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INT. OPERATIONS / ANGLE ON BURKE: Looking icy calm, although beads of sweat betray intense concealed tension. Hudson comes up and shoves his rifle into Burke's face.

HUDSON: I say we grease this rat-fuck, son-of-a-bitch right now.

HICKS (pacing): It just doesn't make any Goddamn sense.

RIPLEY: He figured that he could get an alien back through quarantine...if one of us was...impregnated...whatever you call it...then frozen for the trip home. Nobody would know about the embryos we were carrying. Me and Newt.

HICKS: Wait a minute, now. We'd all know.

RIPLEY: Yes. The only way he could do it is if he sabotaged certain freezers on the way home. Namely yours. Then he could jettison the bodies and make up any story he liked.

HUDSON: Fuuuck! He's dead. (to Burke) You're dog meat, pal.

BURKE: This is so nuts. I mean listen...listen to what you're saying. It's paranoid delusion. It's really sad. It's pathetic.

RIPLEY: You know, Burke, I don't know which species is worse. You don't see them fucking each other over for a goddamn percentage.

HICKS: Alright, we waste him. (to Burke) No offense.

Ripley shakes her head. The rage giving way to a sickened emptiness.

RIPLEY: No! He's gotta go back.

The lights go out. Everyone stops in the sudden darkness, realizing instinctively it is a new escalation in the struggle. The emergency lighting kicks in, basking everything in a red glow.

RIPLEY: They cut the power.

HUDSON: What do you mean, they cut the power? How could they cut the power, man?! They're animals!

HICKS (to Hudson and Vasquez): I want you two with trackers, checking the corridors. Move!

RIPLEY: Gorman, watch Burke!

GORMAN (grabs Burke): You got it.

RIPLEY: Newt! Stay close.

Vasquez and Hudson pick up their trackers and move to the door. Hudson has to slide it open manually on it's track.


HUDSON: I'll go to this side.

VASQUEZ: You do that, man.

The two troopers separate and move slowly to the barriers at opposite ends of the control block. Each move slowly, holding the trackers out in front of them. Nothing...yet.

INT. OPERATIONS: Ripley picks up a headset and puts it on, connecting herself with the soldiers.

RIPLEY: Anything?

HUDSON (voice over, filtered): There’s something.

BEEP. Hudson's tracker lights up, a faint signal. He pans it around. Back down the corridor. It beeps again, louder.

HUDSON: It's inside the complex.

VASQUEZ: You're just reading me.

Hudson quickly swivels around, aiming his tracker toward Vasquez's position.

HUDSON: No. No! It ain't you. They're inside. Inside the perimeter. They're in here.

RIPLEY (voice over): Hudson, stay cool. Vasquez?

ANGLE ON VASQUEZ: Swinging her tracker and rifle together. She aims it behind her. Beeping.

VASQUEZ (cool): Hudson may be right.


RIPLEY: Get back, both of you.

HUDSON (voice over): The signal's weird...

Hicks and Ripley start checking their pulse-rifles. Taking off the safety's and checking the magazines.

INT. CORRIDOR: Hudson backtracks nervously, peering all around. He looks stretched to the limit.

HUDSON: Must be some interference or something. There's movement all over the place.


HICKS: Get back to operations!

Ripley and Hicks share a look..."here we go."

HICKS (low): It's game time.


They run-walk to the door to operations and wait for the soldiers.

RIPLEY: Seal the door. Hurry.

Vasquez reaches the door to operations at a run, a moment before Hudson.

HICKS: Come on! Get back!

Hicks and Hudson pull the door shut and lock it.

HICKS: Work fast!

Hicks and Vasquez pull out their hand-welders' and begin sealing the door.

RIPLEY: Cover your eyes, Newt. Don't look at the light.

Hudson's tracker beeps. Then again. The tone continues through the scene, it's rhythm increasing.

HUDSON: Movement! Signal's clean. Range twenty meters.

RIPLEY: They found a way in, something we missed.

Sparks shower around Vasquez and Hicks as they move as fast as they can to get the door sealed.

HICKS: We didn't miss anything.

HUDSON: Eighteen...seventeen meters.

Ripley picks up Vasquez's tracker and aims it in the same direction as Hudson's.

RIPLEY: Something under the floor, not on the plans. I don't know!

HUDSON: Fifteen meters.

NEWT: Ripleeyy!

HICKS: Definitely inside the barricades.

Newt begins tugging on Ripley's clothing. Trying her best to get her attention.

NEWT: Let's go.

HUDSON: Thirteen meters.

CLOSE-UP ON TRACKER SCREEN: Showing an amoeba-like mass of dots moving across the top.

RIPLEY: That's right outside the door. Hicks...Vasquez, get back!

HUDSON: Man, this is a big fucking signal!

HICKS: How you doing, Vasquez? Talk to me.

Vasquez is heedlessly showering herself with molten metal as she welds the door shut. Working like a demon.

VASQUEZ: Almost there. That's it.

They drop their torches and begin moving to the back of the room with everyone else.

HUDSON: Twelve meters...eleven...ten.

VASQUEZ: Man, they’re right on us.

HUDSON: Nine meters.

HICKS: Remember, short controlled bursts.


RIPLEY: Can't be. That's inside the room!

HUDSON: It's readin' right, man. Look!

HICKS: Well, you're not reading it right!

Ripley jerks her tracker up. Not believing Hudson. Her eyes widen in horror when she realizes that the reading is true.

HUDSON: Five meters, man...four. What the hell?!

He looks at Ripley. She looks up at the ceiling and it dawns on both of them at the same time.

HUDSON: Oh my, God! Oh shit!

HICKS: Gimme' the light!

Hicks climbs onto a file cabinet and raises a panel of the acoustic drop-ceiling. He pans his his light inside.

CEILING - HICKS P.O.V.: A soul-wrenching nightmare image. Moving in the beam of his light are alien warriors. They are crawling like bats, upside-down, clinging to the pipes and beams of the structural ceiling. The inner sanctum is utterly violated.

INT. OPERATIONS: Hicks yells and falls back into the room, firing, just as the creatures detach en-masse from the handholds. The ceiling explodes, raining debris. Nightmare shapes drop into the room.

HUDSON: They're they go over there! Get 'em!

Vasquez and Hudson open fire. Hicks gets up and let's it fly next to Vasquez.

One by one, the creatures are mowed down in the spray of pulse-fire.

HUDSON: Come on! Come on!

HICKS: Get 'em!

BURKE: Do something, Gorman!

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