Alien³

SPENCE

Who's Newt?

HICKS

The kid.

SPENCE

Rebecca. Rebecca's fine.

HICKS

Ripley?

SPENCE

(hesitates)

Ripley's fine, Hicks.

HICKS

Bishop. Where's Bishop?

SPENCE

(puzzled)

Bishop?

HICKS

The android.

SPENCE

(carefully, worried that she's gotten in over her head)

There were three of you. Three that I know of, anyway. Maybe you should try to sleep now. You want the nurse? They can give you something...

HICKS

(leaning forward, still gripping Spence's wrists)

Why haven't I been debriefed? Where's the brass?

SPENCE

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

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

ORDERLY

Goddamn it! She bit me!

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

NEWT

(near hysteria)

Where's Ripley? Where is she?

HICKS

(straightens out of hand-to-hand crouch without losing any of the threat)

She's asking you a question.

ORDERLY

You looking to get yourself sedated, Corporal?

NEWT

Where is she?

HICKS

Now I'm asking you the question...

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

SPENCE

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

ORDERLY

Spence, there's no way –

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

INT. MEDLAB – ANOTHER ROOM

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

SPENCE

She's sleeping.

(she and Hicks exchange glances)

Sometimes people need to sleep... To get over things...

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

NEWT

Is Ripley dreaming?

SPENCE

I don't know honey.

NEWT

It's better not to.

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

Smaller than Anchorpoint.

INT. RODINA – CYBERNETICS LAB

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

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

SUSLOV

And this?

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

FIRST COMMANDO

(eyes fixed on the screen in horror and fascination)

No...

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

INT. SULACO – CARGO LOCK

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

TECH WITH PROBE

You getting tape of this, Miller?

SECOND TECH

You bet your ass. Orders.

TECH WITH PROBE

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

On the monitor, the tip of the probe trembles, brushes one of the globules.

The Second Tech takes it, inserts it in a plastic tube, seals the tube in a small metal canisters, and writes #17 on the side in red grease pen.

SECOND TECH

Since when do androids get diseases?

TECH WITH PROBE

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

INT. ROSETTI'S OFFICE CUBICLE

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

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

SECRETARY

(hands him a stiff red plastic envelope)

Welles and Fox, Colonel. Military Sciences, Weapons Division.

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

ROSETTI

Show them in.

Secretary exits.

ROSETTI'S POV – CLOSEUP

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

FOX (O.S.)

Kevin Fox, Colonel.

ROSETTI'S POV – FOX

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

WELLES

Susan Welles.

Same spa-tuned look, same expensive casualwear.

ROSETTI

(flatly, with no other effort at greeting)

Welcome to Anchorpoint.

Fox and Welles seat themselves without waiting to be asked.

FOX

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

WELLES

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

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

FOX

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

ROSETTI

(flicking the cards down on his desktop with suppressed hostility)

We call it "following orders."

WELLES

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

FOX

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

ROSETTI

(with a thin grin)

Liberals.

WELLES

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

ROSETTI

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

FOX

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

WELLES

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

FOX

(taking a sheaf of printout from his attach)

But that's a simple matter. This isn't. Sulaco's data base indicates a boarding operation en route, Colonel.

ROSETTI

A boarding operation? Why wasn't I informed?

WELLES

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

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. ANCHORPOINT – ENTRANCE TO ANTI-BUGGING BUBBLE

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

MARINE

This way, Corporal.

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

INT. THE BUBBLE

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

ROSETTI

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

FOX

I'm Kevin Fox, Hicks. This is Susan Welles. We're with the Company. We'd like to congratulate you on a successful mission.

HICKS

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

WELLES

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

ROSETTI

(picks up a sheaf of printout)

We've all read the transcript of you debriefing, Hicks...

HICKS

Where's Bishop? Sir.

ROSETTI

(blinks)

If you don't mind, Hicks, we'll table that until –

TRENT

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

ROSETTI

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

HICKS

(ignoring Rosetti, he addresses Trent)

I've already told you everything I know.

ROSETTI

Hick –

FOX

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

ROSETTI

You ordered the subject classified Maximum Security, Fox.

TRENT

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

WELLES

Corporal Hick asked the right questions to begin with.

ROSETTI

(stiffly)

To answer your question, Hicks: we aren't certain.

WELLES

(heavy sarcasm)

But we can guess, can't we Colonel?

HICKS

(to Welles)

Where?

FOX

Rodina station.

HICKS

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

ROSETTI

Sulaco's navigation system failed. You were in disputed territory for something over eighty-five minutes, Hicks. The U.P.P. would ordinarily respond to that as a violation of their space. So far there's been no protest. Nothing.

(he hesitates)

Sulaco's computer indicates a covert boarding operation...

FOX

"Indicates"...

SHUMAN

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

WELLES

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

ROSETTI

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

FOX

We're here to do our job, Colonel.

SHUMAN

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

ROSETTI

(quick to break in; the subject's too sensitive for enlisted ears)

Any further questions for the Corporal? No? In that case, Hicks...

HICKS

Sir.

Hicks stands, salutes.

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

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

Tully steps in and the doors close.

INT. TISSUE CULTURE LAB

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

TULLY

Hey.

SPENCE

You look like homemade shit.

(she withdraws her hands, the gloves pop out)

What happened down there, Tully? There's some kind of security blackout on...

TULLY

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

SPENCE

You joking, Tully?

TULLY

Wish I were...

(changes the subject)

What's the old man got for me to dick around with this shift?

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

SPENCE

Here. All yours. Orders are, you use the manipulators for this.

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

SPENCE

(continuing)

What the hell did happen on the ship, Tully? How come all the biopsy work on those three? And his very quiet sudden backlog of autopsy material? How come it's all triple-classified? What's going on? We had these two spooks from Gateway in here today acted like they just bought the place...

TULLY

(with a nervous glance around the lab)

Okay, okay... But later, okay? Not here...

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. TISSUE CULTURE LAB

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

ANGLE OVER TOP OF MONITOR

For his reaction.

TULLY

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

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

SPENCE

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

SPENCE'S POV – CLOSE ON THE MONITOR

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

ANGLE

SPENCE

Up the rez...

Tully taps a lapboard; magnifications increases by twenty powers.

EXTREME CLOSEUP – MONITOR

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

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. ECO-MODULE

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

NEWT

Have you been there, Hicks? Africa?

HICKS

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

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

NEWT

I'd like to go there...

HICKS

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

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

NEWT

I don't remember them...

SPENCE

Your grandparents?

Newt nods.

SPENCE

(continuing)

Well, guess they remember you. Sure.

NEWT

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

HICKS

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

Spence grins at Hicks.

INT. NEWT'S DORM CUBICLE

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

"NEWT JORDEN
c/o

MR. & MRS. RICHARD JORDEN

34877 GREENLEAF AVE. #582

NEW PORTLAND, OREGON AB994J2"

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

NEWT

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

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

INT. DEPARTURE BAY

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

HICKS

That's you.

NEWT

I know.

HICKS

Good luck in Oregon.