"ALIENS" (Continue)
HICKS
Hold it. Hold it. Back off, right
now.
Vasquez releases Gorman. His head smacks the deck.
Ripley opens Gorman's tunic, revealing a bloodless
purple puncture wound.
RIPLEY
Looks like it stung him.
HUDSON
Hey...hey! Look, Crowe and
Dietrich aren't dead, man.
They turn to see Hudson at the MTOB monitors, pointing
at the bio-function screens.
HUDSON
They must be like Gorman. Their
signs are real low but they ain't
dead!
Hudson is pale, panicky, and his voice echoes around
the tiny metallic space and comes back to all of them
as the near hysteria they all feel, fluttering just
at the edges of their minds.
RIPLEY
You can't help them. Right now
they're being cocooned just like
the others.
HUDSON
(sagging)
Oh, God. Jesus. This ain't
happening.
Ripley and Vasquez lock eyes. Ripley doesn't want
it to be "I told you so" but Vasquez reads it that
way. She turns away with a snap.
INT. MED LAB 108
Bishop is hunched over an occular probe doing a
dissection of one of the dead parasites. Spunkmeyer
enters with some electronics gear on a hand truck
and parks it near Bishop's work table.
SPUNKMEYER
Need anything else?
Bishop waves "no" without looking up.
EXT. COLONY - DROP-SHIP 109
Spunkmeyer emerges, crossing the Tarmac to the loading
ramp of the ship. As he nears the top of the ramp,
his boot slips...skidding on something wet. Kneeling,
he touches a small puddle of thick slime. He shrugs,
and hits the controls to retract the ramp and close
the doors.
INT. APC 110
ON VASQUEZ wired and intense.
VASQUEZ
All right, we can't blow the fuck
out of them...why not roll some
canisters of CN-20 down there.
Nerve gas the whole nest?
HUDSON
Look, man, let's just bug out and
call it even, okay?
RIPLEY
(to Vasquez)
No good. How do we know it'll
effect their biochemistry? I say
we take off and nuke the entire
site from orbit. It's the only
way to be sure.
BURKE
Now hold on a second. I'm not
authorizing that action.
RIPLEY
Why not?
Burke senses the challenge in her tone and backpedals
flawlessly into conciliatory mode.
BURKE
Well, I mean...I know this is an
emotional moment, but let's not
make snap judgments. Let's move
cautiously. First, this physical
installation had a substantial
dollar value attached to it --
RIPLEY
They can bill me. I got a tab
running. What's second?
BURKE
This is clearly an important
species we're dealing with here.
We can't just arbitrarily
exterminate them --
RIPLEY
Bullshit!
VASQUEZ
Yeah, bullshit. Watch us.
HUDSON
Maybe you haven't been keeping up
on current events, but we just got
out asses kicked, pal!
Ripley faces Burke squarely and she's not pleased.
RIPLEY
Look, Burke. We had an agreement.
Burke moves in, lowering his voice. He takes her aside
from the others.
BURKE
I know, I know, but we're dealing
with changing scenarios here. This
thing is major, Ripley. I mean
really major. You gotta go with
its energy. Since you are the
representative of the company who
discovered this species your
percentage will naturally be
some serious, serious money.
Ripley stares at his like he's a particularly
disagreeable fungus.
RIPLEY
You son of a bitch.
BURKE
(hardening)
Don't make me pull rank, Ripley.
RIPLEY
What rank? I believe Corporal Hicks
has authority here.
BURKE
Corporal Hicks!?
RIPLEY
This operation is under military
jurisdiction and Hicks is next in
chain of command. Right?
HICKS
Looks that way.
Burke starts to lose it and it's not a pretty sight.
BURKE
Look, this is a multimillion
dollar operation. He can't make
that kind of decision. He's just
a grunt!
(glances at Hicks)
No offense.
HICKS
(coolly)
None taken.
(into mike)
Ferro, you copying?
FERRO
(voice over; static)
Standing by.
HICKS
Prep for dust-off. We're gonna
need an immediate evac.
(to Burke)
I think we'll take off and nuke
the site from orbit. It's the
only way to be sure.
He winks. Burke looks like a kid whose toy has been
snatched.
