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INT. CARGO LOCK / WIDE ANGLE: The camera cuts to the cargo lock centering on a Drop-Ship surrounded by cargo bay tools, containers, and a Power-Loader.

Panning to the left, all the troopers are either lounging among the racks of high-tech weaponry or practice fighting. Gorman enters with Ripley and Burke.

APONE: Squad! Ten-hut! Officer on deck!

GORMAN: As you were.

APONE: Quickly, quickly! Settle down. Alright, listen up!

GORMAN: Morning Marines. I'm sorry we didn't have time to brief you people before we left Gateway, but...


GORMAN: What is it, Hicks?

HUDSON: Hudson, sir. He's Hicks. (looking over at Hicks standing beside him hanging his weight on a dangling chain)

GORMAN: What's the question?

HUDSON: Is this going to be a stand-up fight, sir, or another bug-hunt?

GORMAN: All we know is that there's still no contact with the colony and that..a xenomorph may be involved.

FROST: Excuse me, sir. A what?

GORMAN: A xenomorph.

HICKS: It's a bug-hunt. (louder) What exactly are we dealing with here?

Gorman nods to Ripley, who stands before the troops.

RIPLEY: I'll tell you what I know. We set down on LV-426. One of our crew members was brought back on board with something attached to his face...some kind of parasite. We tried to get it off. It wouldn't come off. Later, it seemed to come off by itself and died. Kane seemed fine. We're all having dinner and must have laid something inside his throat...some sort of embryo. He he...

VASQUEZ: Look, man. I only need to know one thing... where..they..are.

Vasquez coolly points her finger, cocks her thumb, and blows away an imaginary alien.

DRAKE: Yo! Vasquez. Kick ass!

VASQUEZ: Anytime. Anywhere.

HUDSON: Right, right! Somebody said alien...she thought they said illegal alien and signed up.

VASQUEZ: Fuck you man!

HUDSON: Anytime. Anywhere.

RIPLEY: Are you finished?!

Hudson settles down, smirking. Ripley locks eyes with Vasquez.

RIPLEY: I hope you're right. I really do.

Gorman stands, clearly taking over.

GORMAN: Yeah, I hope you’re, right. Thank you, Ripley. We also have Ripley's report on disk, and suggest you study it...

RIPLEY: Because, just one of those things managed to wipe out my entire crew in less than twenty-four hours. And if the colonist have found that ship, then there's no telling how many of them have been exposed. Do you understand?

CLOSE-UP ANGLES on Vasquez, Apone and Hicks, each showing either respect or annoyance.

GORMAN: Anyway, we have it on disk. So, you'd better look at it. Any questions?

Hudson raises his hand.

GORMAN: What is it private.

HUDSON: How do I get out of this chicken-shit outfit?

APONE: You secure that shit, Hudson!

GORMAN: Alright! Now listen up. I want this thing to go smooth and by the numbers. I want DCS and tactical database assimilation by 0830. (some groans) Ordnance loading, weapons strip, and Drop-Ship prep details will have seven hours. Now, move it people!

APONE: Alright sweethearts. You heard the man and you know the drill! Asshole's and elbow's! Hudson, come here! Come here!

EXT. SPACE - LV-426: They have arrived. From orbit, the planet looks serene. The Sulaco floats across the frame over the planetary view.

INT. LOADING BAY - CARGO LOCK: Close-up on Apone as he circulates among the troops that are preparing weaponry and the Drop-Ship for action. There is intense activity throughout the cavernous loading bay. Troopers on foot or driving Power-Loaders...all in action.

APONE: I don't care if you are short, Hudson. Get it done.

HUDSON: Hey, Sarge! You get lip cancer smoking those!

APONE: Corporals! I want this loading lock! How many more you got, Spunkmeyer?

SPUNKMEYER: That's one.

APONE: Good. Take it away.

Two massive forks lift up a NT-432B Air-to-Ground Ballistic Missile. Pull back, revealing two powerful hydraulic arms attached to the forks. Spunkmeyer, strapped inside a Power-Loader, swings the missile up into a belly nacelle of the Drop-Ship. The loader is a sort of forklift that you wear, a robotic exoskeleton with two legs and two arms, powered by hydraulics.

Spunkmeyer backs up the Power-Loader as Ferro and Gorman approach.

SPUNKMEYER: Clear behind.

INT. LOADING LOCK: Ripley approaches Apone and Hicks, standing near the Drop-Ship. Hicks checks off items on an electronic manifest.

RIPLEY: Hi. I feel like a kind of fifth wheel around here. Is there anything I can do?

APONE: I don't know. Is there anything you can do?

RIPLEY: Well, I can drive that loader. I have a Class 2 rating.

Apone looks over at a second Power-Loader sitting unused in an equipment bay. Apone and Hicks exchange a skeptical glance, considering.

APONE: Be my guest.

Ripley climbs into the Power-Loader and buckles the four point restraint belt.

She locks her feet into place and pulls down the roll cage, which locks into place with an echoing clang.

TIGHT ON POWER SWITCHES: As Ripley's finger punches them on.

A rising whine of power. Ripley pulls back on the arm control joysticks. The huge clawed arms lift up. She moves the wrist servos.

The claws open and close, swiveling on their joints.

CLOSE-UP: Hicks and Apone share glances. Hicks smiles.

Ripley slides the claws smoothly into lifting brackets on a cargo module, nearby. She raises it deftly and turns toward Apone and Hicks.

RIPLEY: Where do you want it?

Apone and Hicks look at each other again and laugh.

APONE: Bay Twelve, please.

EXT. SPACE - LV-426: The Sulaco glides by over the cloud strewn atmosphere of Archeron.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | Page 05


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