes into the desk, splash of


water, leaps for Hicks instantly. The charge from his pulse-rifle takes it


in mid-air, hideous bile-yellow spurt of acid... And it hits the water again


with a terrific EXPLOSION of steam. The jeep lurches out through the steam,


engines SCREAMING, wheels losing traction through the puddle, throwing up


fantails of water, nearly overturning. Hicks jumps, snags a roll bar, empties


the pulse-rifle's clip into the steam on full-auto as Walker hauls ass back


down the corridor...




                               JACKSON (V.O.)


               Hicks!  What's happening?




INT. OPS ROOM




                               JACKSON


               Hicks?  Hicks!




CLOSE ON SCREEN




as the jeep-cursor speeds away from Tully's blinking locator-dot.




Spence's eyes fixed on the screen as she makes a serious stab at swallowing


her own fist.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. RODINA -- BIOLAB




VERY SLOW PAN past monitors -- one flickering like a defective strobe, the


other displaying a readout in Russian -- past an overturned mug on a keyboard,


past assorted equipment, past the shattered ruin of the big stasis tube, to


Suslov and Braun cocooned in a glittering biomech structure of alien resin.


Braun is dead, his rib cage gaping.




SCEAMS and the HAMMER of automatic weapons. Station crew fleeing in panic


enter through one door, crash into tables, scattering trays of food, claw at


one another to escape through another door. The Vietnamese commando and her


partner are last into the room; they spin in unison and FIRE back through the


door. SOUND of rending metal and loud inhuman RAGE.




The commandos scramble for the far door as the alien crashes into the mess: a


new form, the result of Suslov's genetic tinkering. Bigger. Meaner. Faster.


Able to reproduce more quickly.




The frantic crew are climbing a ladder. The commandos start up the ladder.


They climb through a circular hatch. Like the deck they stand on, the hatch


is made of heavy steel expansion-grid. The alien swarms up the ladder, slams


into the hatch just as the commandos close and lock it. The alien keeps on


slamming. The steel begins to bulge and tear...




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- OPS ROOM




Hicks, Bishop, Rosetti, Shuman, and Jackson.




                               JACKSON


               Cant's raise 'em, boss.




                               SHUMAN


               Try the diplomatic codes...




                               JACKSON


               Diplomatic codes?  They aren't responding to


               Mayday International.  Maybe they've got a


               transponder down, but -- hey, check this,


               outgoing traffic...


                       (she bobs her head, taps


                        her lapboard)


               It's a squirt transmission... Military decryption


               standard.




                               ROSETTI


               What do they have in the area?




                               JACKSON


                       (taps up a fresh screen


                        of data)


               Not much.  Automated mining system working


               NC-313... Test module for a terraforming operation


               enroute MV-45... And, here we go, the battle


               cruiser Nikolai Stoiko.  Nine hours from Rodina


               if they push it.




                               HICKS


               What I wanna know is, what do we have in the


               area?




                               JACKSON


                       (another screen of data)


               Not much.  How about the Kansas City, Colonel


               Admin transport?  We hit her with a mayday,


               she'll get here inside twenty hours.




                               HICKS


               Then what?




                               ROSETTI


               We abandon the station.




                               HICKS


               Destroy the station, man!  We got nukes?




                               ROSETTI


               Outlawed under the Strategic Arms Reduction


               treaty.




                               JACKSON


               We can fiddle the overrides on the fusion


               package.  Baby nova.




                               BISHOP


               We're dealing with a new form, Colonel.  We


               know nothing of this new mode of reproduction.


               Others may have already become hosts...




                               ROSETTI


               What are you suggesting?




                               BISHOP


               In order to be entirely certain, Colonel, it


               would be necessary to override the fusion


               package now.




Jackson looks up at Bishop; he's suggesting mass suicide.




                               HICKS


               I thought you were programmed to protect human


               life?




                               BISHOP


                       (with android blandness)


               I'm taking the long view.




Jackson's console CHIMES, begins to display new data, ID shots of three crew


members.




                               JACKSON


               Missing persons.


                       (she taps her way through


                        windows of data)


               Two were members of the clean-up crew who did


               the lab after the blowout.  Third doesn't


               check... No, wait.  Lives with one of the first


               two.. But that makes a total of fifteen...


               Something's happening...




                               HICKS


               Goddamn, Rosetti, it's catching!




                               ROSETTI


                       (ignores him)


               Mayday Kansas City, Jackson.




                               HICKS


               What about Sulaco?




                               SHUMAN


               It would take two days to raise her.




                               HICKS


                       (bitterly)


               With that shit on board.




                               ROSETTI


               Gateway will have our warning before Sulaco


               arrives.




                               SHUMAN


               Fine, Colonel.  And who do you suppose will be


               willing to take it seriously?  Weapons Division?




                               JACKSON


               Hey, I'm getting something!  The socialist space


               brothers speak at last...




Her main screen flickers and jumps; the speakers hill with a roar of STATIC --




                               JACKSON


                       (continuing)


               Their transmission standards get worse all the --




She falls silent as the screen clear, revealing a young Slavic madwoman -- one


of Suslov's lab assistants -- in blood-drenched coveralls. Jerky handheld


video, grainy transmission, indistinct background. She clutches a sheet of


paper, reads aloud from it in a foreign language.




                               SHUMAN


               Get a translation program on line, Jackson!




Jackson's already punching. An instantaneous computer translation cuts in as


V.O.; the girl's lips move, out of sync, like a cheap dub; the transmission is


rendered in flat synthi-voice.




CLOSE UP ON SCREEN




                               SPOKESWOMAN


               ... of Progressive Peoples.  Technician First


               Class, Tatjana Malik.  Please, we wish to inform


               you:  we have undertaken an experiment with


               genetic material obtained from the military


               transport vessel... We attempted to clone the


               xenomorph in stasis.  Failure of the stasis


               system occurred in the fifteenth hour... Attempted


               modification of the genetic structure has resulted


               in a variant which replicates rapidly, more


               rapidly...


                       (and here, horribly,


                        she smiles)


               It has... taken... most of us.  Those of us who


               remain... We wish to warn you:  you must terminate


               any experiment with the material now.  It is


               impossible.  It cannot be contained.  There is


               no --




The image flickers, vanishes.




ANGLE




                               JACKSON


               Lost 'em.  That's it... Goddamnit, she was just


               a tech.  Their brass didn't bother...




                               HICKS


               No brass left...




                               JACKSON


               And you better check this, Hicks.




Her other screens display assorted images of nearly identical tunnels and


passageways, but three of them are black; she gestures to the dark screens.




                               JACKSON


                       (continuing)


               This is down by the main air-scrubber.  System


               says those cameras are still operational, but


               there's something in the way.  Something big...




EXT. ANCHORPOINT -- ECO-MODULE




Huge louvers pivot smoothly, like Venetian blinds, revealing lush vegetation


through thick plastic...




INT. ECO-MODULE




Spence sits cross-legged in Newt's meadow, tearfully hugging a small tame


primate. Light crosses the meadow as the louvers open overhead, beyond the


geodesics. Artificial dawn. BIRDS begins to sing. Quiet before the storm...




EXT. RODINA




No sign of movement.




Dimly lit. Clutter of spacesuits, machinery. The Vietnamese commando seated


on the floor, back to the wall, cradling her gun. The corpse of her partner


is sprawled on the deck beside her, face hideously burned, his armor


fretworked with acid. Her face is blank, eyes straight ahead.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




EXT. ANCHORPOINT




The station.




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- MEDLAB -- CORRIDOR




Hicks, still in his fighting gear, walking purposefully. MedLab staff in


hospital whites dubiously note his passage.




INT. MED LAB -- RIPLEY'S ROOM




Ripley comatose, still hooked up to assorted biomonitors, the only movement


in the room the restless flicker of a bank of colored diodes.




Hicks enters, crosses to the bed, seems about to speak, makes a helpless


little gesture with his hands -- then yanks the biomonitor leads from the


bedside console. The diodes go out; a buzzer begins to SOUND. The bed is


mounted on casters. He starts to pull it out of the room. Stops. Looks up


at Newt's map on the wall.




He rips the map from the wall and stuffs it into her hospital gown.




INT. MEDLAB -- CORRIDOR




Hicks hustles Ripley through MedLab, not about to stop for anyone; startled


staff jump out of the way.




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- ANOTHER CORRIDOR -- ENTRANCE TO A LIFEBOAT




Signs and notices detailing lifeboat launch procedures. Hicks lifts Ripley


from the bed, carries her through hatch into lifeboat. Places her in a


hypersleep capsule, presses a button. The lid comes down. Silent moment as


he looks down at her through the lid, his palm on the smooth plastic in a


gesture of farewell, resignation. Then back through the hatch, where he


activates controls that seal the boat, setting the launch-procedure in


motion.




ANGLE on the blunt prows of the lifeboat receding around the curve of the


station's hull.




INT. LIFEBOAT BAY




Hicks watching digital countdown. Muted WHUMP of explosive bolts --




EXT. LIFEBOAT




Flash of the bolts as Ripley's boat is launched into the sweep of night.




INT. LIFEBOAT BAY




Bishop enters behind Hicks.




                               BISHOP


               But can you be certain she hasn't been infected?




                               HICKS


               I'll take the chance.




                               BISHOP


               Why?




                               HICKS


               I owe her one.




INT. OPS ROOM




Jackson at her screens; display as before, the tunnels near the air-


scrubber -- with three screens dark. CLOSEUP on one tunnel-view as an open,


six-wheeled personnel carrier rolls past the video camera, Hick looking up.


Five Marines in full battle dress ride with him: ALSOP, GREENFIELD, BRICE,


COSTELLO, WALLACE.




                               JACKSON


               Next junction, hang a right...




INT. TUNNEL




Dim; light spaced far apart along tunnel. The carrier takes a right.




                               JACKSON (V.O.)


               Left at the fork and you wanna take it slow.


               Fifty meters to whatever's in front of that


               camera...




Hicks gestures to Wallace, the driver. The carrier halts. SOUND of the air-


scrubbers from down the tunnel. The Marines shift their weapons, uneasily eye


the tunnel ahead. These are young recruits, not the hard-case vets of


"ALIENS."