BURKE
This is absurd! You don't have
the authority to --
CLACK! The sound of a rifle bolt snapping home
truncates his rant. Vasquez has a pulse-rifle cradled,
not exactly aimed at Burke but not exactly aimed away
either. Her expression is masklike. End of discussion.
Ripley sits behind Newt, putting her arm around her.
RIPLEY
We're going home, honey.
EXT. DROP-SHIP 111
The ship rises through the spray thrown up by the
downblast of the VTOL jets, hovering above the complex
like a huge insect, its searchlights blazing.
EXT. APC 112
The group is filing out of the personnel carrier, which
is clearly a write off. Hicks and Hudson have Gorman
between them, and the others emerge into the wind.
They watch the ship roar in on its final approach.
INT. DROP-SHOP COCKPIT 113
Ferro flicks the intercom switch several times. Thumps
her headset mike.
FERRO
Spunkmeyer? Goddammit.
The compartment door behind her slides slowly back.
FERRO
(turning)
Where the fu --
Her eyes widen. It's not Spunkmeyer.
Am impression of leering jaws which blur forward, then
a whirl of motion and a truncated scream. The throttle
levers are slammed forward in the melee.
EXT. APC - LANDSCAPE - STATION 114
They watch in dismay as the approaching ship dips and
VEERS WILDLY. Its main engines ROAR FULL ON and the
craft accelerates toward them even as it loses altitude.
It skims the ground. Clips a rock formation. The
ship slews, sideslipping. It hits a ridge. Tumbles,
bursting into flame, breaking up. It arcs into the
air, end over end, a Catherine wheel juggernaut.
RIPLEY
Run!
She grabs Newt and sprints for cover as a tumbling
section of the ship's massive engine module slams
into the APC and it explodes into twisted wreckage.
The drop-ship skips again, like a stone, engulfed in
flames...AND CRASHES INTO THE STATION. A TREMENDOUS
FIREBALL.
The remainder of the ground team watches their hopes
of getting off the planet, and most of their superior
fire power, reduced to flaming debris.
There is a moment of stunned silence, then...
HUDSON
(hysterical)
Well that's great! That's just
fucking great, man. Now what the
fuck are we supposed to do, man?
We're in some real pretty shit now!
HICKS
Are you finished?
(to Ripley)
You okay?
She nods. She can't disguise her stricken expression
when she looks at Newt, but the little girl seems
relatively calm. She shrugs with fatalistic acceptance.
NEWT
I guess we're not leaving, right?
RIPLEY
I'm sorry, Newt.
NEWT
You don't have to be sorry. It
wasn't your fault.
HUDSON
(kicking rocks)
Just tell me what the fuck we're
supposed to do now. What're we
gonna do now?
BURKE
(annoyed)
May be could build a fire and
sing songs.
NEWT
We should get back, 'cause it'll
be dark soon. They come mostly
at night. Mostly.
Ripley follows Newt's look to the AP station looming
in the twilight, the burning drop-ship wreckage jammed
into its basal structure.
EXT. CONTROL BLOCK - NIGHT 115
The wind howls mournfully around the metal buildings,
dry and cold.
INT. OPERATIONS 116
The weary and demoralized group is gathered to take
stock of their grim options. Vasquez and Hudson are
just setting down a scorched and dented packing case,
one of several culled from the APC wreckage.
Hicks indicates their remaining inventory of weapons,
lying on a table.
HICKS
This is all we could salvage. We've
got four pulse-rifles with about
fifty rounds each. Not so good.
About fifteen M-40 grenades and
two flame throwers less than
half full...one damaged. And
We've got four of these
robot-sentry units with scanners
and display intact.
He opens one of the scorched cases, revealing a
high-tech servo-actuated machine gun with optical
sensing equipment, packed in foam.
RIPLEY
How long after we're declared
overdue can we expect a rescue?
HICKS
About seventeen days.
HUDSON
Man, we're not going to make it
seventeen hours! Those things
are going to come in here, just
like they did before, man...
they're going to come in here
and get us, man, long before...
RIPLEY
She survived longer than that
with no weapons and no training.
Ripley indicates Newt, who salutes Hudson smartly.
RIPLEY
So you better just start dealing
with it. Just deal with it,
Hudson...because we need you and
I'm tired of your bullshit. Now
get on a terminal and call up some
kind of floor plan file.
