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Triumvirate
By The Host
Hmmmm . . . I tried to post this earleir and it doesn't seem to have worked. I wonder why? I'm new to this. Anyway, I'll try again. Here are the first fourteen pages of my screenplay for TRIUMVIRATE. Please send me any comments or suggestions you can think of. Thanks!
[Oh, and excuse formatting and typos. I don't edit these things until I've finished writing a draft, and as for the formatting, it got all screwy in its transfer from MS Write. I haven't the time to fix it.]
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'TRIUMVIRATE'
(Title tentative)
by
D. Matthew Boudreau
9dmb5@qlink.queensu.ca
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HOLD BLACK FOR SEVERAL SECONDS
CUT TO:
CLOSE-UP: JACK DAVIES
A bead of sweat slowly crawls down the left side of Jack Davies’ face, leaving a snail trail of moisture from jowl to brow. The young, handsome man stares forward, eyes wide. He blinks, breathes in, wipes his mouth with a gloved hand.
INT./EXT. SPACEFIGHTER COCKPIT -- MOVING
A NEW ANGLE reveals his cramped cockpit; sleek instruments at weird angles and everything ten shades of black. Space streaks by but his wingmen remain constant. Jack glances down at a computer display, then quickly forward again. The glowing lines of his HUD reflect back onto his face. He sniffs. His hand again shoots up and wipes his nose and is back on its allotted instrument in a flash. Mr. Davies is tense.
ROBERT JOHNSON (O.S.)
Jack, you scared?
DAVIES
No.
(His voice cracks; he exhales strongly)
Shitless.
Davies smiles slightly but doesn’t look back. Behind him and slightly above, in the vessel’s gun pit, LIEUTENANT ROBERT JOHNSON, slightly older and taller and lankier than his flightmate, smiles too.
JOHNSON
Don’t be. If we screw up, we’ve got twenty-nine thousand nine-hundred ninety-nine of our friends to clean up after us.
DAVIES
What if they all think the same way?
JOHNSON
Wha-?
DAVIES
What if they don’t care and they all screw up too?
Johnson considers this, and smiles. Davies, chuckling, ventures a quick glance back. Then, gaze forward again, the earnest tension strays back to his features.
FROM OUTSIDE
The nine sleek fighters of Davies’ flight wing fly through space in a perfect v-formation.
SUPER OPENING TITLES
Not far behind Davies’ wing flies another flight group, and behind that another, and another, and several all around: above, below, to the left and to the right and far ahead. Then a massive capital ship speeds by, unbelievably complex, its engines glowing, its hull pierced by innumerable pinpoints of light flickering through portholes and windows. It is pulled by a dozen tiny tugs, each one attached to the larger vessel by its own tenuous umbilical.
Then, after these massive ships follows open space, but only for a moment. Hundreds of bulkier fighters form a wide, gently curving protective screen around a vast grouping of even larger capital ships. Swift small gunships sweep through and around the circle, roughly orbiting and protecting the fleet’s flagship, the USS Glory. Emblazoned with a simple white cross, it dwarfs all the vessels around it: the gunships are mere mosquitoes to this interstellar cow.
Another narrower screen of fighters takes up the rear, and then we see from a NEW ANGLE the fleet in its entirety: not thirty thousand men but thirty thousand ships. The forward fighters form a three-dimensional pattern like the teeth of a saw, pushing forward before the medium capital ships, and behind all trails the well-protected flagship and its supporting vessels. As the dense swarm of steel falcons passes on, we see that their destination is a planet – a gas giant, its surface swirling a rich shade of scarlet.
INSIDE HIS COCKPIT, Davies’ face is drenched with sweat. His breathing is faster, shallower; his heart pounds.
DAVIES
I feel sick.
JOHNSON
Don’t puke in here, Jack. With my luck the arti-grav’d be first to go.
Jack Davies weakly chuckles. His voice is thin and warbling, wobbling on the edge of tears.
DAVIES
Think I can get out of here now?
JOHNSON
I suppose you could, but shut the door on your way, will you?
Davies chuckles again, lightly, and gulps. He flinches as a droplet of sweat streams into his right eye; he squints and rubs it with his hand.
JOHNSON (CONT’D)
Jack.
DAVIES
(Staring straight ahead)
Um-hm?
JOHNSON
It’ll be okay. Don’t worry. Hell, they’re at least as bad as we are. The last time anybody was in a battle was...