                               HICKS


               Now listen up.  We don't do this by the book,


               we don't pair off.  Stay together, tight.


               Greenfield up front with me; anything moves,


               you torch it.  The rest of you, if it moves,


               kill it.  You gotta get the fuckers before they


               get close.  You know about the acid; you know


               they don't show on infrared.  And you know you


               don't let them take you alive.  You might have


               to do a friend a favor... Ready?  Move out.




He climbs down from the carrier, heavily burdened with gear. The others


follow. Greenfield has a flamethrower. They move forward. Toward the next


light; beyond it, the tunnel curves out of sight.




                               JACKSON (V.O.)


               You're right up on it, Hicks.  Right around the


               corner...




                               HICKS


               Affirmative...




They round the turn, weapons ready. And stop, stunned.




                               GREENFIELD


               Wha' 'th...?




The tunnel, which widens here as it approaches the massive air-scrubber, has


been transformed; its lights are dimly visible through shrouds of resin. Vast


ribs of the stuff sweep up from a dim and monstrous shape that covers the deck


at the base of the scrubber; we're looking into an Alien grotto, black and


pearlescent, and obscene fairyland. The shape's symmetry suggest function.


Patient DRUMMING of the air-scrubber's giant fans.




                               HICKS


               Scan it.  Motion?




                               COSTELLO


                       (consulting tracker,


                        adjusting knob)


               Negative.




                               HICKS


               Alsop, gimme the flood...




Alsop passes Hicks a portable halogen-flood. Hicks thumbs it on...




                               WALLACE


               Holy Christ.




The central shape is revealed as an enormous mutant queen. The thing is


splayed on its back, mortared into the mass of resin, its vestigial head


toward Hicks and the Marines. Its abdomen is arched like an inverted


scorpion-tail, tipped with a swollen, semi-translucent sac that ripples and


pulses in the glare of Hick's lamp. A biomechanical birth-factory.




                               HICKS


                       (passing the flood


                        to Brice)


               Hold it... steady.




He kneels, unslings one of his gear cases, open it, revealing a squat tube.




                               HICKS


               Moving.  Something's moving...




Hicks is working on the tube-thing, snapping components into place.




Brice suddenly swings the beam away from the queen, revealing half a dozen


new-model Aliens twisting out of recesses in the grotto walls...




INT. OPS ROOM




Jackson and Bishop hear SCREAMS and FIRING over the comm-link.




                               HICK (V.O.)


               The light!  The goddamn light!  (garble)




The Aliens tear into the Marines like living chainsaws. Wallace and Costello


go down immediately; the Aliens begin to drag them away. Hicks has gotten


hold of the light, struggles to keep it on the queen as he props the tube


against his thigh. SCREAMS. Blue stutter of pulse-rifles. A tongue of fire


from Greenfield's flamethrower, but an Alien jumps him; the napalm-stream arcs


wildly, splashing the resin structure -- and the Queen wakes. The huge tail


extends, lifts in the floodlight beam...




Hicks is still trying to assemble his mortar.




As the swollen, podlike tail-tip splits open with a sickly, tearing SOUND,


releasing a puffball cloud of dark mist -- we've seen it before, in miniature,


with Tully in the lab -- which begins to rise, drawn up toward the giant fans


above the air-scrubber...




INT. OPS ROOM




                               HICKS (V.O.)


               Stop the fans!




Bishop is instantly on the case, leaning over Jackson's shoulder to punch the


right button, but...




INT. SCRUBBER-TUNNEL




Too late. The cloud of spores is sucked into the fans -- as Hicks drop a


shell into the mortar. It bucks against his thigh and the queen is blown to


shred in an EXPLOSION that rips out the side of the scrubber.




                               HICKS


               The vents!  Seal the vents!




INT. OPS ROOM




Bishop's fingers fly as he punches another sequence.




INT. VENT




Straight down the pipe, a long way, to the whirling fans. Huge hermetic


barriers SLAM across the vent in sequence -- one, two, three.




INT. SCRUBBER-TUNNEL




Hicks scramble to his feet.




                               HICKS


               Out!  Out of here!  Now!




The Marine beside him begins to spasm and quake as the Change comes. Hicks


SHOOTS him in the chest at close range and sprints for the carrier.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. RODINA -- HUB




The Vietnamese commando nears the station's hub. The walls, in one large


chamber, are decorated with official U.P.P. art, like a blend of Mexican


Socialists agitprop murals and Syd Mead techo-fantasy. She passes evidence of


brief violent struggle: a wall splashed with dried blood, a single shoe,


smashed equipment, ragged acid-scars in the deck.




She looks like a child now, moving through all this, small and alone. But not


helpless: she still moves with a cat's wariness, her gun ready.




Three face-huggers scuttle across at an intersection of corridors, tails


thrashing...




She comes to a door that opens onto Rodina's central hub, a large cylindrical


space surrounding a core of equipment. The door is ajar; she edges through...




Virtually the station's entire crew, perhaps a hundreds people, have been


cocooned along the multi-storey column, a bas-relief of human bodies and


glittering resin.




She stares from a railing, appalled, then slips through the door.




INT. ACHORPOINT -- OPS ROOM




Rosetti, Jackson, Bishop




                               JACKSON


               I don't know what they did down there, but it's


               screwed up internal comm-link for the whole


               area; I can't raise 'em...




One of Jackson's consoles CHIMES; her central screen suddenly glows with a


hi-rez simulation of Rodina.




                               JACKSON


                       (continuing)


               Rodina's got company...




EXT. SPACE




Silent approach of the U.P.P. cruiser Nikolai Stoiko, a vicious-looking mile-


long slab of armament. Stoiko slows, comes to an ominous halt.




INT. RODINA




The commando bolts down a corridor. Total desperation. She's lost her gun.


A CRASH behind her. The beast's shrill RAGE. She throws herself through the


first available door -- and sees the interceptor waiting. She scrambles up a


ladder, through the hatch, and frantically begins to activate systems. Sirens


begin to SOUND in the launch bay. The interceptor's hatch closes as the twin


gates of the bay begin to swing open -- and the beast is on her, striking at


the view-port in the hatch, inches from her face. She flips open a safety-


override on the interceptor's joystick and thumbs a red button.




EXT. RODINA




Total overdrive: the interceptor BLASTS out through the half open gates in a


fireball of exhaust gases, the beast and the service ladder tumbling after


it...




EXT. SPACE -- STOIKO




Something streak from the bow of the cruiser...




INT. ANCHORPOINT -- OPS ROOM




Jackson huddled over her screen.




                               JACKSON


               Missile!




EXT. SPACE -- RODINA -- INTERCEPTOR IN F.G.




The U.P.P. missile takes out the station. Whiteout of nuclear EXPLOSION; the


interceptor is a black blot tumbling toward us like a singed leaf in a


whirlwind...




INT. OPS ROOM




The simulation of Rodina on Jackson's screen is surrounded by an expanding


blue sphere. The sphere stops expanding. The simulation blurs into digital


static, fades as the sphere begins to contract...




                               JACKSON


               Nuked 'em!  Twenty megs!  That coded


               transmission...




                               ROSETTI


               Send Mayday.




                               JACKSON


               I don't believe it!  They send for help, their


               own people nuked 'em!




                               HICKS


                       (quietly)


               Maybe they asked for it...




                               ROSETTI


               That's an order, Jackson!




Bishop looks at Rosetti as though he's about to offer an opinion, but doesn't.




                               JACKSON


               Maybe they'll nuke us too...




                               BISHOP


               No.  They're leaving...




EXT. SPACE -- STOIKO




The cruiser begins to move, accelerates, is gone.




INT. OPS ROOM




                               ROSETTI


               Bastards!




                               JACKSON


               Yeah.  And they violated the fucking arms treaty,


               too, didn't they?  Well, Colonel Rosetti, how


               about a situation update?  We got, lessee, fifty-


               six missing crew members as of fifteen hundred


               hours...




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. THE MALL




Deserted. The only SOUNDS are Muzak and the trickles of an artificial


waterfall. Some signs of trouble: an overturned trash canister, someone's


red nylon baseball cap on the polished concrete.




Walker strolls around a corner beside the bar with a pulse-rifle, grenades,


and assorted gadgetry slung across his chest. Goes to the bar entrance,


nudges the door open with the barrel of the rifle. Nobody there. Same soccer


game on the big screen, but the sound is off. Silent cheering crowd rising to


its feet, the flicker of the holo-game consoles. He glances around the mall,


enters. Crosses to the bar, checks behind it, then fishes up a big plastic


jug of liquor. Opens it, drink from the jug.




Behind him, a mug topples, CLATTERS on the floor. He slowly lowers the


liquor to the counter; just as slowly, he turns. A beast is there, waiting,


beyond the Glimmer of the holo-games.




Walker and the beast move simultaneously. But he doesn't go for his gun -- he


grabs the control unit hanging on his chest.




An unmanned power-loader walks straight through the glass facade, plowing


tables and chairs out of its way, big vise-grip claws extended. The Alien


SCREAMS, leaps for it, but the steel claws close and grip.




Walker twiddles the controls; the power-loader responds, pinning the Alien


against the wall. The Alien writhes and HISSES, striking furiously at the


hydraulic arm. Walker tightens the grip, locks the loader in place. Picks up


the jug of liquor and has another swallow.




                               WALLACE


               Fuck you.




Beat. As his satisfied grin is replaced by something else. The Change...




INT. ECO-MODULE




Artificial dusk. Spence is crossing the mirco-meadow with a wire basket of


food the module's population of small primates. Moths flutter through


narrowing beams of sunlight as the louvers gradually close overhead. CRICKETS


in the long grass.




She enters the scaled-down forest, ducking branches, and Spanish moss. Begins


to make Tk-tk-tk sound, calling the lemur, the monkeys...




And stops. Suddenly aware of a stillness, an absolute silence. Even the


crickets...