Construction blueprints,
maintenance schematics, anything
that shows the layout of this
place. I want to see air ducts,
electrical access tunnels,
subbasements. Every possible way
into this wing.
Hudson gathers himself, thankful for the direction.
Hicks nods approval of her handling of it.
HUDSON
Aye-firmative. I'm on it.
BISHOP
I'll be in medical. I'd like to
continue my analysis.
RIPLEY
Fine. You do that.
INT. OPERATIONS 117
Burke, Ripley, Hudson and Hicks are bent over a large
HORIZONTAL VIDEOSCREEN, like an illuminated chart table.
Newt hops from one foot to the other to see.
RIPLEY
This service tunnel is how they're
moving back and forth.
HUDSON
Yeah, right, it runs from the
processing station right into
the sublevel here.
He traces a finger along the abstract ground plan.
RIPLEY
All right. There's a fire door
at this end. The first thing we
do is put a remote sentry in the
tunnel and seal that door.
HICKS
We gotta figure on them getting
into the complex.
RIPLEY
That's right. So we put up
welded barricades at these
intersections...
(pointing)
...and seal these ducts here
and here. Then they can only
come at us from these two
corridors and we create a free
field of fire for the other
two sentry units, here.
Hicks contemplates her game plan and raises his hand,
satisfied.
HICKS
Outstanding. Then all we need's
a deck of cards. All right, let's
move like we got a purpose.
HUDSON
Aye-firmative.
NEWT
(imitating Hudson)
Aye-firmative!
INT. SERVICE TUNNEL - SUBLEVEL 118
A long straight service tunnel, lined with conduit,
seems to go on forever. Vasquez and Hudson have
finished setting up two of the robot sentry guns on
tripods in the tunnel.
VASQUEZ
(shouting)
Testing!
She hurls a wastebasket down the tunnel, into the
automatic field of fire. The sentry guns swivel
smoothly, the wastebasket bounces once...and is riddled
by two quick bursts of EXPLODING 10MM ROUNDS into
dime-sized shrapnel. They retreat behind a heavy steel
FIRE DOOR which they roll closed on its track. Vasquez,
using a PORTABLE WELDING TORCH, begins sealing the door
to its frame, as Hudson paces nervously.
HUDSON
Hudson here. A and B
sentries are in place and
keyed. We're sealing the
tunnel.
INT. SECOND LEVEL CORRIDOR 119
Hicks pauses in his work.
HICKS
(into mike)
Roger.
He and Ripley are covering an air duct opening with
a metal plate, welding it in place, showering sparks
in the dark corridor. Behind them Burke and Newt
are moving back and forth with cartons of food on a
hand truck, stacking it inside the operations center.
Hicks sets down his welder and pulls a small object
out of a belt pouch. A braceletlike EMERGENCY
LOCATING BEEPER.
HICKS
Here, put this on. Then
I can locate you anywhere
in the complex on this --
He indicates a tiny TRACKER hooked to his battle
harness. He shrugs, a little self-consciously.
HICKS
Just a...precaution. You
know.
Ripley pauses for a moment, regarding him
quizzically.
RIPLEY
(strapping
it on)
Thanks.
HUDSON
Uh, what's next?
She consults a printout of the floor plan.
EXT. CONTROL BLOCK 120
The wind has died utterly and in the even more eerie
stillness a diffuse mist has rolled into shroud
the complex. Visibility is low in the fog.
Everything looks underwater. There is no movement.
INT. CORRIDOR 121
In the barricaded corridor sentry-gun "C" sits waiting,
its "ARMED" light flashing green. Through a hole
torn in the ceiling at the far end of the corridor
the fog swirls in. Water drips. An expectant hush.
INT. MED LAB ANNEX - OPERATING ROOM 122
Ripley carries an exhausted Newt through the inner
connecting rooms of the medical wing. She reaches
an OPERATING ROOM which is small but very high-tech
...vaultlike metal walls, strange equipment.
Several metal cots have been set up, displacing O.R.
equipment which is pushed into one corner.
Newt is resting her head on Ripley's shoulder, barely
awake...out of steam. Ripley sets her on one of
the cots and Newt lies down.
