From Olof Lindqvist...

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

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                            "A L I E N   I I I"


                                    by

                              William Gibson


                      Revised first draft screenplay

                from a story by David Giler and Walter Hill


______________________________________________________________________________

FADE IN:

DEEP SPACE - THE FUTURE

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

ANGLE ON THE HULL

A towering cliff of metal, Sulaco
.

INT. SULACO -- HYPERSLEEP VAULT

TRACKING down the line of empty, open capsules.  Frozen twilight.  The final
four capsules are sealed, lids in place.

ANGLE -- INSIDE CAPSULE

NEWT, then RIPLEY.  HICKS next, his head and chest bandaged.  Then BISHOP in
his caul of plastic.  But the lid of Bishop's capsule is misted with hothouse
condensation.

CLOSER

A tear of fluid streaks the condensation.

An alarm SOUNDS.

A monitor begins to scroll data.

TIGHT ON MONITOR

                TROOP TRANSPORT SULACO

              CMC 846A/BETA
                MISSION/LV-426/RETURN
                STATUS RED
                TREATY VIOLATION
                REF:  #99AG558L5
                CAUSE:  NAVIGATIONAL ERROR

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

                                COMPUTER
                Attention.  Due to failure of navigational
                circuitry, Sulaco has entered a sector claimed
                by the Union of Progressive Peoples.  Auxiliary

             systems are now on line.  Course corrected.
                Hardwired protocols prevent, repeat, prevent
                arming of nuclear warheads in the absence of
                Diplomatic Override, Decryption Standard Charlie
                Nine.  On present course, Sulaco will exit the
                U.P.P. sector at nineteen hundred hours fifty
                three point eight minutes.

EXT. SULACO

The ship slides past beneath us.  A U.P.P. interceptor descends INTO FRAME,
matching c
ourse and speed with Sulaco.  The interceptor settles on Sulaco
like a wasp.

INT. INTERCEPTOR

Three commandos climb into spacesuits.  The Leader opens a hatch in the deck,
revealing one of Sulaco's airlocks.  FIRST COMMANDO, a young Vietnamese woman,
scrambles down and attaches magnetic units to the airlock.  SECOND COMMANDO
studies a monitor, tapping out a sequence on a keyboard.   First Commando
gestures from hatch:  no good.  Second Commando tries again.  A grating SOUND
as Sulaco's airlock begins to o
pen.

INT. SULACO -- CARGO LOCK

Darkness.  Armed commandos climb through opening and descend a ladder.
Reaching the deck, they fan out, weapons ready.  Their leader examines the
damaged dropship.  First Commando gestures urgently.  She's found something.

Bishop's legs, broken, grotesquely twisted, still in fatigues, the white
android blood clotted into powder.  First and Second Commandos exchange looks
through their faceplates.

                                COMPUTER
                Attention.  Integrit
y breach, Cargo Lock 3.
                Security alert.  Integrity breach, B Deck...

INT. HYPERSLEEP VAULT -- LEADER'S POV

The chilly aisle of capsules.

Commandos move down the line, guns poised. They peer in at Newt, Ripley, and
Hicks, but the lid of Bishop's capsule is pearl-white. The Leader tries the
controls at the foot of the capsule, where green and red indicators glow.
Nothing happens.  He opens a panel, finds an emergency lever, tries it.  The
green indicators wink off.  The lid rises. A dense p
ale mist flows out,
spilling over the edges of the capsule, revealing the ovoid of a gray Alien
egg. Rooted in the center of Bishop's synthetic entrails, the egg instantly
ejaculates a Face-hugger, which strikes the leader's faceplate in a spray of
acid.  He screams, blinded by the acid, grappling with the thing as it begins
to force its way into his helmet, its tail lashing furiously.  Clawing at it,
he plunges blindly back down the aisle, stumbling, smashing into the empty
capsules.  He vanishes through t
he entranceway, his screams giving way to
frenzied gagging SOUNDS.

The First Commando scrambles after him.

INT. CARGO LOCK

The Leader writhes on the deck beside the main cargo lock.  First Commando
rushes in, crouches beside him, takes careful two-handed aim with her
sidearm -- she FIRES, attempting to kill the face-hugger without hitting the
Leader.  The face-hugger EXPLODES in a gout of acid; ragged holes burn through
the side of his helmet.  First Commando frantically works the lock controls.
As the i
nner lock opens, she shoves the leader over the edge with her foot.

EXT. SULACO

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

INT. CARGO LOCK

Eyes of the First Commando through her faceplate.  Beat.  Something moves,
behind her.  She spins, bringing up her gun.  Backlit in the entrance to the
vault, a black, multi-armed figure.  The beam from her lamp finds it -- the
Second Commando, with Bishop in his arms.


               DISSOLVE TO:

IN DEEP SPACE -- VARIOUS ANGLES

A station the size of a small moon, and growing; unfinished sections of hull
are open to vacuum. A vast, irregular structure, the result of the shifting
goals of successive administrations.

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

INT. ANCHORPOINT -- TULLY'S SLEEPING CUBICLE

A phone is RINGING.  The cubicle, terminally sloppy, resembles the nest of a
high-tech hamster, not much larger than a
 berth of a train.  The walls are
plastered with a wistful collage of posters, ads, photos torn from magazines:
beaches, desert, the Grand Canyon, redwoods, blue sky -- a hedge against
claustrophobia and the emptiness of space.

TULLY, sitting up in bed, knuckling sleep from his eyes, wincing at the light;
he slaps the phone console and the glum face of OPERATIONS OFFICER JACKSON
(female) appears.  She wears a nylon baseball cap with a computer light-pen
attached to the bill.


  JACKSON
                'Morning, Tully.

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

CLOSE ON THE CONSOLE SCREEN

ANGLE

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

                                JACKSON
                None of us up here in the Ops Room have seen
                downtime for a while, Tully.  A Marine transport
                came in on automatic sixteen hours ago.

She bobs
her head as she speaks, using the pen on her cap to move a cursor on
a screen in front of her.

                                JACKSON
                        (continuing)
                The Sulaco.  Departed gateway four years ago
                with a compliment of fifteen.  A dozen marines,
                an android, a company representative, and the
                former warrant officer of a merchant vessel...

                                TULLY
                So?


   JACKSON
                So, the bio-readout gives us the warrant officer,
                one -- count him -- marine, and a nine-year-old
                girl.  Makes you wonder what happened out there,
                doesn't it?

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

                                JACKSON
                But that's the good news, Tully.  Three hours
                before Sulaco turned up, we docked
a priority
                shuttle out of Gateway.  Two passengers. Milisci,
                Tully. Weapons Division.

