Alien Intruder

Vessel, USS Holly,

Class E, Salvage Vehicle.

Status, distress beacon activated.

Radio silence for the past 47 hours.

Come on.

Let's go.

Come on.

Come on.

Navigation system log out,

please try another directory.

You ain't going nowhere.

Come on.

Ah.

Hey, Rick?

Subspace communication lock out.

Please try another directory.

You want to dance, Borman, let's dance.

Dance on this.

God damn it, Borman, I saw her first.

She's mine, Borman.

You're getting warmer, doc.

Red hot, Doc.

Oh, where'd you learn to shoot, Doc.

They ought to give you back the money.

Say goodbye, dickhead.

Oh.

Damage control report, fire in storage bay 12.

K-Lock system activated.

Please try another directory.

Engineering override lock out.

Please try... warning.

Security breach, main bridge.

Security breach...

Forget it, Captain.

Jesus, Lieutenant, don't do this.

The least you can do is congratulate me.

I'm getting married.

Wait a minute, remember the first time we all saw here.

For God's sake, man, don't you remember what we all said?

It's my fiancee you're talking about, asshole.

Borman, I'm giving you a direct order.

Fuck you, old man.

Not having your best day, are you, Captain?

Borman, eight.

Crew, zip.

You're mine.

Jesus, Lieutenant, in God's name, don't do this.

Ariel?

Ariel?

Got a light, fly boy?

Come on, sport.

Give your fiance a light.

You know, all this sizzle and burn is making me hot.

You, uh, you feeling horny, Borman, baby?

Oh my God.

Kind of makes you want to hit the sack, doesn't it?

I mean, that is what you're all about, isn't it?

Who are you?

The future Mrs. Borman.

Oh, come on, sport.

There's no need to be so melodramatic.

Earth, 2022 AD, maximum security prison,

New Alcatraz.

Shit, DJ.

I'll teach you for cheating

Let me in.

Mancuso, Nick, navigator first class.

What's he in for?

Mutiny.

Mutiny, huh?

He was the ringleader, almost pulled it off too.

You had a problem with the captain of your vessel?

Yeah, I had a problem.

He went fucking bananas.

What kind of navigator is he?

Rated in the top one percentile

at the Annapolis Space Academy.

You still want him?

Yeah, I still want him.

Shit.

Damn, DJ.

What is that?

Top clearance on all system three programs.

A real computer jock.

He's as good as they get.

What kind of time are you doing, DJ?

Life without parole.

Somehow he managed to penetrate

the military budget requisition computers inside Mount Thunder.

They picked him up inside a bank in Zurich.

He was withdrawing $500,000 from his new Swiss account.

How much does he have in his account?

$20 million American.

He'll do.

God damn it, DJ.

Peter McClellan, engineer first grade.

Life no parole, drunk driving.

Wiped out an entire family on the Autobahn outside Houston.

A booze hound, huh?

He's been sober for three years.

Isn't that right, McClellan?

Hey, what's all this about?

Just answer the question, McClellan.

Yeah, right, three years.

Bring him in.

Oh, shit.

Go ahead.

I fucking die outside.

I die inside.

What the fuck difference does it make?

Crane, Lloyd, demolitions expert.

Blew an armored car, took out a pizza joint along with it,

five dead.

You like to blow things, huh?

Not as much as I like to fuck.

I bet you like to do that a lot.

Well, what do you want?

I got a dick with a will of iron.

What did you use to blow the armored truck?

Plastique.

I'd say you used too much.

Well, welcome back, Lloyd.

Thanks, DJ.

Nice map you gave me.

It sucked.

If you could read, you Neanderthal, I got you outside,

didn't I?

Yeah, me and any 15 other guards.

What did you do, sell them the map too?

How do you think I got my laptop?

I'm looking for a few good men.

Four assholes doing life.

That's the point, Mancuso.

Flat out.

None of you have much of an option on your future.

As it stands now, each one of you

is going to die in this hellhole.

If you volunteer for this mission, you roll the dice,

you hit your number, you're free men when we get back.

And we roll snake eyes?

You die a million miles away from home.

Well, hell, ain't that like walking into a whorehouse

with the lights out?

I told you all you're going to know.

A rescue mission?

That's not much.

Yeah.

I'd like some input here.

OK.

There's a freighter running dark.

We're going to go up there, hook her up, and tow her home.

That's it?

That's all you're going to tell us?

It's need to know, or back to your cells.

You're a gambler, aren't you, Mancuso?

According to your dossier, you like the cards.

You play the right hand, and you're

a free man in eight months.

And if I don't?

Your cell's waiting for you, plus a couple of new cellmates.

You guys got all the cards, don't you?

Well, I tell you what, I've wound up with a lot

of dogs in those dark rooms.

Uh-uhn.

I'll take my chances back in the stir.

There's one more thing.

The Aphrodite Program.

What the hell are you talking about?

He's talking about virtual reality.

It's called The Weekend.

You choose your woman, your fantasy.

Friday nights at 5 o'clock you all have the weekend off.

Our own private programs?

You choose your poison.

We choose the broads, huh?

It's your weekend.

Well, hot fucking damn.

Vessel, USS Presley,

Class E salvage vehicle.

Crew, five man, one positronic android, Model 4.

Mission time, three months into deep space.

So then I hopped the barbed wire and I gutted the guard.

Hey, pay attention.

So then I gutted the guard.

I grabbed his Luger and...

I freed half the POWs in that camp.

Why only half the POWs, Lloyd?

Because, digit head, I knew the weekend was nearly over,

and I still had to rendezvous with my Fraulein

in the beer garden in Berlin.

So what did you do, brainiac?

Fix Al Capone's tax returns?

Or did you slide your bookmark into Marian the librarian?

For your information, Captain Marvelous, I was at the Kremlin

naked in bed sipping a cold vodka

with a Russian double agent snuggled up next to me.

Oh, yeah?

Yeah.

Hm.

Male or female?