"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