RIPLEY
Now you just lie here and
have a nap. You're exhausted.
NEWT
I don't want to...I have
scary dreams.
This obviously strikes a chord with Ripley, but she
feigns cheerfulness.
RIPLEY
I'll bet Casey doesn't have
bad dreams.
Ripley lifts the doll's head from Newt's tiny fingers
and looks inside. It is, of course, empty.
RIPLEY
Nothing bad in here. Maybe
you could just try to be like
her.
Ripley closes the doll's eyes and hands her back.
Newt rolls her eyes as if to say "don't pull that
five-year-old shit on me, lady. I'm six."
NEWT
Ripley...she doesn't have
bad dreams because she's just
a piece of plastic.
RIPLEY
Oh. Sorry, Newt.
NEWT
My mommy always said there
were no monsters. No real
ones. But there are.
Ripley's expression becomes sober. She brushes damp
hair back from the child's pale forehead.
RIPLEY
(quietly)
Yes, there are, aren't there.
NEWT
Why do they tell little kids
that?
Newt's voice reveals her deep sense of betrayal.
She's seen that the world can be just as terrifying
as her most primal child's nightmare if not more
so, and that's a lot worse than finding out there is
no Santa.
RIPLEY
Well, some kids can't handle
it like you can.
NEWT
Did one of those things grow
inside her?
Ripley begins pulling blankets up an tucking them in
around her tiny body.
RIPLEY
I don't know, Newt. That's
the truth.
NEWT
Isn't that how babies come?
I mean people babies...they
grow inside you?
RIPLEY
No, it's different, honey.
NEWT
Did you ever have a baby?
RIPLEY
Yes. A little girl.
NEWT
Where is she?
RIPLEY
(quietly)
Gone.
NEWT
You mean dead.
It's more statement than question. Ripley nods slowly.
She turns, reaching for a PORTABLE SPACE HEATER
sitting nearby, and slides it closer to the bed. She
switches it on. It HUMS and emits a cozy orange
glow.
NEWT
Ripley, I was just thinking...
Maybe I could do you a favor and
fill in for her. Just for a
while. You can try it and if
you don't like it, it's okay.
I'll understand. No big deal.
Whattya think?
Ripley gazes at her a long time before answering...
a conflict between the urge to crush the child to her
in a forever hug and the knowledge that neither of them
may see another dawn.
RIPLEY
I think it's not the worst idea
I've heard all day. Let's talk
about it later.
She switches off the light and starts to rise. Newt
grabs her arm. A plaintive voice in the dark.
NEWT
Don't go! Please.
RIPLEY
I'll be right in the other
room, Newt. And look...I can
see you on that camera right
up there.
Newt looks at the VIDEO SECURITY CAMERA above the door.
Ripley unsnaps the TRACKER BRACELET given to her by
Hicks and puts it on Newt's tiny wrist, cinching it
down.
RIPLEY
Here. Take is for luck. Now
go to sleep...and don't dream.
Ripley walks away and Newt rolls on her side, hugging
Casey and gazing at the hypnotically pulsing function
light on the bracelet. The space heater hums
comfortingly.
INT. MED LAB 123
ECU Gorman, his eyelids slitted open like those of a
corpse, but with the eyes tracking erratically. The
only sign of life.
RIPLEY
(voice over)
How is he?
Ripley stands over the Lieutenant, who is lying
motionless on an examining table. Bishop looks up
from his instruments nearby, the light of a single
gooseneck lamp giving his features a macabre cast.
BISHOP
I've isolated a neuro-muscular
toxin responsible for the
paralysis. It seems to be
metabolizing. He should wake
up soon.
RIPLEY
Now let me get this straight.
The aliens paralyzed the colonists,
carried them over there,
cocooned them to be hosts for
more of those...
Ripley points at the stasis cylinders containing the
face-hugger specimens.
RIPLEY
Which would mean lots of
those parasites, right? One
for each person...over a hundred
at least.
BISHOP
Yes. That follows.
RIPLEY
But these things come from
eggs...so where are all the
eggs coming from.
BISHOP
That is the question of the
hour. We could assume a parallel
to certain insect forms who
have hivelike organization.
An ant of termite colony, for
example, is ruled by a single
female, a queen, which is the
source of new eggs.