She turns -- gasps. The primates have been cocooned in the branches of a


tree. And screams as something pounces on her from above, the transformed


lemur: a very small Alien. She bats the thing away with the strength of


desperation. It hits the ground HISSING; she hurls the basket of food at it


and bolts from the forest, sobbing.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




INT. A TUNNEL




WHINE of an approaching engine. The six-wheeled carrier come INTO VIEW,


Hicks driving, alone. His face is fixed, white. The carrier slews against


the tunnel wall, strikes sparks, bounces off. He hardly seems to notice. He


plows into a row of big plastic crates, tumbling them like a child's blocks,


bringing the vehicle to a halt. Beat. He look up from the controls: the


doors of a freight elevator.




INT. A CORRIDOR OFF THE MALL




Automatic CHIME as elevator doors open, revealing Hicks and his gun.




INT. THE MALL




Hicks warily crosses the Mall. SOUND of perpetual Muzak. He eyes the


wreckage of the bar, but keeps moving. Into stuttering neon light from one of


the shops. HISS and CRACKLE of bad wiring. He move toward the shop, gun


ready.




INT. SHOP




Hicks enters, surveys the wreckage of display cases, scattered 21st century


consumer toys.




He finds five cocoons at the read of the shop.




INT. THE MALL




LONG on the shop. Beat. SOUND of five rounds from the pulse-rifle. With the


last shot, the neon flicker dies. Muzak stops.




Hicks emerges, continues across the Mall.




Arrives at the elevator-like entrance to the mini-subway, punches in his


destination ("OPS" lights up in red). Muffled SOUND of the breaking car; the


door HISSES open -- on Spence, both hands white-knuckled on the loop of a


hanger-strap, the car an abattoir, red with the blood of Transformation.


Shredded clothing and rags of flesh.




                               HICKS


               Spence...




She screams.




INT. OPS ROOM




Rosetti and Jackson are hunched over the screens as Hicks enters with Spence


over his shoulder, brushing past two nervous Marines at the door. Bishop is


making calculations on a console in the b.g. Hicks eases Spence down into a


chair.




                               JACKSON


               Revised ETA fro the Kansas City's another


               thirteen hours...




                               HICKS


                       (yanking Rosetti around


                        in his chair)


               Things don't look so shit hot out there right


               now, Rosetti.  What about rigging the fusion


               package?




                               ROSETTI


                       (to Jackson; ignoring Hicks)


               Sound the general alert, routine lifeboat


               drill...




                               HICKS


               A general fucking alert?  Lifeboat drill?  Who


               the hell you think's gonna be left to pick up?


               I say we do the fusion package now!




                               JACKSON


                       (wearily; without looking


                        up from her screen)


               Hicks, you took out the scrubber, the main air-


               scrubber.  Pretty soon there isn't going to be


               anything to breathe in here.  We'd by okay for


               about five days, except you also started an


               electrical fire and we got no way to put it out.


               The crew's down to one-twenty-eight.




                               HICKS


                       (stunned)


               More than half...?




                               JACKSON


               That's what I said.




                               HICKS


               And you haven't rigged the place to blow?




                               JACKSON


                       (glances at Rosetti)


               No.




                               ROSETTI


                       (as if noticing him


                        for the first time)


               You'll lead the group from this sector, Hicks.


               At the alert, they'll gather at blue assembly


               points.  Proceed to the nearest lifeboat bay...




                               BISHOP


                       (approaching Rosetti with a


                        single sheet of printout)


               Colonel, my analysis indicates that a minimum


               of one fifth of the one hundred and twenty-


               eight remaining crew are already incubating


               the --




                               ROSETTI


                       (on the edge of hysteria)


               Listen to me, you motherless zombie!  Those are


               people!  Can't you understand that?  And we're


               going to get them out!




                               BISHOP


               Yes, Colonel, I...




                               ROSETTI


                       (to Hicks)


               You have your orders!




                               HICKS


               I don't leave here until Jackson sets it to blow,


               Rosetti.  Got that?  Kansas City shows up, maybe


               there's nobody left for them to pick up.  Then


               what?  They'll send a boarding party in here!




                               JACKSON


               I can't.  The fusion package is under the


               scrubber, Hicks.  You trashed the wiring, man.


               That's where the fire is.  Those lines.  I can't


               link through.  I can't set it.




                               BISHOP


               I'll go; I'll get it manually.




                               HICKS


               I'll go with you.




                               BISHOP


               No.  Assist with the...


                       (glances down at the figures


                        on the sheet of printout)


               The evacuation.




                               JACKSON


                       (to Rosetti)


               You just want to get your own ass out of here,


               don't you?  They couldn't have done this without


               you approval, could they?




                               SPENCE


               Hick!




As one of the Marine guards stumbles forward, dropping his weapon, hands


upraised in claws of agony --




                               MARINE


               Please, I...




He trips, fall across Jackson's console and the barrel of Hick's gun -- as


half a dozen New Model Chest-bursters erupt simultaneously from his torso in


a spray of blood. Hicks bellow, jumps back, grabbing Spence.




The chest bursters tumble from the body of the dead Marine, scuttle into the


shadows; one leaves a trail of small bloody prints across Jackson's keyboard.




                               HICKS


               Out!  Out of here!




INT. CORRIDOR




Hicks, Spence, Bishop, Rosetti, Jackson, and the remaining Marine guard hustle


along, Hicks and Bishop bringing up the rear. Rosetti carries the dead


Marine's pulse-rifle. Bishop touches Hick's shoulder as they reach the


intersection.




                               BISHOP


               I'll try to give you an hour.  Overload at


               twenty-two hundred.




                               HICKS


                       (quietly; doesn't want


                        the others to hear)


               Blow it.  That's what matters.




EXTREME CLOSEUP on Hick's watch as her set the alarm for 2200 hours.




                               BISHOP


               Yes.




Bishop splits off, down another corridor, running.




INT. LIFEBOAT ASSEMBLY POINT




Another intersection of corridors. A pathetic remnant of Anchorpoint's crew


cluster beneath a flashing blue light. A dozen people, including HALLIDAY,


a woman Spence's age; TATSUMI (male Japanese); a LAB TECH (male).




                               ROSETTI


               Where are the others?  There should be thirty


               people here...




                               HALLIDAY


                       (dazed and confused)


               I can't find Tom.  What is it?  What's going on?


               He was just here.  I mean there.  But then...




                               JACKSON


               Forget it, he's probably already on the boat.


               You know him, right?  C'mon, we're getting out


               of here ourselves...




Hicks pulls a service automatic from his vest and slips it to Jackson.




                               HICKS


                       (under his breath)


               Keep an eye on everybody, okay, Ops?




                               JACKSON


                       (to the others)


               Okay!  You all know the Goddamn drill!  Done it


               often enough, right?  We're taking A-52 to Blue


               Concourse.  We stick together.  We'll meet up


               with two others groups at Bay Five and proceed


               to board...




                               TATSUMI


               What is happening, please?




                               JACKSON


               What's happening is we're getting on the boats!


               Move!




INT. THE MALL




Dense haze of smoke from burning insulation; half the lights are out. A body


floats face down in the pool at the foot of the waterfall; the pool is


overflowing, splashing on polished concrete. Bishop emerges from a doorway


and hurries along toward the freight elevator. He freezes. Hears something


else. Moves quietly in the direction of the SOUND. The bar. He peers into


the wreckage. Four Aliens are at work, cocooning their prey. Cocooned


bodies -- CLOSE on the face of Shuman -- have been glued to the big screen,


where silent images of the soccer game repeat endlessly. Bishop stares, then


turns -- looks up.




A Queen. The thing towers above him in the Mall, utterly still.




Beat.




He takes a step backward. Another.




The Queen's head sways.




Another step. He bolts for the elevator.




The Queen screams her rage, scrambles after him like a famished mantis.




He's reached the elevator -- stabs desperately at the controls -- as the doors


open and he's through, punching more buttons -- as the Queen strikes, her


first blow buckling the steel doors.




INT. FREIGHT ELEVATOR




Her huge stinger lashes in through the gap, whipping and slicing, Bishop


braced up straight in a corner, hand still on the controls. The elevator


GROANS, SHUDDERS, begins to descend, then jams in the shaft. The stinger


whips back out. SOUND of rending metal as the Queen continues her attack.




INT. A CORRIDOR AT BULKHEAD HATCH




Jackson ducks through first, still wearing her Ops cap. Rosetti next, then


Spence, helping Halliday; the others follow, Hicks bringing up the rear.


Hicks pauses, looks back through the hatch. Hears a distant CRASH, an


inhuman cry. Takes a small bat of plastic explosive from his vest and


squashes it against the edge of the bulkhead. Pulls a grenade from his


harness, twists its neck in the delay-detonate combination, sticks in into the


plastique, closes the hatch, and runs.




The smoke is getting worse.




INT. BLUE CONSOURSE




Another of the white-tiled traffic-tunnels, this one identified by a wide band


of blue along either side. A small vehicle has overturned, amid blood and


torn clothing. Jackson and her party are skirting the wreck as Hicks catches


up with them. Jackson whirls at the SOUND of running feet, bringing up the


pistol.




                               HICKS


               Easy, Jackson!




                               JACKSON


               Where y'been?




A distant EXPLOSION shakes the tunnel, jarring loose several tiles.




                               HICKS


                       (low, so the others


                        won't hear)


               They're following us.  Left 'em something to


               slow 'em down.




                               JACKSON


               Might as well.  Just try not to put a hole in


               the hull, okay?


                       (coughs)


               Remember the air-scrubber...




                               HICKS


               Let's move.




INT. FREIGHT ELEVATOR




Bishop on his knees, running his hands delicately over the ribbed plastic


flooring. The Queen HISSES, BASHES the door. He finds a seam, levers up with


his nails, gets a grip. Pulls. Sense of his android strength as the flooring


comes up on pale streamers of super-glue. The elevator shakes with the


Queen's fury. He finds a section of the floor that can be removed. Forces


the glue-caked catches. Slams down with the heel of his hand -- the panel


falls away, tumbling through smoke toward a point of fire-glow at the shaft's


distant foot.




INT. SHAFT




Bishop lowers himself through the opening, dangles. An emergency service-


ladder is recessed in one wall. He tries to reach one of the rungs with his


foot, but the toe of his boot slips. Too far. He begins to swing back and


forth like a gymnast, building momentum -- and lets go. Falls six feet before


he manages to get a grip.




