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Niki Wurster Visit our Movie Scripts Page screenplay 451: http://www.geocities.com/~screenplay451/ Mao Guangqin 2 0 2000-01-23T11:42:00Z 2000-01-23T11:42:00Z 27 19920 113548 Pumpkin Software 946 227 139444 9.2504 21 0 0 Alien³
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
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.
