Alien 111 (Film Script)

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ALIEN III

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ALIEN III (Film Script)

By William Gibson

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

ALIEN III

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-==="ALIEN III"===-

(By the Science Fiction Author but never used)

-=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

ALIEN III

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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 course 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 open.

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. Integrity 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 pale 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

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capsules. He vanishes through the 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 inner 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

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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 way you wanna call

it, it's the same bullshit...

INT. CORRIDOR

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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 helmet-

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 lights?

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 for mankind in the depths of

space.

ALIEN III

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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 raises 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 door 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

(something startled,

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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 to 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.

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 with 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

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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 gleaming 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)

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)

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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

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