He begins to descend the ladder. It's a long way down.




INT. BLUE CONSOURSE




The lifeboat party emerges, coughing, from a wall of acrid smoke.




REACTION SHOT




dismay and amazement.




The tunnel has been sealed with a plug of Alien resin. Human bones, weapons,


and Marine helmets protrude from the biomech convolutions of the resin-wall.


Another of the six-wheeled military vehicles carriers is skewed across the


tunnel in a pool of blood.




                               ROSETTI


               It doesn't want us to get out...




                               HICKS


               Bugs.  Just fucking bugs... C'mon.


                       (he climbs into the driver's


                        seat of the carrier)


               We're taking the bus.  Which way, Ops?




                               JACKSON


                       (getting in beside him)


               Way we came, unless you think of something


               better.




                               HALLIDAY


               What's he mean, "bugs"?  What is that thing?


                       (pointing at the resin-plug)


               Where's Tom?  Where's Tom?




                               SPENCE


                       (taking her arm; leading


                        her to the carrier)


               It'll be okay.  Here, get up... There was an


               experiment.  It got out of control.  We have


               to go...




                               TATSUMI


               What kind of experiment?




                               HICKS


                       (throwing the carrier into


                        gear; cutting off their


                        questions)


               Come on!




INT. BLUE CONCOURSE




TRACKING on carrier, CLOSE on Hicks and Jackson. She takes a flat gadget from


her jacket and flips it open; a miniature computer-map on anchorpoint, like a


pocket video game.




As she wiggles a tiny joystick, EXTREME CLOSEUP on miniature color screen;


she's looking for an alternate route to the lifeboats.




                               JACKSON


                       (still studying the map)


               Left at B-83.  We'll cut through Aquaculture,


               up to level to Aeroponics.  We can get into


               Residential from there, then it's up a service


               tunnel behind the central mainframe...




                               HICKS


               Sounds complicated.




                               JACKSON


               Quickest way.




Flips the map shut. Spence is trying to comfort Halliday.




INT. AQUACULTURE FARM




An automated fish farm; factory space ranged with dozens of waist-high round


white vats of dark green water. Low ceiling, dim light. Sweeps rotate


slowly across the water in some vats; others are still, with floating green


vegetation.




Hicks leads the party along a narrow aisle between the vats. Jackson pauses


to check her map and watch; Hicks light a cigarette, leans his elbow against


the nearest vat.




                               JACKSON


               We're doing okay...




The surface of the water behind Hicks' elbow erupts as the fish go into a feed


frenzy. He yelps and jumps back, dropping his cigarette.




                               SPENCE


               Bass.  They're just hungry... Ready to be


               harvested.




                               HICKS


               Sure.  Let's get out of here, okay?




The others follow, keeping their distance from the vats.




INT. ELEVATOR SHAFT




Bishop jumps down, dodges a dangling power cable, squints through the smoke.


Finds a manual emergency level that opens the shaft's door.




INT. TUNNEL




A blast of air fans the flames behind him as he steps out. The carrier is


there, among the scattered crates, where Hicks left it. Bishop climbs in,


tries the power. A feeble whine. Touches another button. The dash flashes


"BATTERY RECHARGE." He climbs down an sets off along the tunnel at a jog.




INT. AEROPONICS FARM




State of the art. Epcot-style soilless cultivation. Tall A-frame structures


of white styrofoam are studded with hundreds of precisely spaced plants, their


roots watered by periodic bursts of high-pressure mist. Vegetables sprout


from the sides of tapering styrofoam columns. All of the wreathed in mist


under brilliant halogen lamps.




Hicks scans the chamber, gun ready, as the party emerges from a hatch in the


white deck behind him. Spence has to help Halliday, whose cheeks are streaked


with tears. Rosetti's up last, clutching his pulse-rifle a bit too tightly,


eyes darting around the chamber.




                               HICKS


               Keep the safety on, Colonel.  You could hurt


               somebody.




He kneels beside the hatch, takes plastique and a grenade from his harness,


and slaps together another bomb.




                               ROSETTI


               What are you doing?




                               HICKS


               They may be following us.




He closes the hatch over the charge and locks it. Halliday starts to weep


hysterically in Spence's arms; goes to her knees, the tries to curl into a


fetal position on the white deck, shuddering, crying like a child. Rosetti


rushes over as Spence is trying to get her to her feet.




                               ROSETTI


               They'll hear you!




Rosetti slaps Halliday's face, hard; eliciting a piercing scream. Spence --


no hesitation -- punches him solidly in the face; his head snaps back and he's


down, reaching for his rifle.




Tableau: Spence furious, ready to kick ass; Halliday wide-eyed, stunned into


silence by Spence's move; Rosetti with blood on his mouth and his hand on his


gun.




                               JACKSON


                       (to Rosetti; cocking


                        her gun)


               Try it.




Hicks breaks the spell:




                               HICKS


                       (drill sergeant bellow)


               Two minute fuse!  Hall ass people!




The Lab Tech grabs Halliday, throws her over his shoulder, and runs. The


others scramble after him, including Rosetti, whose drive to self-preservation


is paramount. Hicks and Spence take up the rear.




Hicks shoots her a grin as they run.




LONG SHOT down the aisle of aeroponic greenery, high-tech Hanging Gardens of


Babylon, the lifeboat party approaching. Behind them, the hatch lifts off its


hinges with the EXPLOSION, CRASHES back in a tangle of metal. Several of the


party are thrown to the deck.




                               JACKSON


                       (quietly; urgently; as the


                        others pick themselves up)


               Hicks!




                               HICKS


               Yeah?




                               JACKSON


               Look...




She points down another aisle of aeroponic structures.




                               JACKSON


                       (continuing)


               What the hell's that?




Two of the Styrofoam structures have been overgrown with a grayish parody of


vegetation, glistening vine-like structures and bulbous sacs the echo the


Alien biomech motif. Patches of thick black mold spread to the styrofoam


and the white deck.




                               HICKS


               It was... cabbages or something...




                               TATSUMI


                       (with the others)


               Come, please, Jackson!  Which way?




                               JACKSON


                       (gripping Hicks' arm;


                        pulling him along)


               Spence said it did her monkeys, too...


                       (raising her voice)


               Third door to the right!




INT. TUNNEL NEAR FUSION PACKAGE




Bishop comes loping down the tunnel, a certain effortless regularity evident


in his run. Makes a turn into the chamber that houses the fusion package,


Anchorpoint's power source. The chamber is spotless, well lit; the only sign


of the current disaster is the smoke. The fusion package itself is no bigger


than a Volkswagen bus, but it's obviously Anchorpoint's heart. Bishop climbs


a narrow metal stairway to an overhanging control booth resembling the


inverted turrent of a streamlined tank. A mirrored disk is mounted on the


face of the armored hatch, above a small slot.




                               SECURITY PROGRAM (V.O.)


                       (bland feminine synthi-voice)


               Please identify yourself.




Bishop removes his dogtags. As he inserts one in the slot, he presses the


palm on his other hand against the mirrored surface.




                               BISHOP


               Bishop, Science Officer, Hyperdyne A-slash-5,


               Mark 3, serial number PL3358172438.  Permission


               to inspect software safety protocols.




                               SECURITY PROGRAM (V.O.)


               Permission denied.  Inadequate rank.  Please


               refer request to your immediate supervisor.




The slot tries to reject his tag. He shove it back in.




                               BISHOP


               Emergency protocols.  Code Theta Five Three.


               Authority Rosetti comma Shuman.




                               SECURITY PROGRAM (V.O.)


               Permission denied.  Inadequate rank.  Please


               refer request to your immediate supervisor.




It ejects his tag. He drops his hand from the disk, stares at his reflection


in the mirrored surface. Blinks. Re-inserts dog tags, palm on disk again.




                               BISHOP


               Emergency protocols.  Code Theta Five Three.


               Authority Welles comma Fox.




The door HISSES open instantly. He climbs in.




INT. CONTROL BOOTH




Surgically clean, unused -- Jackson ordinarily runs the show from Operations.


Bishop settles into the operator's chair, facing three blank monitors.




                               BISHOP


               Protocols, safety.




The central screen displays an elaborate menu.




                               BISHOP


                       (continuing)


               Overload failsafes.




The left screen displays a shorter menu.




                               BISHOP


                       (continuing)


               Bypass overload failsafes.




A red light begins to flash.




                               SECURITY PROGRAM (V.O.)


               Permission denied.  Inadequate rank.  Please


               refer --




                               BISHOP


               Cancel request.  Request display overload


               failsafe software.




                               SECURITY PROGRAM (V.O.)


               Permission denied.  Inadequate rank.  Please


               refer --




                               BISHOP


               Authority Welles comma Fox --




The right screen displays an animated diagram, thousands of interweaving lines


and symbols, moving ceaselessly, hypnotically. Bishop studies the screen with


Zen calm, his hands poised like a pianist's above the keyboard.




And makes his move, a cybernetic reprise of the knife sequence that introduced


him in "ALIENS." His fingers blur across the board with inhuman speed and


accuracy as he races the fusion softwares's security system.




The lines on the screen squirm and shift, A "window" begins to open...




Faster.




Done.




Bishop gazes at the screen with might be the android equivalent of postcoital


satisfaction, eyes bright. The screen displays a message:




               "OVERLOAD OPTION RESET"




He beings to reprogram the overload options.




INT. RESIDENTAL (MARRIED CREW QUARTERS)




A maze of walls, doors (most of them open). Lights are on, but the smoke is


thicker. Coughing, choking, Jackson shoves past the others into a large


communal kitchen. On an electric range, smoke pours from a pot. She grabs an


extinguisher and blasts the pot's blackened contents, turns off the element.


Smoke abates slightly.




The quarters have an eerie Marie Celeste quality: food and drink on the table,


a pack of cigarettes beside an ashtray. Spence pockets the cigarettes as she


passes; Hicks opens a large white thermos: steam. He sloshes coffee into a


cup and drinks.




In the next room, a communal lounge, Spence leads Halliday to a couch and


sinks down beside her, head in hands. Rosetti leans against an entertainment


console, face blank, gingerly rubbing his split lip.