RIPLEY
You're saying one of those things
lays all the eggs?
BISHOP
Well, the queen is always physically
larger then the others. A
termite queen's abdomen is so
bloated with eggs that it can't
move at all. It is fed and tended
by drone workers, defended by
the warriors. She is the center
of their lives, quite literally
the mother of their society.
RIPLEY
Could it be intelligent?
BISHOP
Hard to say. It may have been
blind instinct...attraction to
the heat of whatever...but she
did choose to incubate her eggs
in the one spot where we couldn't
destroy her without destroying
ourselves. That's if she exists,
of course.
Ripley ponders the ramifications of Bishop's analysis.
RIPLEY
(rising)
I want those specimens destroyed
as soon as you're done with them.
You understand?
Bishop glances at the creatures, pulsing malevolently
in their cylinders.
BISHOP
Mr. Burke have instructions
that they were to be kept alive
in stasis for return to the
company labs. He was very specific.
Ripley feels the fabric of her self-restraint tearing.
She slaps the intercom switch.
RIPLEY
Burke!
INT. MED LAB ANNEX 124
In a small observation chamber separated from the med
lab by a glass partition, Ripley and Burke have
squared off.
BURKE
Those specimens are worth
millions to the bio-weapons
division. Now, if you're smart
we can both come out of this
heroes. Set up for life.
RIPLEY
You just try getting a dangerous
organism past ICC quarantine.
Section 22350 of the Commerce Code.
BURKE
You've been doing your homework.
Look, they can't impound it if
they don't know about it.
RIPLEY
But they will know about it, Burke.
From me. Just like they'll know
how you were responsible for the
deaths of one hundred and fifty-seven
colonists here --
BURKE
Now, wait a second --
RIPLEY
(stepping on him)
You sent them to that ship. I
just checked the colony log...
directive dates six-twelve-seventy-nine.
Signed Burke, Carter J.
Ripley's fury is peaking, now that the frustration and
rage finally have a target to focus on.
RIPLEY
You sent them out there and you
didn't even warn them, Burke.
Why didn't you warn them?
BURKE
Look, maybe the thing didn't even
exist, right? And if I'd made it
a major security situation, the
Administration would've stepped
in. Then no exclusive rights,
nothing.
He shrugs, his manner blase, dismissive.
BURKE
It was a bad call, that's all.
Ripley snaps. She slams him against the wall, surprising
herself and him, her hands gripping his collar.
RIPLEY
Bad call? These people are fucking
dead, Burke! Well, they're going
to nail your hide to the shed...
and I'll be there when they do.
She steps back, shaking, and looks at him with utter
loathing, as if the depths of human greed are a far
more horrific revelation than any alien.
BURKE
(sadly)
I expected more of you, Ripley.
I thought you would be smarter
than this.
RIPLEY
Sorry to disappoint you.
She turns away and strides out. The door closes.
Burke stares after her, his mind a whirl of options.
INT. CORRIDOR 125
Ripley is walking toward operations when a STRIDENT
ALARM begins to sound. She breaks into a run.
INT. OPERATIONS 126
Ripley double-times it to Hicks' TACTICAL CONSOLE
where Hudson and Vasquez have already gathered. Hicks
slaps a switch, killing the alarm.
HICKS
They're coming. They're in
the tunnel.
The TRILLING of the motion sensor remains, speeding up.
TWO RED LIGHTS on the tactical display light up
simultaneously with an echoing crash of gunfire which
vibrates the floor.
HICKS
Guns A and B. Tracking and firing
on multiple targets.
The RSS guns pound away, echoing through the complex.
Their separate bursts overlap in an irregular rhythm.
A counter on the display counts down the number of
rounds fired.
HUDSON
They must be wall to wall in
there. Look at those ammo counters
go. It's a shooting gallery down
there.
INT. SERVICE TUNNEL - TIGHT ON RSS GUNS 127
blasting stroboscopically in the tunnels. Their barrels
are overheating, glowing cherry red. One CLICKS empty
and sits smoking, still swiveling to track targets it
can't fire upon.
INT. OPERATIONS 128
The digital counter on B gun reads zero.
HICKS
B gun's dry. Twenty on A.
