Aliens

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

Ripley is walking toward operations when a STRIDENT ALARM begins to sound. She breaks into a run.

INT. OPERATIONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ripley jumps as an ALARM suddenly blares through the complex.

HICKS (V.O.)

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

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

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 POV

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

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.