                                TULLY
                That the bad news?

                                JACKSON
                They want the ship pulled in, with full biohazard
                precautions, by oh-eight-hundred hours.  BioLab
                techs are priority for the deck squad.  That's
                you Tully.

The phone screen goes blank.


    TULLY
                        (heartfelt)
                Shit.

He begins to fumble through his sleeping bag, looking for his clothes --
disturbing SPENCE, a young technician, who sits up groggily, hugging the bag
to her breasts.

                                SPENCE
                What?  What is it?

                                TULLY
                It's called the military-industrial complex;
                it's called my ass out of bed; it's called
                jerking me around... Any wa
y you wanna call
                it, it's the same bullshit...

INT. CORRIDOR

Tully, groggy and irritated, emerges from his cubicle, wearing a battered
leather flight jacket, its sleeves plastered with embroidered logo-patches
for various products.  His photo, name, job description, and number are
slotted on the door in a transparent envelope -- TULLY, CHARLES A.  TECH-5,
TISSUE CULTURE LAB.

                                                                DISSOLVE TO:

INT. ANCHORPOINT -- DRY DOCK

A plain
 of gray steel, the size of several carrier decks, walls lost in dark
and distance.  Service vehicles lumber past in the b.g.  Massive floods on
towers of raw scaffolding backlight twenty waiting figures, the Deck Squad.
Their spacesuits are white, clinical; over these they wear disposable
Biohazard Envelopes of filmy translucent plastic.  Some are Colonial Marines,
armed with pulse-rifles or flame-throwers.  Others are scientists and
technicians, carrying recording and sampling gear.  Their voice, over hel
met-
radio are furred with STATIC.  Something CLANGS and BOOMS overhead, metal
thunder.

                                OFFICER (V.O.)
                Deck Squad brace for pressure drop.  She's in
                the cradle.  She's coming in.

A sudden WIND rushes across the deck, then dies.  RUMBLE overhead as a
monstrous hanger door rolls slowly open, revealing the naked stars.  The dark
hull of Sulaco blots out the stars as it descends.

                                OFFICER (V.O.)

     (continuing)
                Entry team to secondary cargo lock.

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

The lock SIGHS open on darkness.

BUZZ of static, indistinct RADIO exchanges, as a half-dozen lights play over
the drop-ship, the walls of the lock.  Tully enters, stares around, eyes wide
through his faceplate.  Beside his is a MARINE with a pulse-rifle -- obviously
psyched for combat.

                                TULLY
                Lights, how come they got no li
ghts?

                                MARINE
                Hey, man...

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

                                MARINE
                        (continuing)
                Lookit that.  Been some action in here...

                                TULLY
                Action?

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

                                TULLY
                Forging a new home fo
r mankind in the depths of
                space.

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

                                TULLY
                        (continuing)
                Collecting atmosphere samples.

                                MARINE
                So just do it, right.

He move away.

                                TULLY
                Sure.

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

                                OFFICER (V.
O.)
                Technician Tully to the hypersleep vault,
                atmosphere sample...

                                MARINE
                Sounds like you.

                                TULLY
                Yeah.

                                MARINE
                Let's not keep the man waiting.

INT. ENTERANCE TO HYPERSLEEP VAULT

The Marine OFFICER holds up a tracker -- one of the small motion-sensors
familiar from the previous film.  Beside him are TWO MORE MARINES.  The
Officer r
aises the tracker and scans the face of the door.

EXTREME CLOSEUP

of tracker screen:  zero.

ANGLE

                                OFFICER
                One sample, here.

SOUND of Tully's device sucking air.

                                OFFICER
                        (continuing)
                Get another on the way in.  Have they patched
                line in yet?

                                SECOND MARINE
                Yessir.  Lights on in there.

The Officer presses a button.

The d
oor slides open.  Bright, white.  The aisle.  Empty.  The row of
capsules.  Tully's Marine is first through the door, gun ready, slow, careful.
Tully steps in after him, raises his instrument, takes a sample.

INT. HYPERSLEEP VAULT

The other two Marines move past Tully.  Soft SCUFF of their boots on the deck.
Tully doesn't know quite what to do.  Lowers his sampler, hesitates.  The
first Marine reaches Newt's capsule.  He lowers his rifle.

                                MARINE
                        (so
mething startled,
                         almost gentle in his
                         voice)
                They're here...

Eight inches of razor-sharp serrated tail plunges out through the back of his
suit as he's lifted off his feet by something we can't see.  Ugly RIPPING
noise as the ALIEN withdraws its stinger -- blood tidily contained by the
translucent membrane of the biohazard envelope.

The stinger of a second Alien whips around the neck of one of the other two
Marines; the Alien is clinging t
o the ceiling.  He screams.  Tully's Marine
sags against the foot of Ripley's capsule, his arm across the controls -- the
green indicator lights go out -- as the first Alien lunges up INTO VIEW.

CLOSE

On the jaws.

ANGLE ON RIPLEY

Her eyes snap open.

RIPLEY'S POV

As the beast mounts her coffin, terminal nightmare.

ANGLE

                                RIPLEY
                No-ooooooooooooooooooooo!

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

The remaining Marine, crazy wi
th adrenaline and terror, unleashes his flame
thrower. The first Alien and Ripley's capsule vanish in a napalm fireball.
The Marine spins, screaming incoherently, and liquid fire hoses the second
Alien, which drops its victim and falls burning into the deck.

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

                                                                DISSOLVE TO:

A scorched hypersleep capsule is wheeled in under brilliant lamps.  The
waiting crisis team plug bio-monitor
leads and a HISSING air-supply line into
sockets on the capsule.  A technician with a small hand-held power saw
begins to cut away the heat-crazed canopy.  Hands in surgical gloves lift the
canopy away.

Ripley lies curled in a tight fetal knot.

INT. ANCHORPOINT -- MEDLAB QUARANTINE

A small white room, a white bed surrounded by medical gear.  Hicks, in his
underwear, is hunched on the edge of the bed, impatiently smoking a cigarette.
The dressing on his head and shoulders have been changed.  Spence enters
.  She
wears a biohazard envelope over coveralls, bubble-goggles, a transparent
filter-mask.

                                SPENCE
                        (lightly)
                You know you can't smoke in here?

                                HICKS
                Yes, ma'am.

He takes a puff.

                                SPENCE
                I'm Spence.  I'm not a medic, I'm from the tissue
                culture lab.  I have to get a sample.

She opens a small white case and takes out a glea
ming cylinder.

                                SPENCE
                        (continuing)
                Uh, just stick your thumb in here.

