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"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 harne