Aliens

RIPLEY

(low)

Sweet Jesus.

ELEVATOR PASSENGER

Do you mind?

Ripley's hand slides off the door, strengthless.

TIGHT ON HER

FROM INSIDE the elevator as the doors close like fate on her lost expression.

EXT. ALIEN LANDSCAPE – DAY

A hideous, storm-blasted vista. Tortured rock forms. Bleak twilight at midday.

PAN SLOWLY ONTO a CORRODED METAL SIGN set in concrete pylons, which reads:

"HADLEY'S HOPE - POP. 159
WELCOME TO ACHERON"

Some local has added below in spray-can graffiti "Have a nice day." Gale-force wind SCREECHES around the steel sign, driving a freezing rain.

The COLONY, b.g., is a squat complex with lots of floodlights.

EXT. COLONY COMPLEX

The town is a cluster of bunkerlike metal and concrete buildings connected by conduits. Neon signs throw garish colors across the vaultlike walls, advertising bars and other businesses. It looks like a sodden cross between the Krupps munitions works and a truckstop casino in the Nevada boondocks.

Huge-wheeled tractors crawl toadlike in the rutted "street" and vanish down rampways to underground garages.

ANGLE ON THE CONTROL BLOCK

The largest structure. It resembles vaguely the superstructure of an aircraft carrier... a flying bridge.

VISIBLE across a half kilometer of barren heath, b.g., is the massive complex of the nearest ATMOSPHERE PROCESSOR, looking like a power plant bred with an active volcano. Its fiery glow pulses in the low cloud cover like a steel mill.

INT. MAIN CONCOURSE – NEAR CONTROL BLOCK

A central space, laid out like a scaled-down shopping mall with no styling flourishes. We SEE a cross section of the types of people who have come to live on Godforsaken Acheron. Tough. Pragmatic. "Grapes of Wrath" faces. Calloused hands. Not too many interior decorators. Some children race in the corridor on things that look suspiciously like "Big Wheels."
 

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – CONTROL BLOCK

Jammed with computer terminals, technicians, displays... most of the business of running the colony flows through here. It's high tech but used and scrungy. Papers piled up. Coffee cup rings.

DOLLY AHEAD OF LYDECKER, the Assistant Operations Manager, as he catches up to the harried Operating Manager, SIMPSON.

LYDECKER

You remember you sent some wildcatters out to that plateau, out past the Ilium range, a couple days ago?

SIMPSON
Yeah. What?

LYDECKER

There's a guy on the horn, mom-and-pop survey team. Says he's homing on something and wants to know if his claim will be honored.

SIMPSON

Christ. Some honch in a cushy office on Earth says go look at a grid reference in the middle of nowhere, we look. They don't say why, and I don't ask. I don't ask because it takes two weeks to get an answer out here and the answer's always 'don't ask.'

LYDECKER

So what do I tell this guy?

SIMPSON

Tell him, as far as I'm concerned, he finds something it's his.

EXT. ACHERON – THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE – A SIX-WHEELED TRACTOR – DAY

It roars across corrugated rock, blasting through soggy drifts of volcanic ash.

INT. TRACTOR

At the controls, intent on a PINGING scope, is RUSS JORDEN, independent prospector. Beside him is his wife/partner ANNE and in the back their two kids are playing among the heavy sampling equipment.

JORDEN

(gloating cackle)

Look at this fat, juicy magnetic profile. And it's mine, mine, mine.

ANNE

Half mine, dear.

NEWT, their six-year-old daughter, yells from the back...

NEWT

And half mine!

JORDEN

I got too many partners.

NEWT

Daddy, when are we going back to town?

JORDEN

When we get rich, Newt.

NEWT

You always say that. I wanna go back. I wanna play 'Monster Maze.'

Her older brother TIM sticks his jeering face close to hers.

TIM

You cheat too much.

NEWT
Do not. I'm just the best.

TIM

Do too! You go in places we can't fit.

NEWT

So! That's why I'm the best.

ANNE

Knock it off! I catch either of you playing in the air ducts again I'll tan your hides.

NEWT

Mom. All the kids play it...

JORDEN

(reverently)

Holy shiiit!

ANGLE THROUGH FRONT CANOPY ON a bizarre shape looming ahead. An enormous bonelike mass projecting upward from the bed of ash. The tractor slows.

Canted on its side and buckles against a rock outcropping by the lava flow, it is still recognizable as an EXTRATERRESTRIAL SHIP. Bio-mechanoid. Nonhuman design.