Hicks gives her a hard look, inserts his thumb; she touches a stud -- SNIK! --
he winces, look ruefully at his thumb.

                                SPENCE
                        (continuing)
                Sorry.
                        (putting the tissue-
                         sampler away)
                You're the last one...


      HICKS
                        (grabs her wrist)
                The others.  Ripley, Newt -- they came through
                okay?

                                SPENCE
                Who's Newt?

                                HICKS
                The kid.

                                SPENCE
                Rebecca.  Rebecca's fine.

                                HICKS
                Ripley?

                                SPENCE
                        (hesitates)
                Ripl
ey's fine, Hicks.

                                HICKS
                Bishop.  Where's Bishop?

                                SPENCE
                        (puzzled)
                Bishop?

                                HICKS
                The android.

                                SPENCE
                        (carefully, worried that
                         she's gotten in over her
                         head)
                There were three of you.  Three that I know of,

  anyway.  Maybe you should try to sleep now.
                You want the nurse?  They can give you something...

                                HICKS
                        (leaning forward, still
                         gripping Spence's wrists)
                Why haven't I been debriefed?  Where's the brass?

                                SPENCE
                All I know is, we've all been sleeping short
                hours since your ship came in, soldier.

A CRASH from the corridor, a pained
BELLOW, and Newt scuttles in, wearing a
hospital gown.  She backs into a corner as a large ORDERLY rushes in,
clutching his right hand.  Like Spence, he wears biohazard gear.

                                ORDERLY
                Goddamn it!  She bit me!

He starts for Newt.  Hicks comes off the bed like he's mounted on springs,
hand cocked for a trained blow.  The Orderly backs off.

                                NEWT
                        (near hysteria)
                Where's Ripley?  Where is she
?

                                HICKS
                        (straightens out of hand-
                         to-hand crouch without
                         losing any of the threat)
                She's asking you a question.

                                ORDERLY
                You looking to get yourself sedated, Corporal?

                                NEWT
                Where is she?

                                HICKS
                Now I'm asking you the question...

Spence yanks h
er mask down in a reflexive, very human gesture.  Move slowly
toward Newt, extending her hand.

                                SPENCE
                Rebecca... Newt.  Honey.  It's okay.  Ripley's
                going to be okay.  C'mon now, I'll take you,
                you can see her...

                                ORDERLY
                Spence, there's no way --

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

INT. MEDLAB -- ANOTHER ROOM

Ripley lies in a coma, monitored
by assorted white consoles.  Her forehead is
taped with half a dozen small electrodes.  Newt, expressionless, walks slowly
to the bedside as Hicks and Spence look on.

                                SPENCE
                She's sleeping.
                        (she and Hicks exchange glances)
                Sometimes people need to sleep... To get over
                things...

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


    NEWT
                Is Ripley dreaming?

                                SPENCE
                I don't know honey.

                                NEWT
                It's better not to.

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

Smaller than Anchorpoint.

INT. RODINA - CYBERNETICS LAB

CLOSE on Bishop. He stares straight ahead, the corner of his mouth twitching
mechanically.  PULL BACK.  Bishop's torso is mounted in the center of a large
square platform; tubes are wires snake from his ruin
ed lower ribcage.  The
walls of the labs are lined with monitor screens and printers.

Information is being reamed out of the android at high speed, printouts of
measurements, graphs, formulas.  COLONEL-DOCTOR SUSLOV is beside the
Vietnamese Commando, who wears a sleeveless fatigue-blouse revealing
regimental tattoos:  a yin-yang, hashmarks, an ID marker like a supermarket
bar-code.  They watch as a graphics program generates a detailed anatomical
drawing of a face-hugger on a large monitor.  She says somet
hing short and
emphatic in Vietnamese, repeats it:  yes.

                                SUSLOV
                And this?

He taps a keypad and the face-hugger vanishes.  The screen begins to draft an
Alien in side and frontal projections.

                                FIRST COMMANDO
                        (eyes fixed on the screen in
                         horror and fascination)
                No...

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

INT. SULACO -- CARGO LOCK


Two TECHNICIANS in biohazard gear squat on either side of Bishop's legs.  An
electronic microscope has been set up on a low tripod.  A small monitor
displays magnified skin and a few dark gobules.  One Technician extracts an
ultra-fine probe from its sterile package and leans forward.

                                TECH WITH PROBE
                You getting tape of this, Miller?

                                SECOND TECH
                You bet your ass.  Orders.

                                TECH
WITH PROBE
                That's good because I'd swear I just saw a
                piece of this shit move...

On the monitor, the tip of the probe trembles, brushes one of the globules.
The Second Tech takes it, inserts it in a plastic tube, seals the tube in a
small metal canisters, and writes #17 on the side in red grease pen.

                                SECOND TECH
                Since when do androids get diseases?

                                TECH WITH PROBE
                I dunno.  Sure
 looks like something got to
                this poor bastard...

INT. ROSETTI'S OFFICE CUBICLE

COLONEL ROSETTI, Colonial Marines, is Anchorpoint's head of military
operations.  His office is furnished in the best futuro-Pentagon style:
imitation rosewood, division insignia plaques, a desktop model of the drop
ships from "Aliens."

Rosetti glances up from his monitor as his SECRETARY enters, a young woman
in semi-dress Marine uniform.

                                SECRETARY
                        (han
ds him a stiff red plastic
                         envelope)
                Welles and Fox, Colonel.  Military Sciences,
                Weapons Division.

Rosetti eyes the envelope with evident distaste, scrawls his signature in the
required box before opening it, removes documents, and the empty envelope
back.

                                ROSETTI
                Show them in.

Secretary exits.

ROSETTI'S POV -- CLOSEUP

on two plastic microfiche cards, each with front and side views of Fox and
Welle
s, retinal I.D. images, scaled-down fingerprints, etc.  Stamped "MILISCI,
WEAPONS DIV."

                                FOX (O.S.)
                Kevin Fox, Colonel.

ROSETTI'S POV -- FOX

is tanned, athletic, hyperconfident, his smile a heart-less display of state-
of-the-art enamel-bonding techniques.  WELLES is just behind him.

                                WELLES
                Susan Welles.

Same spa-tuned look, same expensive casualwear.

                                ROSETTI

       (flatly, with no other
                        effort at greeting)
                Welcome to Anchorpoint.

Fox and Welles seat themselves without waiting to be asked.

                                FOX
                We're impressed, Colonel.  Susan and I are
                definitely impressed.

                                WELLES
                The videos don't really give you an idea of the
                scale, do they?

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


                        FOX
                But we're particularly impressed with your
                handling of the situation, the situation so far.
                We're impressed with you cooperation...