                               SPENCE


                       (head down)


               It's funny, but I had to win a contest to go


               through this.  A science fair in Omaha, first in


               biology for all of Nebraska.  Monoclonal


               antibodies...


                       (she looks up at Rosetti)


               Then I got into Cornell.  Another contest.  It


               wasn't easy, getting out here.  We all must've


               wanted it so bad, a whole generation, or anyway


               the ones like me.




                               ROSETTI


                       (looks at her wearily)


               Idealists.




                               SPENCE


               Yeah.  I guess so.  Build a new world, find ways


               to live in it... But it wasn't supposed to be


               like this.  And it might've worked.  It almost


               did.  Now look at it.  Ending...




She sits up and hugs Halliday, whose eyes are shut tight.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing)


               What I want to know, mister, is why we had to


               bring you?




                               ROSETTI


                       (massages his temples, then


                        looks at her levelly)


               Funding.




                               SPENCE


               Yeah.  I guess you're right.  You paid for it,


               I guess you get to fuck it up.




                               HICKS


                       (tossing her an apple)


               C'mon, time to move.  Get her up?




                               SPENCE


               Sure.




She gets Halliday unsteadily to her feet.




They move out in a tight group, Jackson leading, Hicks taking up the rear,


Spence biting resolutely into her apple.




ANGLE THROUGH A DOORWAY -- REACTION SHOT




as Halliday's eyes fill with a new and deep horror.




ANGLE -- THE ROOM




is a preschool, a cr_che, scattered with toys, the walls tapes with children's


paintings.




                               HALLIDAY


               O God...




Spence and the Lab Tech hurry her on, out of the cr_che. Halliday snatches a


ragdoll from a shelf as they pass...




INT. TUNNEL AWAY FROM FUSION PACKAGE




Bishop heads for the elevator shaft at his usual steady pace. Approaches the


open doors cautiously. Listens. Nothing. He edges in. Empty. The circuit


fire has died down; melted insulation still SPUTTERS. He looks up the shaft.


A long climb. He can make out the bottom of the elevator. He reaches up,


grabs a rung, sets his left boot on another, straightens up -- and drives the


jagged and of his broken knee joint through the side of his leg and the fabric


of his fatigues in a gout of milky android blood. Hits the floor hard, the


broken leg splayed at the hideous angle, the white fluid a widening pool.




Struggles to brace his shoulders against the wall. And reaches out to touch


the ragged edge of artificial bone.




                               BISHOP


                       (a scientific observation)


               Polycarbon...




INT. ENTRANCE TO FOOT OF MAINFRAME SERVICE SHAFT




leaving residential. Hicks and Jackson chivvy the party through a low, floor-


level service hatch.




INT. SERVICE SHAFT




Party's POV, looking up: ladders, platforms, catwalks, bundles of fiberoptic


lines linking the components of Achorpoint's computer mainframe, drifting


smoke. The bundles loops of fiberoptics have a faint, pearlescent glow.


Hicks, as usual is last up the ladder.




INT. LADDERS IN SERVICE SHAFT -- VARIOUS ANGLES




The party, climbing. Halliday still has the ragdoll. Hicks up last.




INT. PLATFORM IN SERVICE SHAFT




The Marine guard from Ops emerges through a narrow opening, Spence and


Halliday follow -- and an Alien strikes from the shadows, ripping out his


throat. Spence drives for his rifle as it skids across the platform. Screams


from the ladder below. The gun slips through her fingers, over the edge --


gone. Halliday cringes in a corner, cradling the ragdoll in her arms, as the


Alien butchers the dead Marine, slashing the corpse to ribbons with its tail.


It HISSES, turns its head. Spence freezes.




INT. LADDER IN SERVICE SHAFT




Hicks is desperately trying to fight his way past the others, climbing over


them --




INT. PLATFROM IN SERVICE SHAFT




Spence snatches a drum of cable from a service cart and hurls it at the Alien,


distracting it from Halliday.




The beast springs toward Spence, bet she's already scrambling out along a


fragile-looking catwalk that quakes with her passage. The Alien pursues her


into the forest of cables with a hideous agility. Hicks clambers up through


the opening, too late. Spence and the Alien are out of sight.




INT. FIBEROPTIC FOREST




Spence flattened against the mainframe, heart thumping, terrified. Takes a


breath, look out between two glowing trunks of cable. Sees the Alien's back,


fifteen feet away. She bites her lip and slips out, runs. It SCREECHES


behind her. She blunders into another wall. A ladder. Up the rungs, fast.


Into a short narrow space lit by a single blue emergency light. No way out.


She moves forward, hands sliding over a jumble of containers. SOUND of the


beast swarming up the ladder. She's below the blue bulb now, looks down at


her hand on a flat plastic case stenciled "COLONIAL TRANS AP-49 FLARE SIGNAL


OXY-ATMOSPHERIC 20MM." She tears at the catches --




The beast is almost on her.




She turns, bringing up the huge flare-pistol, and FIRES. The beast is blown


backwards, off its feet, the igniting magnesium flare a white-hot chemical


star burning in its guts as it flips back over the edge.




INT. PLATFORM IN SERVICE SHAFT




Hicks and the Lab Three see the burning Alien's fall as a weird pulse of light


through the translucent cables.




                               LAB TECH


               What -- ?




                               HICKS


                       (yells)


               Spence!  Yo!  Spence!




Hicks crosses the catwalk, followed by the Lab Tech.




Halliday stares after them over the head of her ragdoll.




INT. PLATFORM IN SERVICE SHAFT




The others have climbed up now. They watch Hicks, the Lab Tech, and Spence


recross the catwalk. Spence has the flare-pistol around her neck on a


lanyard.




                               JACKSON


                       (checks her watch)


               Okay, people!  Gotta move it now.  Start


               climbing!




                               HICKS


               Halliday!




She rushes to the spot where we last saw Halliday. The ragdoll lies on the


deck. Spence grabs it up, flings it instantly away at the touch of slime.




                               SPENCE


                       (screaming)


               No!  No!




Hicks pulls an olive-drab aerosol unit fro his medical pack and drenches her


hand with spray.




                               HICKS


               Jackson's right.  We gotta move.




Rosetti is already starting up the ladder.




INT. ELEVATOR SHAFT




Bishop, climbing. He has his web belt cinched tight around his left thigh.


The splintered bone is out of sight; the leg of his fatigues, below the belt,


is soaked with fluid. He uses his arms and right leg to climb, the left leg


swaying free -- grotesquely, in too many directions, like the limb of a


broken puppet.




He shows signs of stress. The right knee might break at the next rung... He


places it carefully, taking up most of his weight on his arms.




He checks his watch.




EXTREME CLOSEUP: 2140 HOURS.




BISHOP'S POV -- UP THE SHAFT




It looks like forever.




INT. SERVICE SHAFT




Jackson uses a pistol-grip power-driver to unscrew a ventilator grill. Hicks


shines his light into the opening, then crawls in. Jackson follows, then


Rosetti...




INT. DUCT




Hands and knees, single file and barely room for that. Hicks has his


flashlight clipped bayonet-style to his rifle. Jackson behind him, her cap


reversed.




                               HICKS


               How we doin'?




Jackson stops crawling; flips open her map, her features visible in the glow


of the tiny screen.




                               JACKSON


               Looks like another ten meters.  Then we're into


               K-58-A and straight to the boat bays.




                               ROSETTI (V.O.)


                       (hollow echo)


               Move!  Hurry!




                               HICKS


               Yes, sir.




They move forward.




INT. CORRIDOR -- DUCT EXIT




Hicks and Jackson prepare to pull the others one at a time from the waist-high


opening. It's evident that the duct, at this point, slants sharply down


from the opening; it's round and smooth and difficult to climb.




INT. DUCT




From below, members of the party wedge their way up with knees and elbows.




INT. CORRIDOR -- DECT EXIT




Hicks and Jackson pull Rosetti from the duct, both his hands locked around his


pulse-rifle; then the Lab Tech; then Spence; they reach the Tatsumi...




SCREAMS and frenzied BANGING from the duct. Tatsumi's eyes pop wide open and


he screams. Hicks braces his boot against the wall and hauls him out -- with


the jaws of a freshly-transformed new beast locked on his leg. Hicks whirls


his rifle like an axe, the butt slamming into the thing's head. It HISSES


and twists back into the duct.




INT. DUCT -- POV OF THE TRAPPED FIVE




as the beast slides toward them down smooth steel.




INT. CORRIDOR -- DUCT EXIT




Rosetti thrusts the barrel out of his pulse-rifle past Hicks, into the duct,


and FIRES on full auto, emptying his magazine. Jackson drives for the gun as


Hicks snaps him off his feet with a roundhouse punch. The back of Rosetti's


head slams against the opposite wall and he slides to the deck.




Jackson's on him before he can recover, practically jamming the muzzle of the


pulse-rifle down his throat.




                               JACKSON


               Y'know, always been part of me wanted to kill


               one of you motherfuckers...




Rosetti looks up at her.




                               ROSETTI


               Go ahead.




Very quiet. No sound at all from the duct. Tatsumi whimpers between clenched


teeth as a wisp of acid smoke rises from his torn trouser leg. Hicks shines


his light down into the duct.




                               HICKS


               Oh man... Forget it, Jackson.  Anyway, it's


               empty.




He tosses her a fresh magazine.




                               SPENCE


               Hicks!  The light!




She and the Lab Tech are crouching beside Tatsumi, slitting his pantleg with a


knife, exposing the wound.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing)


               Watch out, it's on the cloth...




The Lab Tech yelps as a droplet of acid touches his hand. Hicks unclips his


light and passes it to Spence.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing)


               On my God...




The Alien has taken a bite the size of a small grapefruit out of Tatsumi's


calf; flesh and muscle are blackened, charred by the acid.




                               HICKS


                       (unclipping a flat plastic


                        kit from his harness)


               What's his name?




                               JACKSON


               Tatsumi...




                               HICKS


               Cocktail for ya, Tatsumi.




He opens the kit, takes out a gun-shaped hypo with a pressure tank.




                               HICKS


                       (continuing)


               Can't get this on the Ginza, fella.  Six times


               stronger than heroin, about eight other things


               in there to keep you up an' rockin'...




