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From Olof Lindqvist…

The Alien III script by Gibson. This is _not_ how the actual Alien3 movie came out, this is a script that was abandoned during the script writings. It is nice, though. Inconsistent in quite some ways, but nice.


                          "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 c ourse 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 o pen.

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.  Integrit

y 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 p ale 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 t he 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 i nner 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 wa

y 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 hel met- 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 li

ghts?

                              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 fo

r 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 r aises 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 d oor 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
                      (so

mething 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 t o 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 wi th 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 glea ming 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)
              Ripl

ey'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 h er 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 ruin ed 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 somet hing 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
                      (han

ds 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 Welle s, 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 simp

lify 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 Reduct

ions 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 a

ttach_)

              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
              al

l, 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)
              Wher

e?

                              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 fa

r 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 th

at 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 arrive

d 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 bet ween 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
              mani

pulators 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 throu gh 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 wa

nt 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 AB

994J2

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 Of

ficer 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
              t

he 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, an d 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 c

ourse.

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 th

is, 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 "windo ws" 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 larg e 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 h

olding 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 i

nvestigation.

                              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 --
                              DIPLO

MATIC 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 i

nquiry.

              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 b ar. 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 Hic k'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 applic

ations,

              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 p

eople. 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 Anchorpo int 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 th e 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 sa

w 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 u

s 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 eithe

r. 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 b

een 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 ST ASIS 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 Weapo

ns 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 ou

r friend?

She moves to the stasis tube, looks in.

/data/webs/external/dokuwiki/data/pages/archive/sf/aliens3.txt · Last modified: 2002/05/05 07:14 by 127.0.0.1

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