(Shaking his head)
...Legend.
(No response)
Anyway, look, I know I’m not gonna die, so I’d say your chances are good
Davies smiles.
JOHNSON (CONT’D)
Still scared?
DAVIES
Yeah, but not shitless. I think, the opposite.
JOHNSON
Oh, that explains the smell!
Davies laughs aloud this time, goofishly, catching a sob in his throat.
JOHNSON (CONT’D)
Anyway, look, Jack. If you’re scared you’ll get us killed.
DAVIES
No, I won’t, I’ll be more cautious. It’s good to be scared.
JOHNSON
Don’t argue with me. Oh, you can see the gun emplacement up ahead.
Davies turns suddenly grave. He leans forward, searching.
DAVIES
Where? You see it?
JOHNSON
There.
THE FLEET MOVES THROUGH SPACE toward a distinct line of twinkling lights set against the atmosphere of the blood-red planet, which now looms near.
INSIDE DAVIES’ FIGHTER the Heads-Up-Display triangulates on the line and highlights it; it slowly pulses with light flanked by the words: GUN EMPLCMNTS (DIST. 0.768… CP) AX7-0cY 0.11 OK.
Davies looks back to Johnson.
DAVIES
How far out do you suppose the outer patrols would be?
JOHNSON
This far!
Davies swings around in time to see a vessel fly perilously close to his and then explode into a ball of flame. Davies inhales deeply and suddenly, suppressing a shriek. Wingman DANIEL O’SHEA appears on one of the computer monitors, speaking from his own cockpit.
DAN
Jesus, Jack, are you paying attention?
JACK
(Tapping a button on a computer display)
Sorry, Dan.
Davies breathes heavily as Dan’s face is replaced by that of WING COMMANDER HARTLEY, whose deep voice reverberates throughout the cockpit.
HARTLEY
I don’t know how that one came in, boys, but don’t worry, it’s a rare stray. Outer patrols are pretty light and we’re well-fenced in here, so I wouldn’t worry. What worries me is them guns up ahead. By the time we get to ‘em there’s likely to be no one left between us and them. We’re gonna need fast flying and faster shooting, and take out what you can, but we wanna pass through if we can, that’s priority, then turn around and open on ‘em from behind. That’ll be tough, with fighters swarming on the other side, but we’ve gotta take those guns out before the caps arrive, they’re what’s important.
JOHNSON
(To Davies)
We’re bloody expendable.
HARTLEY (CONT’D)
We’re the last line of defense, really. The bastards behind us have to concentrate on the fighters on the other side, but first we’ve gotta clear the rest of the guns. Good shooting and good luck. We’ll be there in fifty seconds.
Hartley disappears. There is a moment of silence. The line of lights moves discernibly closer.
DAVIES
Jesus. Fifty seconds. The front lines’ll be there any second.
JOHNSON
Let’s hope they do their job.
Davies slowly moves his hand from one instrument to the next, staring ever forward. He licks his lips, then rubs them slowly with his gloved hand.
THE GUN EMPLACEMENTS are bulky, squarish objects bristling with weaponry. Most prominent on each is a single large gun, mounted on a pivot which is itself attached to a track that circles the gun platform so that the gun can move from front to rear.
THE OUTERMOST SHIPS approach with blinding speed the regular pattern of guns. They draw nearer, nearer, ever nearer, but still the guns do not open fire. The forward vessels launch a volley of missiles, nearly simultaneously; these are tracked by the guns and shot down by the farther ones, but the nearest gun emplacements cannot wheel around in time and the projectiles slam into them, exploding the objects in furies of fire.
JACK DAVIES watches dozens of tiny explosions in the distance, almost blending into the planets tumultuous surface.
DAVIES
Is that us or them?
JOHNSON
Them, I think. I’m sure it’s them.
The vanguard of assault fighters are upon the guns now, and altogether suddenly a clash of laser beams opens up, and a hell of fire. The gun emplacements spit out deadly laser beams at an incredible rate, the turrets wheeling and spinning to match the advance of the fighters. Almost all of this first wave of attackers is destroyed instantly, in dozens of stunning fireballs, charred debris flying in all directions, but still several are able to take out a gun and some others two before they themselves are destroyed.
DAVIES Can see the melee ahead, near, too near, and ever nearer. His jaw is set, his face grim and grey.
