Red Dwarf: Backwards

by Rob Grant

  The three strangers withdrew to a corner and took a hunched confabulation. Carton, meanwhile, searched out his bottle. He espied it on his desk, sitting all temptationlike on top of his gun case. He tried reaching for it, but found he couldn't stand without the chair went with him. He looked down at his waist. Those mother-sucking prairie dogs had strung him to the seat.

  Undaunted he tipped hisself forward and slouched over to the desk like a drunken L shape. He grabbed the bottle, popped the cork out with his thumbs and raised the neck to his lips.

  The bottle exploded, showering Carton with glass and foul liquor. This wasn't exactly your vintage moonshine; it hissed and sizzled on the bare wood floors of the jailhouse. Even though he hadn't seen the play, Carton reckoned it must have been the Comanchero shot the bottle, on account of one of his holstered pistoleros was giving off a faint whiff of smoke.

  The strangers broke out of their huddle. The one who called himself Lister said, 'No more of that stuff.'

  Carton rolled his tongue over the liquor that was dribbling down his face. Just his luck to get hisself holed up with a bunch of fun busters from the League of Temperance. 'What next, padre? You preach me all about hellfire and we sing thirteen choruses of "Shall We Gather by the River"?'

  Then the Lister feller used Carton's moniker, only he got it wrong and kind of fouled-up like. 'Kryten,' he said, 'You've really got to start listening. If you don't pull yourself together and shape up to beat the Apocalypse boys when they come in at midnight, not only do you die...' he nodded at his two companions'... me, Cat and Rimmer die with you.'

  EIGHT

  They flocked into the cockpit and took up their stations.

  'Nothing.' The Cat jabbed at the pilot controls. 'Total lock-out. Face it, buds, we're deader than dungarees with patterned triangles sewn down the side to make 'em look like flares.'

  'I'm getting nothing, either.' Lister swivelled in his chair to face Rimmer. 'How long before we hit trouble?'

  'Well,' Rimmer ran his eyes over the long-range scan, 'if you define "trouble" as a rather large planet directly in our path, about seventeen hours.'

  Lister thumped his head against the fascia. To have come so close to regaining Red Dwarf, only to be cheated by the beaten agonoid's insane dying gesture. He heard a click, and looked round, Kryten had opened up a panel in his chest and was tugging out a lead. 'What are you doing, Kryten?'

  Kryten dragged out the lead and held the connector over the NaviComp's interface socket. 'The only remotely feasible solution is for me to contract the virus myself, analyse its structure and attempt to create a software antidote before it wipes out my core program. Do I have your permission to sacrifice myself, sirs?'

  Rimmer's eyebrows skipped to his hairline. 'Do lemmings like cliffs? Granted.'

  Kryten plugged himself into the NaviComp. 'I'm going to have to design a dove program, so called because it spreads peace through the system, obliterating the viral cells as it goes.'

  He stiffened as the virus hit him. 'The virus is extremely complex... Must devote all my run time to the solution... Shutting down all non-essential systems...'

  Rimmer crouched beside him as his consciousness started slipping away. 'Can we help? Is there something we can do?'

  Kryten turned his head towards him. 'You can watch my dreams,' he said.

  Then his eyes rolled back and he slumped to the deck.

  NINE

  Carton's mouth wiggled and curled like a snake sliding down the intestinal tract of a mongoose with gut rot, as he crunched away at yet another mouthful of bitter raw coffee beans. He pushed the bowl away. 'I can't eat anymore of this dung-beetle filth, boys.'

  Lister sat on the edge of the sheriffs desk and pushed the bowl back at him. 'Just two more bowls.'

  'No more, please. I'm sober, honest.'

  'So tell me who you are.'

  'It's like you say. I'm not a human, I'm some kind of mechanical feller, who's fighting this virus, and none of this really exists, it's some kind of fever dream, 'cept for you guys, who do exist, only you're not really here, you're really on some flyin' space ship up in the stars, 'bout three gazillion years in the future.' He fixed Lister with a companionable smile, and hoped he sounded convinced enough to get the madman to leave him alone.

  Lister just nodded. 'More coffee.'

  Carton slammed his forehead on the desk and scooped up another handful. 'Just tell me one thing, friend. You honestly believe that yarn you're spoolin'?'

  Lister stood. 'It'll make sense to you when you're sober.' He crossed over to the doors and pushed his way out into the street.

  Carton called after him. 'Hell, if that's got to make sense, I don't want to be sober.'

  Out on the sidewalk, the Cat was dangling one leg lazily over the side of a swinging bench, tooting gently on a harmonica, his sombrero pulled over his eyes. Rimmer was standing, scanning the street, leaning his hands against the horse rail. He didn't ease up on his vigil when he heard Lister come out. 'Any luck?'

