Total Recall Page #18

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 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) Sh*t.

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

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 f*** you supposed to be doing here?

TULLY Forging a new home for mankind in the depths of space.

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, 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.

CLOSE:

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.

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