DAVIES
You ready?
Johnson says nothing, just fingers the controls of his gun turret.
Up ahead Davies clearly sees a ship explode. The guns are still there – dozens, maybe hundreds of them, angry inhuman sentinels. Davies chest heaves but he remains silent and set. Another fighter explodes, this one closer. Then the forward ship in Davies wing explodes; a piece of flying debris strikes the forward window with a shriek of metal against glass.
DAVIES
Shit!
And they’re faced now with no man’s land and the line of guns, laser blasts streaking all around them and Davies numb hands shaking as he flies directly ahead. Johnson spins and whirls, shooting furiously at the gun emplacements around him; Davies keeps the vessel steady and straight, unflinching. The ship nearest them peels away and is shot; it about-faces and slams into a fighter behind it, both exploding in a peal of flame. Davies’ own ship continues ahead in a straight line, now somewhat ahead of the others. A laser blast scathes one wing of the fighter. Johnson, still firing intently, shouts to Davies.
JOHNSON
Jesus, Jack, do something!
DAVIES
Do what?
JOHNSON
I don’t know, turn!
Davies, suddenly pulls up and away right, jarring his shipmate, and finds his nose pointed straight at a gun emplacement, frighteningly close.
JOHNSON (CONT’D)
Not that way!
Davies hands fumble; he finds a trigger and his ship’s forward gun shoots rapid-fire just as the big gun turret ahead swings around and fires at Davies. Now Davies acts quickly; he dives under the fire, deftly missing the emplacement itself, and as they pass Johnson shoots at it from his place. It explodes behind them. Davies is ecstatic. He turns to Johnson smiling widely.
DAVIES
Did you see that?
JOHNSON
(Breathless)
Yeah.
Davies looks forward again, turning the ship towards another emplacement.
DAVIES
That was great!
Davies fires this time without hesitation, as does the gun emplacement. Before Johnson can get off a single shot Davies pulls the ship into a wild corkscrew, his trajectory still toward the gun emplacement ahead. He pulls away at the last possible moment, just as the gun explodes, rattling his cockpit.
JOHNSON
What the hell was that?
DAVIES
Basic pilot training.
JOHNSON
They taught you that in flight school?
Davies smiles broadly and careens toward yet another gun, but it doesn’t work this time, he can’t hit the gun, and barely pulls away from a barrage of fire. When he pulls up he sees the next gun in line explode before him – victim to a wingman’s missile.
JOHNSON
Keep ahead. This gun shield is wide and dense but it’s not thick. We must be almost out.
DAVIES
And then what?
DAVIES’ FIGHTER loops around the floating wreckage of a mostly-intact ship, keeps going, jinks out of the way of enemy fire, and passes the last gun platform. Johnson heaves with effort and relief; Davies smiles still. The fighter is in the outer fringes of the planet’s atmosphere, glowing with the heat of entry and scarred by the heat of battle. Tattered purple clouds lay ahead of them, the planet’s murky whirlpool in that direction will soon engulf them.
DAVIES
What’s left of us?
JOHNSON
We seem to be okay.
DAVIES
I mean the rest of our flight group.
JOHNSON
I don’t know.
Davies presses a button on his computer monitor and speaks.
DAVIES
Commander Hartley, we’re through.
There is no response.
DAVIES (CONT’D)
Commander? Dan? Anyone?
A moment passes.
DAVIES
(To Johnson)
Is—
JOHNSON
(Looking at his own monitor)
Comm system’s fine. We went through the magnetic shield ages ago.
A pause. Davies looks at the purple clouds rushing towards him, the outermost around him.
DAVIES
The inner patrols must be near ahead.
JOHNSON
They won’t want to get too close to those guns right away.
DAVIES
I suppose we should turn around.
JOHNSON
Yeah.
Davies steers the ship away from the planet, back toward the guns. There are fewer before them than there were before, and as they approach they can see that the first capital ships have arrived on the other side, their tugs now astray. The remaining gun emplacements are being quickly dispatched.
JOHNSON (CONT’D)
Do you think they’ll really need our help?
DAVIES
They might.
He indicates a wave of friendly fighters speeding through and past the gun-barrier, towards Davies and Johnson and the planet beyond.
Davies steals a look over his shoulder. Johnson nods. Davies reverses direction again, passing through the first line of fighters and taking position behind them. All together they fly directly toward the clouds...