He jabs the needle through Tatsumi's pantleg; the unit HISSES.




                               HICKS


                       (continuing)


               Get a Marine a year in the brig, playin' R&R


               with one of these...




Tatsumi moan softly as the shot hits him. Very clearly, in Japanese, he asks


if it's time to go back on duty.




                               LAB TECH


               Wha'd he say?




                               SPENCE


               I don't know...




                               HICKS


               We'll have to carry him.


                       (passes Spence a sterile


                        dressing pack from his


                        harness)


               Think you can get a dressing on that?  Not


               bleeding much.  Like it's cauterized.


                       (to Rosetti)


               Get up, we're moving.


                       (to Jackson)


               Think you better hang on to the Colonel's rifle.




INT. MALL -- ENTERANCE TO FREIGHT ELEVATOR




The doors look as though someone's gone after them with a giant can opener;


they're ragged, gaping. Bishop's hands suddenly appear in the opening in the


floor, grip the edge; he hauls himself up, arms quivering with strain. Last


thing through is the useless leg; he has to pull it up with both hands.




He looks anxiously out into the mall. Nothing moving, no Aliens in sight.


The queen's attack as torn loose a strip of alloy trim. Bishop bends it


double for strength and begins to work it beneath the belt around his thigh,


still keeping an eye on the mall.




INT. CORRIDOR TO ASSEMBLY POINT -- LIFEBOAT BAY




Hicks and Jackson slogging along, dragging Tatsumi between them, Spence with


the flare pistol, then Rosetti and the Lab Tech. Smoke hangs in strata.


Spence coughs. They're all feeling Anchorpoint's fire-depleted oxygen-level.


Tatsumi looks terrible: flushed, eyes glazed, but he's feeling no pain. He


weakly attempts to sing a snatch of a Japanese pop song. CLOSEUP on his


bandaged leg leaving a trail of yellow drops...




                               LAB TECH


               That's right, man.  Not long now.




                               HICKS


               Hey, Jackson -- Goddamn, you were right.




He's pointing his pulse-rifle at a plastic sign mounted on the corridor wall:




               LIFEBOAT BAY 20 METERS




                               JACKSON


                       (grins)


               Sure.  Hadda map, didn't I?




They round a corner. Ahead is one of the blue lights and another sign:




               LIFEBOAT LAUNCH ASSEMBLY POINT




                               SPENCE


               The others groups... Where's everybody else?




                               HICKS


               Hell, they coulda launched already...




                               JACKSON


               No.




She's looking at a wall panel with LEDs that indicate launch status of the


lifeboats.




                               JACKSON


                       (continuing)


               The boats are all here.




                               LAB TECH


               Then nobody else made it...




Rosetti ignores them, keeps walking.




                               JACKSON


                       (looking after Rosetti)


               I shoulda greased him.




                               HICKS


               Shit.  What's the point?




                               JACKSON


               The point?  The point's he let 'em run their


               fucking experiments!  He coulda stopped 'em!


               But he didn't!  You tried, man, you and Bishop...


               He let 'em do it!




                               HICKS


               Shit no.  He's just brass.  He's just like you


               an' me, to the people who brought this down.


               Wouldn't do any good to grease them either.




                               JACKSON


               Bullshit!  What not?




                               HICKS


               Because what you wanna grease is the company...




Rosetti breaks into a stumbling run as he nears the portal at the end of the


corridor, the entrance to the lifeboat bays.




CLOSEUP -- ROSETTI




frantically punching a combination. Wants that door to open. Gets it:


slides back smooth as silk, revealing a brightly lit room filled with pristine


space gear and an indeterminate number of Aliens, their appendages tangled


black and shiny as a fresh catch of eels.




                               ROSETTI


               No!  Goddamn it!  No!




ANGLE




The Aliens stir as he throws himself back down the corridor toward the others.


Hicks drops Tatsumi, who sags into Jackson's arms, and raises his rifle.


FIRES a bolt past Rosetti, into the heart of the mass. Rosetti claws his way


by as Spence lets loose with the flare-pistol. All the ammo she has but it's


a big red distress flare straight through the portal; it bursts, crimson


lightning, scattering the Aliens. Now everyone is backing down the corridor,


the way they came, Jackson burdened with Tatsumi. Rosetti fumbles with the


combination on another door. Hicks is SHOOTING as he retreats. Aliens come


darting out past the dying cherry brilliance of the flare, SCREAMING down the


corridor... The second door open for Rosetti -- he's through, the second Lab


Tech on his heels.




INT. AN OFFICE




Dark -- only light from the corridor, even less are Rosetti immediately tries


to slam and lock the door in Spence's face -- but the Lab Tech yanks him out


of the way. The others tumble in, Jackson with Tatsumi in a fireman's carry.


Hicks kicks the door shut and locks it -- as something SLAMS into it, hard.


Jackson lowers Tatsumi to the carpeted floor.




Hicks CLICKS the light on. Swings the muzzle of his gun around the room,


circle of light jumping from one thing to the next. An office, larger than


Rosetti's. 21st-century stylistics and a basic bureaucratic banality: fake


teak, imitation leather. Framed portraits of beaming Weyland Yutani bigshots.


Spence brushes a square object of a shelf -- the base of a small hologram-


projector. A glowing DNA helix springs up.




                               HICKS


               Don't touch anything...




                               LAB TECH


                       (to Jackson, pointing


                        at Rosetti)


               He tried to lock the door, lock us out...




                               JACKSON


                       (pulling the automatic


                        from her jacket)


               Rosetti...




                               HICKS


               Forget it.  That's what he wants.  You really


               wanna do 'im the favor?




                               JACKSON


               Waddya mean it's what he wants?




                               HICKS


               I've seen it before.  In combat.




Rosetti backs away from them.




                               SPENCE (V.O.)


               Hick, come here... I think it's Trent...




He finds her around the corner of a padded partition that screens a desk-


console from the rest of the room. His light finds the lab-coated corpse


sprawled in the chair behind the desk, a quarter of its skull blown away,


dried blood spattered across the bulkhead, a service automatic locked in rigid


fingers.




                               HICKS


                       (shrugs)


               Did himself.  Hey, Rosetti!  C'mere!




Rosetti looks around the edge of the partition, sees Trent.




                               HICKS


                       (continuing)


               That's it, man.  That's what it looks like.


               You don't chill out quick, somebody'll do the


               same for you.




                               ROSETTI


                       (stares at the corpse)


               Brilliant man.  Company man.  Very... ambitious.




Hicks takes the light off the corpse, plays it around the cubicle. A shredder,


empty file folders, a bulging plastic sack of shredded documents.




                               HICKS


               Yeah...




Hicks swings the light across the wall behind Trent's desk.




                               SPENCE


               The wall, Hicks!




She's spooked him; the safety's off the pulse-rifle. But there's nothing on


the wall, only framed diplomas, and between them a few stenciled letters...




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing)


               Jesus Christ!  It's a lock, Hicks!  Airlock!




She clambers over the desk console, shoves the corpse out the way, and tears


the diplomas from the wall, revealing the outline of a hatch and the


stenciled notice:




               EMERGENCY AIRLOCK - EXIT TO HULL-SECTOR 308




A CRASH from the corridor as Alien hurls itself against the door.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing)


               It's a chance!  The only chance we've got!  We


               get out on the hull, cross to the boats.  We can


               try to get into one that way, from outside...




Hicks looks down at his watch. 2146 HOURS. If Bishop's managed to set the


fusion package to blow at 2200 hours -- they don't have a hope in hell.




But why spoil it for Spence?




                               HICKS


               Let's go for it.




Spence hauls on the red airline-style inset handle of the emergency airlock.


The handle flips down and the hatch pivots smoothly open, a light inside goes


on, and the eternal synthi-voice announces:




                               ANNONCEMENT


               This is a five-man emergency atmosphere lock,


               exit to Hull Sector Three-oh-eight, equipped


               with five Mark Twelve emergency suits.  Each


               Mark Twelve suit is charged with a two-hour


               air supply and is equipped with automatic radar


               beacon, inter-suit radio, and magnetic sole


               plates.  It you should experience difficulty


               with either the O-rings of the velcro strips,


               please activate the secondary program for


               additional advice.




                               JACKSON


               There's six of us...




Space suits swings from a rack, each helmet a different color. Rosetti's


pressed up close behind her, eyes fixed on the suits.




                               JACKSON


                       (continuing)


               Fuck off, Rosetti; anybody stays, it's you




                               LAB TECH (O.S.)


               Light, quick!  Something's...




The Lab Tech is backing away from Tatsumi, who lies on his back on the


carpeted deck, mouth gaping, eyes showing whites. A tearing SOUND as Hicks


spotlights Tatsumi's bandaged leg -- where the dressing is bulging, moving,


seeping yellow fluid. A new-model chest-buster flails its way out of the


wound and shuttles into the shadows beneath a chair. Twin red spots appear


on Tatsumi's white shirt; two more of the things rip their way out through


his stomach as he arches backwards, groaning -- the groan cut off as a fourth


chest-burster pops from his mouth...




Jackson brings her pistol up with both hands, arms locked, and SHOOTS Tatsumi


in the head.




                               HICKS


               Get in the lock!  Suit up!




INT. EMERGENCY LOCK




Hicks pulls the inner door shut. The lock is white, bright, a very tight fit


for the five of them. The Lab Tech reaches for one of the hanging suits,


yells as a blood-slick chest-burster loses its grip and tumbles out of the


suit's open front.




                               LAB TECH


               Aaaaah!




Hicks shoulders the door -- just a crack; it doesn't want to open -- as


Rosetti grabs a helmet and swings it underhand, knocking the little horror out


of the lock. Hicks gets the door shut again.




Spence is shuddering. Rosetti is putting the helmet on, reaching for his


suit.




                               SPENCE


               J-jesus, Rosetti... How'd you do that?




                               ROSETTI


                       (beat)


               I used to be a soldier




They hurriedly strip to their underwear and struggle into space suits.


Rosetti has the yellow helmet, Hicks red, Spence blue, Jackson green, and


Lab Tech orange.




Spence is sealing up her space suit over freckles and a military-issue bra;


Hicks sealing his over dog tags and his acid-scarred chest.