                                ROSETTI
                        (flicking the cards down on
                         his desktop with suppressed
                         hostility)
                We call it "following orders."

                                WELLES
                Yes.  It would simp
lify things if everyone did,
                wouldn't it?  Particularly the civilian component
                of that Deck Squad.  I think we may have a
                potential problem there...

                                FOX
                We've been going over psyche profiles, Colonel.
                Anchorpoint seems to be the kinds of project
                that attracts... idealists.

                                ROSETTI
                        (with a thin grin)
                Liberals.


                                WELLES
                Let's just say we've noticed a certain antipathy
                to Military Sciences, Colonel.  A certain lack
                of sympathy with the goals of the Weapons
                Division...

                                ROSETTI
                Anchorpoint is under Colonial Administration
                authority.  This isn't a military operation.  If
                it were, we'd be in violation of the Strategic
                Arms Reduct
ions treaty.

                                FOX
                Looks great on paper, Colonel, but we want the
                civilians who boarded Sulaco sewn up.  Tight.

                                WELLES
                Forfeit of shares, for starts.  Anyone talks,
                they lose their shares.  We've found it reasonably
                effective, in most cases...

                                FOX
                        (taking a sheaf of
                         printout from his a
ttach_)
                But that's a simple matter.  This isn't.  Sulaco's
                data base indicates a boarding operation en
                route, Colonel.

                                ROSETTI
                A boarding operation?  Why wasn't I informed?

                                WELLES
                We're informing you.  You seem to have lost an
                android, Colonel.  The Union of Progressive
                Peoples have Bishop...


                         DISSOLVE TO:

INT. ANCHORPOINT -- ENTRANCE TO ANTI-BUGGING BUBBLE

A MARINE ushers Hicks into a large bare chamber.  Hicks wears his dress
uniform.  The room is dominated by the bubble, a mirrored sphere.

                                MARINE
                This way, Corporal.

The Marine leads Hicks up a gangway.  Hicks enters the bubble.  The Marine
closes the door behind him.

INT. THE BUBBLE

Three members (Rosetti, TRENT, SHUMAN) of Anchorpoint's directorate are
seated at a
round table; with them are Fox and Welles.  Hicks comes to
attention and salutes.

                                ROSETTI
                At ease, Hicks.  Be seated.  My name is Rosetti.
                Station's military attach_.  From my right:
                Trent, exobiology... Shuman, Diplomatic Corps...
                From your right...

                                FOX
                I'm Kevin Fox, Hicks.  This is Susan Welles.
                We're with the Company.  We'd like to congratulate

                you on a successful mission.

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

                                WELLES
                But you returned, Corporal.  And you've rescued
                the colony's sole survivor...

                                ROSETTI
                        (picks up a sheaf of printout)
                We've all read the transcript of you debriefing,
                Hicks...


   HICKS
                Where's Bishop?  Sir.

                                ROSETTI
                        (blinks)
                If you don't mind, Hicks, we'll table that
                until --

                                TRENT
                I've read the transcript.  Are you certain,
                Hicks, that you have nothing more to tell us
                about the alien's life cycle?  Detail, Hicks.
                Detail is crucial...

                                ROSETTI

         Trent, the subject is classified.  Corporal
                Hicks' security rating need to be upgraded
                before we can --

                                HICKS
                        (ignoring Rosetti, he
                         addresses Trent)
                I've already told you everything I know.

                                ROSETTI
                Hick --

                                FOX
                Let the Corporal have his say, Colonel.  After
                al
l, he's seen these creatures in action.

                                ROSETTI
                You ordered the subject classified Maximum
                Security, Fox.

                                TRENT
                I seriously doubt the Corporal Hicks knows
                anything more than he's already told us.
                Which is a great pity.  But the android, Bishop,
                was designed for scientific observation.  A
                Hyperdyne model A/5, a walking data bank...


                                WELLES
                Corporal Hick asked the right questions to
                begin with.

                                ROSETTI
                        (stiffly)
                To answer your question, Hicks:  we aren't
                certain.

                                WELLES
                        (heavy sarcasm)
                But we can guess, can't we Colonel?

                                HICKS
                        (to Welles)
                Wher
e?

                                FOX
                Rodina station.

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

                                ROSETTI
                Sulaco's navigation system failed.  You were
                in disputed territory for something over
                eighty-five minutes, Hicks.  The U.P.P. would
                ordinarily respond to that as a violation of
                their space.  So fa
r there's been no protest.
                Nothing.
                        (he hesitates)
                Sulaco's computer indicates a covert boarding
                operation...

                                FOX
                "Indicates"...

                                SHUMAN
                To put it in diplomatic terms, Hicks, they've
                got our ass in a sling.  If they want to regard
                the Sulaco incident as a hostile act -- and let
                me assure you th
at they will, eventually -- they
                can compromise our position in the current round
                of arms reduction talks.  We're talking serious
                ramifications here.  Then we have the communications
                lag to and from Earth.  A week either way.  So
                we're looking at a fourteen day wait for policy
                clarification.  We may have a major crisis on our
                hands.

                                WELLES
                We arrive
d with a policy brief, Shuman, and you've
                seen it.  We're here to implement that brief.

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

                                FOX
                We're here to do our job, Colonel.

                                SHUMAN
                In this case, "doing your job" might involve the
                distinct possibility of precipitating nuclear
                war --


                                ROSETTI
                        (quick to break in; the
                         subject's too sensitive for
                         enlisted ears)
                Any further questions for the Corporal?  No?
                In that case, Hicks...

                                HICKS
                Sir.

Hicks stands, salutes.

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

Tully slopes along looking haggard and spaced.  He wears his trademark
jacket.  The Mall is a cross bet
ween a Hyatt atrium and an airport shopping
concourse:  shops, vegetation, fast food outlets, a bar.  He arrives at what
are apparently elevator doors.  The doors open on a miniature subway car.
Tully steps in and the doors close.

INT. TISSUE CULTURE LAB

Spence is working with cultures.  Her arms are up to the elbows in a pair of
white gloves mounted in round openings on the side of a transparent plastic
tank.  She looks up as Tully enters.

                                TULLY
                Hey.


                            SPENCE
                You look like homemade shit.
                        (she withdraws her hands,
                         the gloves pop out)
                What happened down there, Tully?  There's some
                kind of security blackout on...

                                TULLY
                Yeah.  And I'm part of it... I can't tell you
                anything.  Had to sign a whole new set of papers.
                Talk to anybody and I lose my shares.  All
my
                shares, right?

                                SPENCE
                You joking, Tully?

                                TULLY
                Wish I were...
                        (changes the subject)
                What's the old man got for me to dick around
                with this shift?