Ten. Five. That's it.
SILENCE. Then a GONGLIKE BOOMING echoes eerily up from
sublevel.
RIPLEY
They're at the fire door.
The BOOMING INCREASES in volume and ferocity.
HUDSON
Man, listen to that.
Mixed with the echoing crash-clang is a nerve-wrecking
SCREECH of claws on steel. The intercom buzzes,
startling them.
BISHOP
(voice over)
Bishop here. I'm afraid I have
some bad news.
HUDSON
Well, that's a switch.
INT. OPERATIONS - MINUTES LATER 129
Everyone, including Bishop, is crowded at the window,
intently watching the AP station which is a dim
silhouette in the mist. Suddenly a column of flame,
like an acetylene torch, jets upward from the complex
at the base of the cone.
BISHOP
That's it. See it? Emergency
venting.
RIPLEY
How long until it blows?
BISHOP
I'm projecting total systems
failure in a little under four
hours. The blast radius will be
about thirty kilometers. About
equal to ten megatons.
HICKS
We got problems.
HUDSON
I don't fucking believe this.
Do you believe this?
RIPLEY
And it's too late to shut it down?
BISHOP
I'm afraid so. The crash did too
much damage. The overload is
inevitable, at this point.
HUDSON
Oh, man. And I was gettin' short,
too! Four more weeks and out.
Now I'm gonna buy it on this fuckin'
rock. It ain't half fair, man!
VASQUEZ
Hudson, give us a break.
They watch as another gas jet lights up the fog-shrouded
landscape.
RIPLEY
(to Hicks)
We need the other drop-ship. The
on one the Sulaco. We have to
bring it down on remote, somehow.
HUDSON
How? The transmitter was on the
APC. It's wasted.
RIPLEY
(pacing)
I don't care how! Think of a
way. Think of something.
HUDSON
Think of what? We're fucked.
RIPLEY
What about the colony transmitter?
That up-link tower down at the
other end. Why can't we use that?
BISHOP
I checked. The hard wiring
between here and there was severed
in the fighting.
Ripley is wound up like a dynamo, her mind spinning out
options, grim solutions.
RIPLEY
Well then somebody's just going
to have to go out there. Take a
portable terminal and go out there
and plug in manually.
HUDSON
Oh, right! Right! With those
things running around. No way.
BISHOP
(quietly)
I'll go.
RIPLEY
What?
BISHOP
I'm really the only one qualified
to remote-pilot the ship anyway.
Believe me, I'd prefer not to. I
may be synthetic but I'm not stupid.
RIPLEY
All right. Let's get on it. What'll
you need?
VASQUEZ
Listen. It's stopped.
They listen. Nothing. An instant later comes the
HIGH-PITCHED TRILLING of a motion-sensor alarm. Hicks
looks at the tactical board.
HICKS
Well, they're into the complex.
INT. MED LAB 130
One of the acid holes from the colonists' siege has
yielded access to subfloor conduits. Bishop lying in
the opening, reaches up to graph the portable terminal
as Ripley hands it down to him. He pushes it into
the constricted shaft ahead of him. She then hands him
a small satchel containing tools and assorted patch
cables, a service pistol and a small cutting torch.
BISHOP
This duct runs almost to the
up-link assembly. One hundred
eighty meters. Say, forty minutes
to crawl down there. One hour
to patch in and align the antenna.
Thirty minutes to prep the ship,
then about fifty minutes flight time.
Ripley looks at her watch.
RIPLEY
It's going to be closer. You
better get going.
BISHOP
(cheerfully)
See you soon.
She squirms into the shaft, pushing the equipment along
ahead of him with a scraping rhythm. The diameter of
the conduit is barely larger than the width of his
shoulders. Vasquez slides a metal plate over the hole
and begins spot welding it in place.
INT. CONDUIT 131
Bishop looks back as the welder seals him in. He sighs
fatalistically and squirms forward. Ahead of him the
conduit dwindles straight to seeming infinity. Like
being in the bore of a very long Howitzer.
INT. MED LAB 132
Ripley jumps as an ALARM suddenly blares through the
complex.
HICKS
(voice over)
They're in the approach corridor.
RIPLEY
(into mike)
On my way.