                               ANNOUNCEMENT


               Please be seated.  Fasten lapbelts.




Narrow ledges on either side of the lock. The five sit, step in. Spence and


the Lab Tech closest to the outer door. Hicks and Jackson are opposite them.




                               ROSETTI


                       (filter; suit radio; turning


                        his helmet to face Spence)


               You're right, Spence.  I should have tried to


               stop them.  It would have done no good, of


               course, but I should have tried...




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio)


               When we get back, there'll be a board of inquiry.


               You can tell them, Colonel, tell them what


               happened.  Help them find the ones who were


               responsible...




                               ANNOUNCEMENT


               Ten-second warning.  Activating outer hatch.




Rosetti's helmet turns slowly toward her. Through his faceplate bubble, the


canceled eyes and blood-streaked drool of the Change...




                               JACKSON


                       (filter; suit radio)


               He gone!  Jeeees-us!




As blood wells up into Rosetti's helmet, filling it completely, and something


dark begins to strike the inner surface of his faceplate, violently, again and


again. The space suit hunches through inhuman postures --




As the outer hatch pivots out on hydraulics, the vacuum sucking small loose


objects out into the void.




The new beast in Rosetti's suit snaps the heavy nylon lapbelt and lunges at


Spence.




HER POV




as the blood-bubble strikes her faceplate, the fanged tongue working like a


piledriver, starting to split the tough plastic of Rosetti's faceplate -- tiny


bubbles of blood along the first hairline crack.




ANGLE




The Lab Tech unfastens his lapbelt and grapples with the suited beast, pulling


it off Spence.




Hicks is wrestling with his pulse-rifle, pinned to the bench by the struggle.




The suit radios are filled with the beast's thick gurgling ROAR. As it turns


on the Lab Tech, flings him out through the open hatch, and bounds after him.




EXT. HULL -- AIRLOCK




Vacuum. Zero gravity.




The thing in Rosetti's suit catches the Lab Tech in mid-tumble, its gloved


hands spread like talons, grips the Lab Tech's helmet and collar-joint in


either hand, and rips his helmet off. Air explodes from the neck of his suit,


lifting his air in a three-second gale that freezes instantly, becoming a


small cloud of ice crystal. The Lab Tech's eyes are frozen marbles. He goes


cartwheeling slowly across the hull as the beast grabs a protruding strut and


spins to dace the airlock with a terrible balletic grace.




Hicks is in the hatchway. He raises. the pulse-rifle, pulls the trigger. The


ammo-counter flashes 00, empty. Jackson reaches past him with a fresh


magazine. Hicks slaps it into the gun as the beast launches itself toward


him from the strut. He FIRES. The space suit EXPLODES in a cloud of blood


and acid.




Hicks bounces awkwardly out over the rim of the hatch, followed by Jackson and


Spence.




Beat. Anchorpoint's hull stretches away to its own horizon, al flat gray


expanse of broken by various structures. The body of the Lab Tech is


tumbling slowly out into space.




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio; looking


                        after the vanishing Lab Tech)


               I never even knew his name... Hicks... Hicks,


               are we gonna make it?




Hick's gloved hands is closed around something small. He open it, looks down.


His watch. 2159 HOURS.




Hicks looks into her eyes as if he sees her for the first time.




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Make it?  Yeah... Sure we make it.




He gives her a desperate grin.




His gloved hand, still holding the watch, takes her.




SOUND of the watch's alarm: 2200 HOURS.




Hicks' eyes are shut tight.




Nothing happens.




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Hicks?  Hicks, are you okay?  What is it?




He opens his eyes. Looks at her. Releases her hand.




EXTREME CLOSEUP ON WATCH




2201 HOURS




ANGLE




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio)


               You okay?




Hicks flings with watch away. It tumbles out slowly, level with the deck,


keeps tumbling...




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Okay, Ops, which way to the boats?




                               JACKSON


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Got me, man.  The map was just for the inside...




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               See that radio mast?  Let's try that way.




They set out in single-file across the hull, Hicks leading, Jackson bringing


up the rear. The radio mast, visible above the horizon, is the tallest


structure in sight, a steel thorn slanted toward the stars.




Behind them, the airlock remain open, spilling light...




EXT. HULL -- LONG SHOT




Three tiny figures, their helmets bright dots of color against the monotone


hull-plain: red, blue, green.




VOICE OVER: Steady rasp of human breath.




EXT. HULL -- ANOTHER ANGLE -- LONG




Shadows tangle in the light from the lock. Moving. Black talons slip over


the hatch rim, followed by an eyeless Alien mask. Then another. The


creatures are entirely unaffected by cold, by vacuum...




EXT. HULL -- APPROACH TO LIFEBOAT BAYS




Hicks, Spence, Jackson. Hicks gestures with his rifle: the prows of the


boats.




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               There you go, Ops.




                               JACKSON


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Good navigating...




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Good guessing.  Still have to get into one of


               the damn things...




Spence loses her footing as she climbs down a ledge, goes into a slow-motion,


zero-g roll; Jackson grabs her.




EXT. HULL -- SHOT FROM UNLIT LIFEBOAT INTERIOR THROUGH A PORTHOLE




Hicks is approaching. Closer. His gloves on the porthole. His helmet-bubble


CLICKS against it. The beam of his light stabs in, swings from side to side,


blinks out.




EXT. HULL -- LIFEBOAT BAYS




Hicks straightens up from the porthole.




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Looks good.  Good as it gets.  How the hell we


               get in?




                               JACKSON


                       (filter; suit radio)


               I can run a bypass on the hatch latches, but I


               need a hotwire...




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio; starting


                        to climb up the side of the boat)


               I can strip some cable off the solar cells...




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Open it that way and we lose the air.




                               JACKSON


                       (filter; suit radio)


               We'll have to draw the backup off the tanks.


               Won't matter once we're in hypersleep.  No


               other way...




EXT. TOP OF LIFEBOAT




Spence's POV for helmet as the crouches over a flat, rectangular solar cells


and tugs with her gloves tips at a small access port. She keeps losing her


grip; the space suit's gloves aren't designed for fine work.




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio; talking to


                        keep her head together)


               Like the science fair.  I had to scrounge


               everything... Spent a month desoldering a TV I


               got out of my uncle's basement...




She manages to get the cover off -- it tumbles backward -- upward -- with the


momentum on its removal. Spence peers at a densely packed mass of color-coded


wiring.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing; filter;


                        suit radio)


               Hey, Jackson, you want anything in particular?




                               JACKSON


                       (filter; suit radio)


               How about twenty centimeters of the red and


               green stuff?




Spence begins to fumble with the wiring.




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Right.  Want anything else while I'm here?




                               JACKSON


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Coffee and a danish.  Black, one sugar.




EXT. HULL -- LIFEBOAT




Hicks and Jackson are trying to open the larger accessport, this one beside a


porthole set into a rectangular hatch in the bow of the lifeboat. It isn't


easy. Hicks manages to hook the pulse-rifle's buttplate under the edge of the


cover. He uses the barrel as a lever. The buttplate slips.




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Shit.




He tries again. The cover pops open: move wiring, hydraulics. Jackson


begins to paw at the wiring.




EXT. TOP OF LIFEBOAT




Spence's POV as she looks down at her prize, a length of red and green wire.




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio)


               They're out of coffee, but I got you hotwire...




Spence's POV as she glances up, across the hull -- and sees a dozen advancing


Aliens.




                               SPENCE


                       (continuing; filter;


                        suit radio)


               Hicks!  They're coming!  They don't need suits!




EXT. HULL -- LIFEBOAT




Hicks whirls around with the rifle, too quick a move for zero-g; momentum


spins him around and he rolls, out past the prow, but manages to come up


SHOOTING. Take out the two foremost Aliens at about twenty yards. The rest


scuttle for cover.




EXTREME CLOSEUP




on ammo readout: 09.




ANGLE




Hicks gets to his feet, take a step back, and nearly tumbles again; he's


bumped into another emergency airlock, this one still sealed. He climbs back


across it and crouches against the raised housing, using it to steady his aim.


The Aliens charge again. Five SHOTS, five Aliens blown apart. The rest get


out of sight.




EXTREME CLOSEUP




on ammo readout: 04.




ANGLE




Six inches from Hick's faceplate, on the airlock hatch, a red light blinks on.


The lock starts to open. Hicks scrambles back, the rifle ready at his hip, as


the hatch opens -- and a space-suited figure straightens up, a yellow


helmet...




CLOSEUP -- HICKS -- REACTION SHOT




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio; an


                        instant of profound confusion)


               Rosett...?




ANGLE




The Aliens charge. The figure turns, bringing up a pulse-rifle.




CLOSEUP ON BISHOP -- THROUGH FACEPLATE




as he hoses a full clip in to the Aliens, killing them all.




                               BISHOP


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Hicks, help me out of the lock...




ANGLE




Hicks takes Bishop's arm and hauls him over the rim; the android's left leg is


braced with the length of metal from the elevator, strapped to the space suit


with heavy silver tape.




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               What happened?  You didn't blow the fusion back


               at twenty-two hundred,




Bishop passes him a fresh clip of ammunition.




                               BISHOP


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Two overload is scheduled for twenty-two-


               thirty.




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Why?




                               BISHOP


                       (filter; suit radio)


               I thought you might need the time.




                               JACKSON


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Bishop?  Hick!  Come on, we gotta get his


               happening!




Hicks help Bishop across the hull.




EXT. HULL -- LIFEBOAT




CLOSEUP on Spence and Jackson crouching by the open service port. They've


made a rainbow spaghetti out of the port's wiring, but Jackson holds one raw


end of the hotwire. Spence looks up as Hicks and Bishop arrive.




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio)


               What happened to you leg?




                               BISHOP


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Molecular fatigue.




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Bishop says we gotta go now.




                               JACKSON


                       (filter; suit radio)


               No shit... Well...




She thrusts the hotwire against a contact, producing a burst of sparks.




Nothing happens.




Tries again.




Nothing.






                               JACKSON


                       (continuing; filter;


                        suit radio)


               Third time's a charm.