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

                                SPENCE
                Here.  All yours.  Orders are, you use the
                mani
pulators for this.

She hands him something wrapped in a sheet of white printout held with a
rubber band.  He removes the band, unrolls the paper.  The canister.  Number
17.

                                SPENCE
                        (continuing)
                What the hell did happen on the ship, Tully?
                How come all the biopsy work on those three?
                and his very quiet sudden backlog of autopsy
                material?  How come it's all triple-classified?

  What's going on?  We had these two spooks from
                Gateway in here today acted like they just
                bought the place...

                                TULLY
                        (with a nervous glance
                         around the lab)
                Okay, okay... But later, okay?  Not here...

                                                                DISSOLVE TO:

INT. TISSUE CULTURE LAB

Tully at the controls of a pair of high-tech servo-manipulators visible
throu
gh the tick glass of an ultra-heavy duty rectangular tank.  The controls
are gloves.  A cable leads from the wrist of each glove to the face of the
tanks.  Tully move his hands, testing.  The skeletal steels waldos inside the
tank mimic each move.  He uses them to open the canister.  An electronic
microscope is built into the tank, its monitor just above the window.  He
positions the probe's tip under the microscope.

ANGLE OVER TOP OF MONITOR

for his reaction.

                                TULLY

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

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

                                SPENCE
                C'mon, Charlie, don't you read the spec sheets
                anymore?  It's off the shop.  Off your transport.
                It's... God.

SPENCE'S POV -- CLOSE ON THE MONITOR

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

ANGLE

                                SPENCE

                Up the rez...

Tully taps a lapboard; magnifications increases by twenty powers.

EXTREME CLOSEUP -- MONITOR

As the screen fills with an image that might be a bizarre landscape, its lines
and textures recalling the interior of the derelict ship in "ALIEN."

                                                                DISSOLVE TO:

INT. ECO-MODULE

An experimental pocket Eden:  a half-acre of artfully ragged concrete
Disneyland into lush rainforest, sun-dappled miniature meadows, patches
 of
African cactus.  Newt crouches in long grass, her hand extended toward a small
animal.  A lemur.  Hicks stands nearby.

                                NEWT
                Have you been there, Hicks?  Africa?

                                HICKS
                Morocco.  Four weeks of Basic.  But was
                mountains.  Not like this.

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

                                NEWT
                I'd like to go there.
..

                                HICKS
                No problem.  You're going to Gateway station on
                Sulaco, right?  Then you catch a shuttle down and
                you're in Oregon.  Just a jump over a puddle, to
                Africa, once you're there.

Spence walks out of the miniature jungle, carrying a white wire tray of
samples in plastic lab bottles.

                                NEWT
                I don't remember them...

                                SPENCE

        Your grandparents?

Newt nods.

                                SPENCE
                        (continuing)
                Well, guess they remember you.  Sure.

                                NEWT
                But what if Ripley wakes up and I'm not here?
                Can't I wait?

                                HICKS
                Hey.  She'll know where you're going, right?
                Anyway, Sulaco's the only ship back to Gateway
                for two months.  But look, you wa
nt to make double
                sure, then you leave her a map, exactly where
                you're going...

Spence grins at Hicks.

INT. NEWT'S DORM CUBICLE

Newt at a fold-down desk, at work on an elaborate multicolor feltpen starmap.
A dotted line zigzags from Anchorpoint to Portland, Oregon.  She carefully
prints her new address:

                NEWT JORDEN
                c/o
                MR. & MRS. RICHARD JORDEN
                34877 GREENLEAF AVE. #582
                NEW PORTLAND, OREGON AB
994J2

Ripley wan and comatose.  Hicks waits awkwardly in the doorway, dangling
Newt's knapsack, as she enters and tapes the finished starmap to the wall;
the first thing Ripley would see, waking.  Newt beside the bed, look down at
her friend.

                                NEWT
                Ripley?  Ripley, it's Newt.  I... I gotta go
                now.  I'm going to stay with my grandparents,
                in Oregon.  Hicks says that's a good place...
                There's a map for you, Ripley
, how to get there.
                You can come there and stay with me, okay?
                You have to, okay?

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

INT. DEPARTURE BAY

Newt and Hicks amid a bustle of power-loaders, assorted robot vehicles.  They
approach the entrance to a narrow corridor.  Sign:  DEPARTURE BAY -- CREW
ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.

                                HICKS
                That's you.

                                NEWT

     I know.

                                HICKS
                Good luck in Oregon.

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

                                NEWT
                Hicks...

                                HICKS
                Yeah?

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

                                NEWT
                Affirmative.

He returns the sign

                                HICKS
                Affirmative.

She turns and
makes her way up the narrow boarding corridor.  It's long,
tapers to nothing.  Tiny figure, receding, bright dot of the knapsack.  She
turns, waves.  He waves back.  She's gone.

EXT. ANCHORPOINT

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

                                                                DISSOLVE TO:

INT. RODINA -- CONFERENCE CHAMBER

Cigarette-smoke drifts above a long narrow table in a narrow space.  A half-
dozen ranking TECHNOCRATS are jammed along wither side
in folding chairs, with
Colonel-Doctor Suslov at the head.

                                BRAUN
                        (Rodina's chief of R&D)
                Obviously, Colonel Doctor, the purpose of their
                mission was to obtain specimens of this lifeform.
                The android dissected a single specimen.  One
                of the pre-larval forms -- like the thing that
                killed Lenko.

                                AN OFFICER
                And you believe that
these creature are of
                potential military importance?

                                BRAUN
                Yes, provided it's possible to clone the alien
                spores recovered from the android's skin and
                clothing...

                                SUSLOV
                With the goal of programming these "machines"
                for use as weapons?

                                BRAUN
                The adult form, Colonel-Doctor, is evidently a

    killing-machine of great strength, extraordinary
                sophistication.  No evidence of intelligence.
                Purely instinctual.

                                INTELLIGENCE OFFICER
                Our sources in the corporationist infrastructure
                are aware of the existence of a special project
                with Weyland-Yutani's Weapons Division.  We have
                been unable to penetrate their security...

                                SUSLOV

  The Intelligence Officer suggests that this
                special project concerns the alien?

                                DIPLOMATIC OFFICER
                I remind you, Colonel-Doctor, that we experiment
                with the alien genetic material only if we are
                prepared to violate primary biological warfare
                limitations in the Strategic Arms Reduction
                treaty...