JORDEN

Folks, we have scored big this time.

EXT. TRACTOR

Jorden and Anne step down, wearing ENVIRONMENT SUITS. Carrying LIGHTS, PACKS, CAMERAS, TEST GEAR. Their breath clouds in the chill air.

ANNE

You kids stay inside. I mean it! We'll be right back.

They trudge toward the alien derelict.

ANNE

Shouldn't we call in?

JORDEN

Let's wait till we know what to call it in as.

ANNE

(nervous)

How about 'big weird thing'?

They pause at a twisted gash in the hull. Blackness inside.

INT. / EXT. TRACTOR

Newt has her face pressed to the glass, steaming it. Watching her parents enter the strange ship. Tim GRABS HER from behind. She SHRIEKS.

TIM

Cheater!

EXT. LANDSCAPE – NIGHT

The tractor and the derelict are dark and motionless. The wind HOWLS around them.

Tim is curled up in the driver's seat. Newt shakes him awake, trying hard not to cry.

NEWT

Timmy... they've been gone a long time.

Tim considers the night. The wind. The vast landscape. He bites his lip.

TIM

(quavering)

It'll be okay, Newt. Dad knows what he's doing.

CRASH! Newt SCREAMS as the door beside her is RIPPED OPEN. A dark shape lunges inside!

Anne, panting and terrified, grabs the dash mike.

ANNE

Mayday! Mayday! This is Alpha Kilo Two Four Niner calling Hadley Control. Repeat. This is...

As Anne shouts the mayday Newt looks past her, to the ground. Russ Jorden lies there inert, dragged somehow by Anne from inside the ship. There is SOMETHING ON HIS FACE. An appalling MULTILEGGED CREATURE, pulsing with obscene life. Newt begins to SCREAM hysterically, competing with the shrieking wind which rises to a crescendo as we:

CUT TO:

INT. RIPLEY'S APARTMENT – GATEWAY – DAY

Silence. Ripley, looking haggard, sits at a table in the dining alcove contemplating the smoke rising from her cigarette. The place is modest, to be charitable, and there are few personal touches. Though it's late in the day Ripley is still wearing a robe. The bed is unmade. Dishes in the sink. Jones prowls across the counter. The WALLSCREEN is on, blaring vapidly.

VOICE FROM VIDEO (O.S.)

Hey, Bob! I heard you and the family are heading off for the colonies!

BON (O.S.)

Best decision I ever made, Bill. We'll be starting a new life from scratch, in a clean world. No crime. No unemployment...

The door BUZZES. Ripley jumps like a cat. Jones doesn't.

INT. CORRIDOR

Carter Burke stands in the narrow, dingy corridor with LIEUTENANT GORMAN, Colonial Marine Corps. Young and severe in his officer's dress-black. The door opens slightly.

BURKE

Hi, Ripley. This is Lieutenant Gorman of the...

SLAM. Burke buzzes again. Talks to the door...

BURKE

Ripley we have to talk.

(pause)

They've lost contact with the colony on Acheron.

The door opens. Ripley considers the ramifications of that. She motions them inside.

INT. RIPLEY'S APARTMENT – A LITTLE LATER

Burke and Gorman are seated, nursing coffee. Ripley paces, very tense.

RIPLEY

No. There's no way!

BURKE

Hear me out...

RIPLEY

I was reamed, steamed and dry-cleaned by you guys... and now you want me to go back out there? Forget it.

We SEE that she's gut scared, covering it with anger. Burke sees it.

BURKE

Look, we don't know what's going on out there. It may just be a down transmitter. But if it's not, I want you there... as an advisor. That's all.

GORMAN

You wouldn't be going in with the troops. I can guarantee your safety.

BURKE

These Colonial Marines are some tough hombres, and they're packing state-of-the-art firepower. Nothing they can't handle... right, Lieutenant?

GORMAN

(cool)

We're trained to deal with these kinds of situations.

RIPLEY

(to Burke)

What about you? What's your interest in this?

BURKE

Well, the corporation co-financed that colony with the Colonial Administration, against mineral rights. We're getting into a lot of terraforming... 'Building Better Worlds.'

Burke is revealing his early days in sales.

RIPLEY

Yeah, yeah. I saw the commercial.

BURKE

I heard you were working in the cargo docks.

RIPLEY

(defensive)

That's right.

BURKE

Running loaders, forklifts, that sort of thing?

RIPLEY

(shrugging)

It's all I could get. Anyway, it keeps my mind off of... everything. Days off are worse.