A bigger burst of sparks. The hatch suddenly pops open with a rush of


escaping AIR.




                               JACKSON


                       (continuing; filter;


                        suit radio)


               How damn!  Okay!




Jackson ducks, wedges helmet and shoulder through the opening -- and a queen-


sized stinger erupts through the back of her neck, slicing the suit's alloy


collar ring like butter. Brief but horrible SOUND on radio.




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Jackson!




Jackson's being drawn into the opening by the unseen queen. Spence clutches


furiously at Jackson's suit, trying to pull her back...




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Forget it!  She's gone!




                               BISHOP


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Hicks!




Hicks and Spence turn. REACTION SHOT. What they see makes her forget trying


to save Jackson's body.




The boots of Jackson's space suit vanishes through the lifeboat hatch.




A queen, her crest rising against the stars, leads the swarm against them in


a solid wave...




Hicks pumps the pulse-rifle's grenade launcher, sheer reflex, no consideration


for the effect of recoil in zero-g (pulse-charges have been assumed to be


recoilless). The recoil kick him back against the lifeboat as the BLAST takes


out five of the charging Aliens; sharp CLANG of his helmet against the boat's


hull.




CLOSE THROUGH FACEPLACE




Hicks losing consciousness.




ANGLE




Bishop stands alone against the advancing swarm, the boot of his locked


suitleg wedge into a narrow channel in the hull. He FIRES with a robotic


accuracy, the rifle pivoting like the barrel of an automated gun turret.




CLOSE ON BISHOP'S EXPRESSION




No anger, no fear -- just total absorption in the task at hand.




ANGLE




Spence had Hicks' gun, is dragging him to his feet.




EXTREME CLOSEUP




on Bishop's ammo readout: working down to 01, steady as seconds on a


stopwatch --




ANGLE




His last round is for the towering queen -- Android's don't miss. Straight


into the jaws. Her head explodes.




But the headless body doesn't stop. It stumbles, tumbling forward, flips


over, the vast abdomen with its lashing stinger outlined agasint the stars...




As Bishop tugs his wedged foot free and rolls, as the stinger whips down to


gouge a chunk of bright steel from the hull. The carcass smashed into the


lifeboat.




The swarm twitches, hesitates. With the loss of the queen's unifying


intelligence, the Aliens are reduced to their usual level of instinctual


action.




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Bishop!  Come on!




Hicks, with Spence, is fleeing across the hull, taking long zero-g leaps --


one more worries about drifting away!




                               SPENCE


                       (filter; suit radio)


               The mast, Bishop!  The Radio mast!




Bishop starts after them, abandoning his empty pulse-rifle, trying to bound


along on his good leg, the stiff one obviously in his way, three Aliens


rapidly gaining on him. He loses his balance...




Hicks and Spence have almost reached the foot of the radio mast. Handholds


lead out to the tip.




Hicks sees Bishop struggling to right himself, the Aliens closing in.


Snatches the rifle from Spence.




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio;


                        to Spence)


               Go on!  Get out there!




Hicks recrosses the hull to Bishop. SHOOTS the nearest Alien, gets a grip on


Bishop's suit, pulls him up, tries for the second Alien but misses. They


start for the mast, Hicks FIRING back at the swarm.




Spence is a third of the way out on the mast, body drifting in space, clinging


to a handhold.




Hick and Bishop haul themselves hand-over-hand along the mast.




                               BISHOP


                       (filter; suit radio)


               The fusion package, Hicks... Overload...




                               HICKS


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Yeah... But it means we win... Come on.




The swarm closes around the foot of the mast in a single writhing mass. One


spring onto the handholds and scuttles out along the mast like a spider.




Hicks BLOWS it off.




EXTREME CLOSEUP




on ammo readout: 04.




                               BISHOP


                       (filter; suit radio)


               Four minutes to overload.




ANGLE




Hicks blasts another Alien -- as a deafening SQUAWK of feedback rattles the


suit radios, followed by a waves of STATIC.




EXT. SPACE




The U.P.P. interceptor, pitted and scorched by the nuking of Rodina, settles


toward Anchorpoint on steering jets.




CLOSEUP ON A GUNPORT




sliding smoothly open, reveal the vicious-looking snout of a Gatling-style


pulse-cannon.




EXT. MAST -- FROM HICKS' POV




as a stream of withering fire cuts a swathe thorough the swarming Aliens.




                               VIETNAMESE COMMANDO (V.O.)


                       (filter; over static and


                        screaming harmonics)


               Come!  You come!




Followed by a frantic burst in her own language.




EXT. SPACE -- FROM MAST




Spence's POV as the interceptor nears the mast tip, the cannon still pumping.


The airlock in the interceptor's lower surface slides open. Light from


inside.




Spence kicks off from the mast, manages to grab the rim of the interceptor's


airlock.




Hicks FIRES his last round into an Alien on the mast.




The interceptor still coming down, crumpling the tip of the mast in a burst


of sparks as Hicks and Bishop kick off. Hicks grabs Spence's free hand;


Bishop grabs Hick's ankle. Spence hauls them all into the cramped space of


the airlock. The lock closes as an Alien launches itself from the mast...




INT. INTERCEPTOR AIRLOCK




SOUND of the Alien as it slams into the lock. Hicks, Bishop, Spence are


crammed in like sardines.




EXT. INTERCEPTOR LOCK




The Alien scrabbling furiously for a hold...




INT. INTERCEPTOR




As the inner lock opens and the commando plunges her tattooed arms in to


yank Spence free. Spence fumbles with her helmet and snaps it off. Bishop


pulls himself from the lock; in spite of his leg, he dives for the ship's


controls. His hands dart from one switchboard to the next. Nothing happens.


He look up through his faceplate at the commando.




                               BISHOP


                       (voice muffled by his helmet)


               Go!




She looks at him impassively. Beat. Then reaches past to press a sequence of


three buttons.




EXT. SPACE




The interceptor. The Aliens cluster like aphids along the mast. The


interceptor's ENGINES erupt in a gout of flame.




EXT. SPACE -- ANOTHER ANGLE




The Alien on the airlock loses its grip, tumbles into the rocket blast.




EXT. ANCHORPOINT -- INTERCEPTOR'S POV




The station is receding




The fusion package goes overload.




WHITEOUT. Beat.




                                                               FADE TO BLACK.




FADE IN:




A SINGLE STAR




Then another star. Then the interceptor, adrift, showing no lights.




EXT. INTERCEPTOR -- ANOTHER ANGLE




Additional damage visible from the Anchorpoint blast.




INT. INTERCEPTOR




Dim light. The commando is slumped against a wall of dead switches, watching


Bishop. Hick, Spence, and Bishop wear their space suits, minus helmets and


air tanks. Bishop is bending over a panel of exposed circuitry, working with


a delicate probe. His suit is open to the waist; he wears a miniature


worklight on a band across his forehead. Spence is asleep, her head on Hicks'


lap.




                               HICKS


               Bishop...




Bishop looks up, the beam of the worklight glaring in Hicks' eyes.




                               BISHOP


               Yes?




                               HICKS


               Bishop, are Spence and I... I mean... Are we


               infected, man?




A small steady tone SOUNDS, muffled inside Bishop's suit. He puts the probe


down and reaches into his suit, bringing out his wristwatch.




He looks at the time. The tone stops. He puts the watch down an looks at


Hicks. Beat.




                               BISHOP


               No, you aren't.  I obtained solid parameters


               on the incubation period... Neither of you


               is a carrier.  Neither is she.


                       (glancing toward


                        the commando)


               Although I couldn't be certain until...




                               HICKS


               Your watch?  Until you watch went off?




                               BISHOP


               Yes.




Bishop reaches into his suit again and brings out a service automatic.




The commando says something angrily, wearily, in her own language.




Bishop hands her the gun. She tosses it aside with evident disgust, curls


up, eyes closed.




                               HICKS


               That was for us?  If we were...




                               BISHOP


               Yes.


                       (he looks at the


                        commando again)


               She's dying, Hicks.  Radiation poisoning...




                               HICKS


               Can we do anything?




                               BISHOP


               No.




Spence groans in her sleep. Hicks absently smoothes her hair back from her


eyes.




                               BISHOP


               You're a species again, Hicks.  United against


               a common enemy...




Hicks moves Spence's head, pillows her on a folded jacket, swings his way over


to the commando, offers her water from a plastic bottle. She refuses it.




                               HICKS


               Yeah?




                               BISHOP


               The source, Hicks.  You'll have to trace them


               back, find the point of origin.  The first


               source.  And destroy it.




                               HICKS


               I dunno, Bishop.  Maybe we just oughta stay


               out of their way...




                               BISHOP


               You can't, Hicks.  This goes far beyond mere


               interspecies competition.  These creatures are


               to biological life what antimatter is to matter.




                               HICKS


               How do you mean?




                               BISHOP


               There isn't room for the both of you, Hicks,


               not in this universe.




                               HICKS


               That's crazy, Bishop...




                               BISHOP


               No. You're already at war, Hicks.  War to


               extermination.  The alien knows no other mode.




                               HICKS


               Hell, man, we been at war all my life.  Near


               enough, anyway.  With her.


                       (he looks down at


                        the commando)


               With all her brothers and sisters.  That's what


               got us into this shit in the first place!




                               BISHOP


               But now you've seen the enemy, Hicks.  So has


               she.  She's not it.  Neither are you.  This is


               a Darwinian universe, Hicks.  Will the alien


               be the ultimate survivor?




Hicks doesn't answer. He just looks at Bishop. Bishop goes back to his


circuitry.




CLOSE on Spence's sleeping face, and the face of the dying commando.




                                                               DISSOLVE TO:




EXT. SPACE




Approach of a large ship.




The PING of homing radar.




ANGLE ON THE HULL




As it slides past, enormous letters: KANSAS CITY.




EXT. SPACE - ANGLE UP




From below Kansas City as a wide bay opens.




The interceptor comes INTO FRAME and is drawn up into the brightly-lit hold.




The bay closes.




EXT. SPACE




Kansas City. Receding. Gone.




The stars.




                                                               FADE OUT.










                                  THE END[1]

ReferencesEdit

  1. http://www.awesomefilm.com/script/Alien3.txt

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