                                BRAUN
                An I reminds the Diplomatic Of
ficer that the
                Weyland Yutani corporation is obviously prepared
                to do so -- that they may already be doing so...
                As ever, our level of technology lags slightly
                behind that of the capitalist cartels... But now,
                by chance --

                                MILITARY OFFICER
                By chance?  You refer to the proven bravery and
                constant initiative of our People's Commando
                Division --


                           BRAUN
                        (smoothly, a seasoned
                         political infighter
                         covering his bases)
                Not at all, Major.  Their courage is unquestioned.
                Nonetheless, consider:  we are in possession of
                a potential weapon -- a whole new technology, if
                you will -- which Weyland Yutani clearly intends
                to develop.  We are in, as they might put it, on
                t
he ground floor.  But only if we choose to be, if
                we choose to hold our advantage.

                                SUSLOV
                I agree.  We have no choice but to proceed.

                                DIPLOMATIC OFFICER
                Then I go on record as strongly advising that
                the android be returned to Anchorpoint.  Are our
                technicians capable of repairing the thing?

                                BRAUN
                Repairing it?  Why?


                                DIPLOMATIC OFFICER
                You lack a sense of the importance of gesture,
                Braun.  Let us avoid their customary accusations
                of barbarism... And buy ourselves time...

                                SUSLOV
                Our technicians will repair the thing.  Return
                it to them... And we will proceed.  We will clone
                the alien...

INT. ANCHORPOINT -- TISSUE CULTURE LAB

TRENT, head of BioLab, Rosetti, an
d Fox wait, seated, as Tully wheels a
Holographic Display Module into position. The lights dim. A faint, ghostly
cube shimmers in front of the three men.

                                TRENT
                Initially this was merely routine, you
                understand.  We attempted to determine its
                compatibility with terrestrial DNA.

                                FOX
                What kind of DNA exactly, Doctor?

                                TRENT
                Human, of c
ourse.

Something shivers and shakes and takes form in the cube of light:  a double
helix threaded with green and red beads of light.

                                TRENT
                        (continuing)
                Watch closely, please.

The alien genetic material looks like a cubist's vision of an art deco
staircase, its asymmetrical segments glowing Day-glo green and purple.

                                ROSETTI
                That's a biological structure?  More like
                part
of a machine...

The alien form makes contact with the human DNA.  The transformation is
shockingly swift, but its stages can still be followed:  the thing seems to
pull itself into and through the coils, and for an instant the two are meshed,
locked, and then the final stage.  A new shape glows, a hybrid; the green and
red beads have been altered beyond recognition.

                                FOX
                Like a high-speed viral takeover...!  What's
                the real-time duration on th
is, Trent?

                                TULLY
                        (from the shadows beyond
                         the glowing cube)
                That was it. What you see is what you get.
                That's how fast it is...

INT. ANCHORPOINT -- MACHINE SHOP

Hicks enters the cavernous shop, dodging out of the way of an emerging power-
loader.  The place is an oily forest of steel; machines of various kinds
await repair.  WALKER is at a workbench, a big man in a grease-stained vest.


                          HICKS
                Hicks.  Temporary duty assignment.

Walker works the joystick on a handheld remote control unit.  An unmanned
power-loader comes to life and lumbers toward the bench.  He brings it to a
halt expertly, exactly where he wants it, with few casual twiddles of the
stick.

                                WALKER
                Walker.  Know how to blow out the hydraulic
                lines on a force-feedback system?

                                HICKS

        No.

                                WALKER
                Never too late to learn.

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

                                WALKER
                        (continuing)
                You off the mystery ship, Hicks?

                                HICKS
                Sulaco?  What's the mystery?

                                WALKER
                        (lighting his own
                         cigarette)

        Popular question.  Whole thing's triple-classified
                now and word's getting around that two of the
                deck party never came back.

                                HICKS
                        (shrugs)
                I was iced.

                                WALKER
                Sure...

                                HICKS
                You ready to show me his feedback system?

                                WALKER
                        (eyes Hicks narrowly)

                Anytime.

INT. OPS ROOM

PAN along Jackson's multi-screen array in Operations, video images of various
Anchorpoint locales:  space-suited figure and robot welders making routine
hull repairs.

HIGH ANGLE -- THE MALL

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

                INCOMING TRANSMISSION
                SOURCE: U.P.P. RODINA
                DIPLOMATIC INCRYPT>>>
                >>>DIPL CORPS SHUMAN

Jackson bobs her head, moving the cursor-cap to various "windo
ws" on the
screen.

                                JACKSON
                        (speaking into headset
                         mike)
                Somebody find me Shuman -- tell his we got
                incoming Rodina coded standard diplomatic.
                His opposite number must've decided it's time
                for the weekly bullshit session...

INT. ANTI-BUGGING BUBBLE

Shuman is seated alone at the round table.  A miniature video camera is set up
on the table.  Opposite him is a larg
e wall screen displaying an image of the
U.P.P. Diplomatic Officer, also alone, seated at the far end of the narrow
table in the Rodina conference room.

                                SHUMAN
                Androids, by law, are afforded the status of
                persons.  Citizens.

                                DIPLOMATIC OFFICER
                Under your system, yes.  We prefer to afford them
                the status of machines.

                                SHUMAN
                You're h
olding one of our citizens captive.

                                DIPLOMATIC OFFICER
                The "citizen" in question, the synthetic, Bishop,
                has been held in regard to a treaty violation
                involving an armed vessel.

                                SHUMAN
                Sulaco was homing on Anchorpoint.  The so-called
                violation was the result of a malfunction.

                                DIPLOMATIC OFFICER
                The matter is under i
nvestigation.

                                SHUMAN
                I repeat:  you are holding one of our citizens.

                                DIPLOMATIC OFFICER
                The incident is also being investigated with
                regards to an apparent violations of the Strategic
                Arms Reductions treaty.

                                SHUMAN
                Sulaco's weapons-systems fall entirely within
                the prescribed --

                                DIPLO
MATIC OFFICER
                I refer to those sections of the treaty concerned
                with biological warfare.

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

                                SHUMAN
                The allegation is false.

                                DIPLOMATIC OFFICER
                We make no official allegations at this time.
                The matter remains under investigation.  Bishop,
                however, is of no further use in the i
nquiry.
                We are returning him to you.

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

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

INT. SHUTTLE BAY

Shuman and two Marines enter the bay.  They wear biohazard envelopes, masks.
The shuttle's hatch opens and the Vietnamese Commando steps out.  Bishop
emerges.  He looks at the Commando, then at Shuman and the Marines waiting at
the bottom of the gangway.  The Commando gestures:  go.


                      SHUMAN
                You're under quarantine orders, Bishop.
                        (to the Marines)
                Escort him to MedLab.