BURKE

What if I said I could get you reinstated as a flight officer? And that the company has agreed to pick up your contract?

RIPLEY

If I go.

BURKE

If you go.

(pause)

It's a second chance, kiddo. And it'll be the best thing in the world for you to face this fear and beat it. You gotta get back on the horse...

RIPLEY

(frosty)

Spare me, Burke. I've had my psych evaluation this month.

Burke leans close, a let's-cut-the-crap intimacy.

BURKE

Yes, and I've read it. You wake up every night, sheets soaking, the same nightmare over and over...

RIPLEY

(shouting)

No! The answer is no. Now please go. I'm sorry. Just go, would you.

Burke nods to Gorman who rises with him. He slips a TRANSLUCENT CARD onto the table, heads for the door.

BURKE

Think about it.

EXT. ACHERON LANDSCAPE – NIGHT

As the wind HOWLS through tormented rock, BUILDING IN PITCH until we:

CUT TO:

INT. APARTMENT

Ripley lunges INTO FRAME with an animal outcry. She clutches her chest, breathing hard. Bathed in sweat she lights a cigarette with trembling hands. Do we hear a faint, desolate wind?

TIGHT ON PHONE CONSOLE as Ripley's hand inserts Burke's card into a slot. "STAND BY" prints out on the screen and is replaced by Burke's face, bleary with sleep.

BURKE

(on video phone)

Yello? Oh, Ripley. Hi...

RIPLEY

Burke, just tell me one thing. That you're going out there to kill them. Not study. Not bring back. Just burn them out... clean... forever.

BURKE

That's the plan. My word on it.

CLOSEUP – RIPLEY

Taking a deep slow breath. It's time to look the demon in the eye.

RIPLEY

All right. I'm in.

She punches off before Burke replies, before she can change her mind. She turns to Jones sitting on the bed and her tone becomes admonishing...

RIPLEY

And you my dear, are staying right here.

Jones blinks, cynical cat eyes... "count me right out."

CUT TO:

EXT. DEEP SPACE – THREE WEEKS LATER

An empty starfield. Metal spires slice ACROSS FRAME.

A mountain of steel following. A massive military transport ship, the SULACO. Ugly, battered... functional.

INT. CORRIDOR TO CARGO LOCK

An empty corridor, seemingly miles long. No movement. The THRUMMING of hyperdrive engines.

INT. CARGO LOCK

An enormous chamber, cavernous and dark. Squatting in the shadows are two orbit-to-surface shuttles. DROP-SHIPS. Heavy machinery all around them... cranes, loading equipment.

INT. BRIDGE

Dark electronic womb. CAMERA DOLLIES SLOWLY among murmuring instrumentation. A sudden high-pitched TRILLING accompanies a sequence of lights. An alarm.

INT. HYPERSLEEP VAULT

Blackness, until a bank of indicators lights up. Hydraulics lift a grid of equipment from a row of

horizontal HYPERSLEEP CYLINDERS. It reaches the ceiling. Locks.

CLOSE ON RIPLEY'S CAPSULE

As trickles of water run down the frosted canopy.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. HYPERSLEEP VAULT

Lit up, white and sterile.

The canopies of the row of capsules are raised. Ripley sits up. Rubs her arms briskly. Next to her Gorman and Burke are stirring and beyond them the troopers, wearing shorts and dog tags. They are:

MASTER SERGEANT      APONE UNIT LEADER

CORPORAL HICKS    B-TEAM LEADER

CORPORAL DIETRICH (female)   MED-TECH

PFC HUDSON         COM-TECH

PFC VASQUEZ (female)      'SMART-GUN' OPERATOR

PRIVATE DRAKE       'SMART-GUN' OPERATOR

PRIVATE FROST       TROOPER

PRIVATE CROWE      TROOPER

PRIVATE WIERZBOWSKI     TROOPER

CORPORAL FERRO (female)   DROP-SHIP PILOT

PFC SPUNKMEYER       DROP-SHIP CREW CHIEF

The ship is fully automated in interstellar flight so there is no crew, except for EXECUTIVE OFFICER (ECA) Bishop, who supervises planetary maneuvering.

GROANS echo across the chamber.

SPUNKMEYER

Arrgh. I'm getting too old for this shit.

SPUNKMEYER says this sincerely, though he must have enlisted underage not long ago. Looking surly, DRAKE its up. He's young as well but street-tough. Nasty scar curling his lip into a sneer.