Ripley jumps up, unslinging a FLAMETHROWER from her
shoulder in one motion, and sprints for Operations with
Vasquez. The sound of SENTRY GUNS opening up in
staccato bursts echoes from close by.
INT. OPERATIONS 133
Ripley runs to the tactical console where Hicks is
mesmerized by the images from the surveillance cameras.
The flashes of the sentry guns flare out the sensitive
video, but impressions of figures moving in the smoky
corridor are occasionally visible. The robot sentries
hammer away, driving streamers of tracer fire into
the swirling mist.
HICKS
Twenty meters and closing.
Fifteen. C and D guns down
about fifty percent.
The digital readout whirl through descending numbers.
An inhuman SHRILL SCREECHING is audible between bursts
of fire.
RIPLEY
Now many?
HICKS
Can't tell. Lots. D gun's
down to twenty. Ten. It's out.
Then the firing from the remaining guns stop abruptly.
The video image is a swirling wall of smoke. Small fires
burn, dim glows in the mist. There are black and
twisted shapes, and pieces of twisted shapes, scattered
at the edge of visibility. However, nothing emerges
from the wall of smoke. The motion sensor TONE shuts off.
RIPLEY
They retreated. The guns stopped
them.
The moment stretches. Everyone exhales slowly.
HICKS
Yeah. But look...
The digital counters for the two sentry guns read "0"
and "10" respectively. Less than a second's worth of
firing.
HICKS
Newt time then can walk right
up and knock.
RIPLEY
But they don't know that. They're
probably looking for other ways
to get in. That'll take them awhile.
HUDSON
Maybe we got 'em demoralized.
HICKS
(to Vasquez
and Hudson)
I want you two walking the perimeter.
I know we're all in strung out
shape but stay frosty and alert.
We've got to stop any entries before
they get out of hand.
The two troopers nod and head for the corridor. Ripley
sighs and picks up a cup of cold coffee, draining it in
one gulp.
HICKS
How long since you slept?
Twenty-four hours?
Ripley shrugs. She seems soul weary, drained by the
nerve-wracking tension. When she answers, her voice
seems distant, detached.
RIPLEY
(grimly)
They'll get us.
HICKS
Maybe. Maybe not.
RIPLEY
Hicks, I'm not going to wind up like
those others. You'll take care of
it won't you, it if comes to that?
HICKS
If it comes to that, I'll do us
both. Let's see that it doesn't
Here, I'd like to introduce you to
a close personal friend of mine.
He picks up his pulse-rifle and with the casually precise
movements of long practice he snaps open the bolt, drops
out the magazine and hands it to her.
HICKS
M-41A 10mm pulse-rifle, over and
under with a 30mm pump-action
grenade launcher.
Ripley hefts the weapon. It is heavy and awkward. But
there is an irrational promise of security in its lethal
cold steel lines, to at least the sense that she will
be in some greater measure the master of her own fate.
She raises it clumsily.
RIPLEY
What do I do?
INT. CONDUIT 134
Bishop is in claustrophobic limbo between two echoing
infinities. The pipe rings with his scraping advance.
He approaches an irregular hole which admits a tiny
shaft of light. He puts his eyes up to the acid-etched
opening.
HIS P.O.V. as drooling jaws flash toward us, SLAMMING
against the steel with a vicious scraping SNAP.
Bishop flattens himself away from the opening and
inches along, looking pale and strained. He glances at
his watch.
INT. OPERATIONS 135
Ripley has the stock of the M-41A snugged up to her cheek
and is awkwardly trying to keep up with Hicks'
instructions. The Corporal is standing close behind her,
positioning her arms. It's intimate but that's the
last thing on their minds.
HICKS
Just pull it in real right. It
will kick some. When the counter
here heads zero, hit this...
He thumbs a button and the magazine drops out, clattering
on the floor.
HICKS
Just let it drop right out. Get
the other one in quick. Just
slap it in hard, it likes abuse.
Now, pull the bolt.
CLACK.
HICKS
You're ready again.
Ripley repeats the action, not very smoothly. Her hands
are trembling. She indicates a stout TUBE underneath
the slender pulse-rifle barrel.
RIPLEY
What's this?
HICKS
Well, that's the grenade launcher
...you probably don't want to
mess with that.
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