INT. THE MALL

Hicks has just come off shift; the Mall's bar catches his eye.  The facade
says it all:  ye olde pre-packaged genuine simulated wood-grain generic tavern
and the only joint in town.

One wall is a screen showing a stale rerun of a Brazilian soccer match.  Some
of the customers play hologram game-consoles.  Tully is seated at the b
ar.
Hicks takes a stool beside him.

                                HICKS
                Beer.

He fishes his dog tags out and detaches one, passes it to the bartender; the
bartender inserts it in a terminal, rings up the beer, hands it back.

                                TULLY
                You're Hicks.  Sulaco...

Tully, in his trademark jacket, is obviously drunk.

                                HICKS
                Who're you?

                                TULLY
                Tully.  Tech
 Five.  Tissue lab.  D-fucking-NA.
                Jesus... Sulaco... Lucky.

                                HICKS
                Lucky?  Who?  You lucky, man?

                                TULLY
                You.  You're one lucky sonofabitch, Hicks.

Knocks back his drink.

                                HICKS
                How's that?

                                TULLY
                All that way.  All the way back here with those...
                Those fucking things, man...

Tully has
 just gotten his sudden, undivided attention.

                                HICKS
                Things?  What things?

                                TULLY
                Shit... We had to sign.  All of us.  Lose our
                fucking shares we tell anybody, right?

                                HICKS
                        (his whole body tense)
                They were on the ship...

                                TULLY
                Yeah.  Jesus.  I saw 'em...

Reaches for his glass,
 but it's empty.

                                HICKS
                Where?  How many?  When?

                                TULLY
                        (Suddenly remembering
                         his shares)
                Look, I...
                        (cuts a glance around the
                         bar)
                Bad place to talk... I gotta go now, leave...

                                HICKS
                        (grabbing Tully before he
                         can slide
off the stool)
                You aren't going anywhere, buddy.

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

                                TULLY
                I didn't come out here to work on shit like that.
                Came out here to help design ecosystems, not
                build designer for the next year... You want an
                earful?  You got it.  Shift after next, place
                called DP-54, Level 7 map.  Can't talk here...

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

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

                                                                DISSOLVE TO:

INT. THE BUBBLE

Rosetti, Trent, Fox, and Welles.

                                WELLES
                And Bishop has agreed to undergo complete
                physical and chemical analysis?

                                ROSETTI
                He requested it himself.

                                FOX
                Results?


                        TRENT
                No irregularities so far.  No trace of the alien
                cellular material...

                                WELLES
                Tampering, then?  Reprogramming?  Any new circuits
                in our Mr. Bishop?  Any little surprises courtesy
                of the U.P.P.?

                                TRENT
                No.  Nothing.

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


                            TRENT
                Yes, it seems to be.  But if his memory's been
                tampered with, we'd have no way of knowing.
                Neither would he...

                                WELLES
                In any case, we have to assume that the U.P.P.
                accessed Bishop's memory.  That they have the
                data.  They may also have specimens of the alien
                genetic material...

                                ROSETTI

    In other words, you want to get on with your
                brief, don't you?  You want Trent to clone the
                cultures.  And you didn't want Shuman at this
                meeting.

                                FOX
                This isn't a question of diplomacy, Colonel
                Rosetti.

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

                                FOX
                Has anyone mentioned military applic
ations,
                Colonel?  Trent?

                                TRENT
                        (smiles)
                No.  I think a very nice case can be made for
                applied exobiology.  We do have a standing order
                to study alien life-forms when we encounter them.
                Preliminary analysis of the material from Sulaco
                reveals a remarkable adaptive capacity.  The
                potential for cancer research alone...


        WELLES
                Imagine, Colonel:  if it can be programmed to
                only kill cancer cells...

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

                                FOX
                        (before Trent can answer)
                We'll nourish the cells is stasis tubes, under
                constant observation.  We'll terminate them before
                they become embryos...


  ROSETTI
                I see.  Cancer research.  And our motives are
                exclusively humanitarian.  Is that it?

                                WELLES
                Colonel, when Shuman gets his reply from Earth,
                priority will go to military development of the
                Alien.  We know that because we know where our
                orders came from.  The decision has already been
                made.

                                FOX
                And potential
U.P.P. research in the same direction
                only adds to the urgency, Colonel.

                                ROSETTI
                The decision rests with me.

                                WELLES
                Perhaps you misunderstood, Rosetti.  The decision
                has been made.

                                FOX
                They won't just break you, Colonel, they'll see
                to it that it's as though your career never
                happened.  They're top p
eople.  That can do that.
                And you know it.

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

                                ROSETTI
                Shuman, of course, will have to be informed.

                                FOX
                Of course.  "Cancer research"...

INT. MEDLAB -- SCAN UNIT

Bishop patiently undergoes a scan; he lies on his back on a narrow support as
a massive donut-shaped sensor moves down the length of his body.  A life-size
color scan-
image is displayed on a large screen:  his "organs."

                                TECHNICIAN
                The knees.  Looks like they do the joints in
                polycarbon...

                                MEDIC
                How about it, Bishop?  Knees okay?

                                BISHOP
                Yes...

Tentative smile.

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

INT. RODINA -- BIOLAB

smaller than the Anchorpo
int lab.  Equipment look less advanced.  The only
light is the yellowish glow from a stasis tube; Braun and two assistants are
clustered around the tube, observing the thing suspended there:  thumb-sized,
grayish-pink.  An embryo.

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

Hicks jogs through the tunnel.  Its brightly-lit arc of white ceramic recalls
London tube stations, but the floor is paved smooth and black, with freshly-
painted traffic symbols.  He passes a woman jogging in the
 opposite direction,
keeps going.  Small video cameras are mounted at intervals overhead, panning
slowly form side to side.  As he continues, less of the tunnel is finished;
sections of tile are missing, revealing pipes, wiring, structural steel.  Past
a certain point eh's jogging the raw steel tube, splashing through shallow
puddles of condensation.  Fewer lights, widely spaced.  He reaches a junction
and pauses, chooses a tunnel.

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

comes out of th
e lit mouth of a tunnel.  The space he enters is the size of a
football stadium, but dark and industrially Gothic.  Stacks of hull-plate and
geodesic struts.  A shower of sparks as he passes a robot welder (a la the
machine in the opening sequence of "Aliens").  Down the aisle of material and
heavy machinery.  Spence is waiting.

                                SPENCE
                Hicks.

She's in the shadows, smoking a cigarette.

                                HICKS
                You, huh?  Why you?


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

                                HICKS
                Hangover?

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

                                HICKS
                Doesn't scare you?

                                SPENCE
                I haven't signed.  Not yet.  They've only given
                them to the ones who sa
w what happened.