DRAKE

They ain't payin' us enough for this.

DIETRICH

Not enough to have to wake up to your face, Drake.

DRAKE

Suck air. Hey, Hicks... you look like I feel.

HICKS, an older lifer-type who keeps his own counsel, just snorts good-naturedly.

Ripley scans the group as they shuffle past her to a bank of lockers. Though not supermen they are lean and hardened... tough, capable, jaded. They combine the specialized techno-combat training of the twenty-first century fighting man with those qualities universal to "grunts" through the ages. SERGEANT APONE moves down the row of freezers.

HUDSON

This floor's freezing.

APONE

Christ. I never saw such a buncha old women. You want me to fetch your slippers, Hudson?

HUDSON

Would you, Sir?

Ripley steps back as the troopers shuffle past nodding cursory hellos. She feels isolated by the camaraderie of this tightknit group.

VASQUEZ eyes her coldly as she passes. Like Drake, Vasquez is younger then the rest and her combat-primer was the street in a Los Angeles barrio. She is tough even by the standards of this group. Hard-muscled. Eyes cunning and mean.

HUDSON

Hey, Vasquez... you ever been mistaken for a man?

VASQUEZ

No. Have you?

She slaps Drake's open palm and it clenches into a greeting which is part contest. It gets rougher. Painful. Until she cuffs him hard and they break with vicious laughter. Dobermans playing. Conscripted from juvenile prison, the two of them were trained to operate the formidable "SMART-GUNS." That is part of their bond.

BISHOP is helping everyone like a valet. As he passes close to her Ripley notices a strange TATTOO across the back of his left hand... an ALPHA-NUMERIC CODE.

FROST

Hey, hand job, you take my towel?

SPUNKMEYER

(overlapping)

I need some slack, man. How come they send us straight back out like this? We got some slack comin', man.

HICKS

You just got three weeks.

SPUNKMEYER

I mean breathing, not this frozen shit.

DIETRICH

Yeah, 'Top'... what about it?

APONE

You know it ain't up to me.

(louder)

Awright! Let's knock off the grabass. First assembly's in fifteen... let's shag it.

INT. SHOWERS

High pressure water jets and a blast of hot air when you step out... a drive through car wash for people. Through the swirling steam Hudson, Vasquez and FERRO are watching Ripley dry off.

VASQUEZ

Who's the fresh meat again?

FERRO
She's supposed to be some kinda consultant...

(exaggerated)

... She was an alien once.

HUDSON

Whoooah! No shit? I'm impressed.

APONE

Let's go... let's go. Cycle through!

INT. MESS HALL

An unconscious segregation takes place at the troopers assemble at one long table while Gorman, Burke, Bishop and Ripley sit at another. Everybody is nursing a coffee, waiting for eggs from the AUTOCHEF. Among the troopers dress discipline is lax... fatigues customized and emblazoned with patches. Drake's tunic is cut off to a vest and has "Eat the apple and fuck the Corps" stenciled on back. "Peace Through Superior Firepower," "Pray for War" and "I've Served My Time in Hell: Cetti Epsilon NC-104" are some others.

HUDSON

Hey, 'Top.' What's the op?

APONE

Rescue mission. There's some juicy colonists' daughters we gotta rescue from virginity.

Apone is stocky, grizzled, with peregrine eyes. He runs it loose and fair, but only because he knows his people are the best.

SPUNKMEYER

Shee-it. Dumbass colonists. What's this crap supposed to be?

WIERZBOWSKI

Cornbread, I think. Hey, I wouldn't mind getting me some more a that Arcturan poontang. Remember that time?

HICKS

(low)

Looks like that new Lieutenant's too good to eat with us grunts.

WIERZBOWSKI

(glancing over shoulder)

Yeah. Got a corn cob up his ass, definitely.

Across the room, at the other table, Gorman sits with his creases perfect... the consummate strack NCO. Bishop takes a seat beside Ripley, who pointedly gets up and moves to the far side of the table. He looks wounded.

BISHOP

I'm sorry you feel that way about Synthetics, Ripley.

Ripley spins on Burke, her tone accusing.

RIPLEY

You never said anything about an android being here! Why not?

BURKE

Well, it didn't occur to me. It's been policy for years to have a synthetic on board.

BISHOP

I prefer the term 'artificial person' myself. Is there a problem?

BURKE

A synthetic malfunctioned on her last trip out. Some deaths were involved.

BISHOP

I'm shocked. Was it an older model?

BURKE

Cyberdyne Systems 120-A/2.