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.

INT. CORRIDOR

HUDSON: I'll go to this side.

VASQUEZ: You do that, man.