                                HICKS
                Why you?

                                SPENCE
                Tully's okay, Hicks.  I know him.  Believe it or
                not, he doesn't scare that easy.  He told me what
                was on that ship, Hicks.  What he saw.  You know
                what is was.

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

                                SPENCE
                They've got u
s growing the stuff.  We've been
                running recombinant DNA routines on it, using
                human genetic material...

                                HICKS
                You've been what?

                                SPENCE
                        (stubbing out her cigarette)
                Cancer research.  Tully says that's just a
                cover.  Says it's like trying to cure cancer
                with a shotgun.  Anyway, everybody know those
                two spooks
from Gateway are MiliSci...

                                HICKS
                Fox and Welles?

                                SPENCE
                Weapons Division.  Not even supposed to exist,
                these days.  Not officially, anyway.

                                HICKS
                        (lights a cigarette
                         of his own)
                I still don't see why you're telling me this.

                                SPENCE
                Maybe I don't eithe
r.  It's just... we've got
                to tell somebody... Now there's a rumor somebody
                came in on a U.P.P. ship today, somebody off
                Sulaco...

                                HICKS
                Bishop...

                                SPENCE
                I don't know.

                                HICKS
                Maybe Progressive Peoples'll get their own Alien
                too.  Maybe they'll grow some...

                                SPENCE

                   (horrified)
                Shit!  You'd better hope not...

                                HICKS
                Why's that?

                                SPENCE
                Their lab gear's five years behind ours.
                They'd never be able to control it.

                                HICKS
                Think you can, huh?

                                SPENCE
                I don't know...

INT. OPS ROOM

A BLEEP as Tully appears on one of Jackson's screens,
looking up at a camera
in the tissue culture lab.

                                TULLY
                Get me some maintenance people down here, will
                ya?  Run a check on the stasis system.  Pressure
                differential's off and the read keep fluctuating.
                And punch it Priority One; Trent'll cover it.

                                JACKSON
                        (with a characteristic little
                         jerk of her head, light-pen

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

                                TULLY
                Nah.

                                JACKSON
                Denver...

                                TULLY
                Denver?  No way.  Gimme a tenth on Chicago.

INT. RODINA -- BIOLAB

Braun is seated at a computer, entering data.  Suslov is staring into the
stasis tube containing the developing Alien.

                                SUSLOV
                There's
 an irony in this...

                                BRAUN
                        (engrossed in the data)
                Irony, Colonel-Doctor?

                                SUSLOV
                The readiness with which it lends itself to
                genetic manipulation, Braun.  The speed with which
                its cells multiply.

                                BRAUN
                Yes. Remarkable.

                                SUSLOV
                As though the gene-structure had b
een designed
                for ease of manipulation.  And this apparently
                universal compatibility with other plasms...

                                BRAUN
                        (reluctantly abandoning
                         his task)
                And you find this ironic?

                                SUSLOV
                Ironic that we are attempting to program it as
                a weapon, yes.

                                BRAUN
                How is that?


                        SUSLOV
                Perhaps it is the fruit of some ancient
                experiment... A living artifact, the product of
                genetic engineering... A weapon.  Perhaps we are
                looking at the end result of yet another arms
                race...

                                BRAUN
                A defeatist attitude, Colonel-Doctor.  Our
                project can only strengthen the Union of
                Progressive Peoples...

CLOSE -- THE ST
ASIS TUBE -- A CHEST-BURSTER

is suspended there like an eyeless fetal dolphin.

INT. MACHINE SHOP

Hicks, alone in the shop, mechanically going through the motions of the
busywork he's been assigned to keep him out of the way.

                                BISHOP
                        (from the doorway)
                That's quite a piece of machinery, Corporal
                Hicks...

                                HICKS
                        (looking up, grinning)
                That's what we
 used to say about you.  How the
                hell are you, Bishop?  Brass said you were
                snatched by the U.P.P.  How're things in the
                socialist paradise?

                                BISHOP
                I was returned.  I assume they had no further
                use for me.

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

                                BISHOP
                        (continuing)
                There are rumors, Hicks, that Weapo
ns Division
                intends to develop the Alien.

                                HICKS
                        (with a glance at the
                         video camera on the wall)
                Where'd the bastards get one, Bishop?

                                BISHOP
                One of them managed to board Sulaco, Hicks.
                Ripley killed it...

                                HICKS
                Good for her.

                                BISHOP
                She
 called it "the queen."  It was larger than
                the others.  Very large.  Somehow is deposited
                genetic material in the ship.

                                HICKS
                Then they're stone cold crazy, man.  I hear the
                U.P.P. might try it themselves.

                                BISHOP
                Given the current state of the arms race, it's
                entirely possible.  I'm programmed to protect
                human life, Hicks.  It's my
... nature.  Everything
                I am, everything I know, tells me this experiment
                must be aborted.

                                HICKS
                Yeah.  I know the feeling.

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

                                HICKS
                You can't what?

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

          very thoroughly examined, of course, but the
                possibility does exist.

                                HICKS
                Wouldn't you know?

                                BISHOP
                No.  I may be functioning as an enemy agent.

                                HICKS
                        (beat)
                What the hell.  We have to kill it, don't we?

                                BISHOP
                I have to try.

                                HICKS

                I'm in man.  And I think I know where we can find
                us a little help...

                                                                DISSOLVE TO:

INT. TISSUE LAB

Spence and Tully are alone.

                                SPENCE
                What coffee?  I'm going to the machine.

                                TULLY
                No.

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

                                SPENCE

      Maintenance cure your pressure differential
                problem?

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

                                SPENCE
                Didn't want to get his hands dirty?

                                TULLY
                It settled down by itself.

Spence exits; Tully moves closer to the tube.

CLOSE -- THE SINGLE DEVELOPING SPORE

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

WIDER ANGLE


                                TULLY
                Hey there.  Hi ya.  How ya doin'?  Nutrient
                solution agreeing with you, hm?  We're looking
                lots bigger today, aren't we?  You bet.
                Terrific.  Just absolutely fucking wonderful...

His monologue is interrupted by Welles' entrance; he's startled, looks up
guiltily.  The heavy glass doors HISS shut behind her.

                                WELLES
                Communing with nature, Tully?


                   TULLY
                Your not wearing a badge.
                        (taps the plastic ID
                         clipped to his lab coat)
                White strap registers contamination.  Turns
                red if you're accidentally exposed to something.
                Got it?

                                WELLES
                Where's Trent?

                                TULLY
                Lunch.

                                WELLES
                And how's ou
r friend?

She moves to the stasis tube, looks in.