...And as they are enveloped by purple, DAVIES’ HUD detects a dozen enemy fighters nearby. Davies’ fighter shakes violently in the turbulent air. Lightning streaks from cloud to cloud all around him. He can barely see ahead, and can hear little but the scream of the wind. He tries desperately to pull up, tries to lock on to the nearest enemy, but is hampered by gravity.
JOHNSON
Jack, this is rough.
DAVIES
Uh-huh. We in range?
JOHNSON
Once you point us the right way.
Davies levels out. A friendly fighter roars past, guns blazing. The computer locks on to the nearest enemy.
JOHNSON (CONT’D)
Bombs away!
Two missiles shoot out from a canister in the belly of their ship; immediately an UNFAMILIAR MAN appears on the communications monitor.
MAN
What the hell are you doing! We’re in tight quarters, you’ll have a friendly killed!
DAVIES
(To Johnson)
Don’t fire missile.
Johnson only nods. Suddenly a fighter appears visibly before them, shooting straight at them. Davies banks out of the way just in time; Johnson dispatches only a few pot-shots. Suddenly they emerge into a wide pocket in the clouds; hundreds of vessels on both sides engage each other, swarming around a small space station that resides in the center of the open region. Lightning arcs throughout. The station’s guns, if it has any, are silent.
JOHNSON
That’s it.
Davies looks seriously ahead as he prepares to engage the nearest fighter. Suddenly lightning arcs for a split-second across his line of flight; he swerves out of the way only to be faced with another bolt ahead. He swerves again and faces the station once more; an enemy fighter – or is it friendly? – whizzes past spouting flame and billowing smoke.
DAVIES
You think we can lob a missile at the station?
JOHNSON
It’s a risk. We’d have to get close or we might hit one of ours. We’d have to get close.
Davies deftly maneuvers the vessel through enemy fire, making for the station.
DAVIES
But do you think we could?
JOHNSON
We might take out a gun emplacement or two, or a loading bay.
DAVIES
All right.
Johnson spins around in his turret and fires at a passing fighter; it goes up in flames.
JOHNSON
You prepared to die for your country?
DAVIES
With my flying, I don’t have to worry about it.
Johnson smiles at this when suddenly a bolt of lightning arcs through the space and through their fighter and on to clouds beyond. Sparks fly and the ship spins wildly towards the station.
DAVIES
Are you okay?
JOHNSON
(Frantically poring over computer monitor)
I am but we aren’t. Targeting, flight control, self-destruct are all destroyed. We’ve still got engines which means we’re gonna keep on just about straight ahead until we hit something, like that.
He points to the station, growing rapidly nearer.
DAVIES
Eject.
JOHNSON
Separate system. It’s fine.
DAVIES
No, I mean eject!
JOHNSON
Oh.
Johnson flips a cover atop a lever and presses a button and then bodily pulls the lever towards him and his chair tilts suddenly back ninety degrees and disappears into a chute gaping behind him. Two seconds later his escape pod shoots out behind him, and Davies’ own cockpit detaches and shoots in a different direction as his ship zigzags down to the space station and finally slams into it with a loud BOOM. Davies himself speeds toward the station, where his pod maneuvers itself – or is pulled – toward an opening in the station’s hull. He passes through and heavy doors close him off to the outside.
INT. CHUTE -- CONTINUOUS
His pod slides down the twisting chute, slowing to a stop at its end. The pod is lifted upright and slides open concurrent with a noiseless door on the other side.
INT. HALLWAY -- CONTINUOUS
Davies stumbles forward and collapses onto the floor of a curved hallway. FOUR UNIFORMED GUARDS run towards him; Davies is up in a flash, spinning and withdrawing his laser pistol and shooting and missing; one of the guards skillfully shoots the blaster right out of his hand while two others restrain him. Davies struggles for a moment, as the fourth guard steps up to him.
FOURTH GUARD
Don’t bother. You’re a prisoner of war now and you won’t be mistreated.
Davies eyes the guard contemptuously for a moment; the guard looks back sternly but not angrily. Davies gives up his struggle. The guard speaks as the two holding Davies clap restrainers upon him.
FOURTH GUARD
The station commander wants a word with you.
Davies opens his mouth to question, thinks better of it, and stalks silently along with his captors.
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Well, that's it. Lemme know what you think.
-H
8/15/2002 5:14:19 PM
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