  'I dunno. None of it seemed to sink in. Maybe he's too far gone.'

  'And where does that leave us?'

  'Down Crap Creek, Rimmer. Without a paddle or a smegging boat.' Lister looked down and scuffed at a knot in the sidewalk with the toe of his boot. It had been Lister who'd worked out the meaning of Kryten's cryptic last words: they simply had to plug him into the Artificial Reality unit, and literally watch his dreams on screen. For reasons known only to the mechanoid, his subconscious was interpreting his struggle against the virus as a Western.

  And it looked like he was losing that struggle.

  So Lister had suggested they entered his dreamstate, using the A/R unit themselves. He and the Cat had used the two suits, and they'd plugged Rimmer directly in, via his light bee. They couldn't enter the dream merely as themselves -they'd had to adopt characters from an A/R Western game. Brett Riverboat, the Riviera Kid and Big Dan McGrew: knife expert, sharpshooter and barefist fighter.

  Rimmer turned to him, shielding his eyes against the blistering light. 'How long before the showdown?'

  'There's no way of telling. Have you seen his pocket watch? There's no hands on it. I s'pose the passage of time's linked to the progress of the virus, in some way. We're probably fairly safe so long as the sun's up.'

  As he spoke, the scorching sun dipped with indecent haste towards the horizon, and became a fierce orange glare peeking over the mountains like a showgirl dressing behind a changing screen.

  'Oh dear,' Rimmer said. 'Deep smeg.'

  The Cat stopped sucking the harmonica and straightened. 'OK, buds. Why don't we go out and take on these Apocalypse dudes ourselves? What do we need old hooch head for anyway?'

  Rimmer rolled back his eyes. 'They're not real, pus brain. They're a metaphor.'

  'Metaphor, shmetaphor.' The Cat span his guns and flipped them back. 'They bleed, don't they?'

  'We can't beat the virus,' Lister said. 'Only Kryten can do that. The most we can do is help him. And if you want to know the truth, I'm not even sure we can do that.' He shoved the jailhouse doors open and strode back inside.

  'Thank you,' Rimmer said, 'but I really didn't want to know the truth.'

  Carton was thinking. He was thinking the strangers' story sounded like hogwash, sure enough, but there was some pretty strange things going on around Existence, Arizona, when you reflected on it proper. For one thing, his memory wasn't all it should be, sure as skunks stink. When the Lister hombre had fired all those queries at him, like who his Pappy was, and his Momma, where he'd come from and all, his mind had been an out-and-out blank. Couldn't seem to recollect a single thing that had happened before sun up, matter of fact. And Hope had been urging him to remember something, only he couldn't recall what he was supposed to remember, and that made remembering plenty hard. And then there was his shooting irons. Guns without chambers in the cylinders...

  He dragged the gun case over and flipped it open.

  Guns without chambers in the cylinders...
r />   'What are those?' Lister walked up to the desk.

  'Them's my fancy shooting irons, friend.'

  Lister picked up one of the magnificent weapons and turned it over in his hand. 'Pretty special. What do you use them for?'

  'That's the dangdest thing,' Carton split the gun open. 'Can't see how they'd be much use for anything. No place for no bullets to go.'

  But it was the handle that drew Lister's attention. Inlaid into the smooth black pearl of the butt was a white design. A bird. He offered the gun to Carton. 'What's this?'

  Carton examined the handle. 'Figure that's a dove, friend.'

  This got Lister all excited. 'This is it! You're supposed to be working on what you called a dove program. Dove! These guns are the key, somehow.'

  'Start talking sense, friend. These guns ain't no more use than a lawyer at a lynching.'

  'The answer's in them somewhere. Maybe you need to finish them. Or maybe they don't need bullets at all. You've got to concentrate. Think!'

  Suddenly, Carton's eyes flicked wide, and then he doubled up like he'd taken a bullet in the bread basket.

  Lister vaulted over the desk and crouched beside him. 'What is it? What's up?'

  'I... I ain't rightly certain.' Carton clutched his stomach. 'My guts feel like I just swallowed a barrel of snakes.'

  Outside, the Cat stopped tootling on the mouth organ and straightened on the bench. He wrinkled his nose and said, 'Trouble.'

  Then Rimmer caught the sound of hoof beats and turned to see the cloud of dust swelling at the far end of the town. He slipped over to the doors, looked inside and nodded for Lister to come out.

  A lone rider was galloping towards them. With an involuntary shiver, Lister recognized the blood-red mare of War Apocalypse.

  Over the thunder of hooves, the rider let out a demonic 'Yee-haw', his teeth glinting fire in the setting sun. Carton staggered to the door and gasped, 'The bank... He's gonna 'splode up the bank...'

  Crouching low in his saddle, War tugged a bundle of sticks from his bag. His horse snorted flame, and he bent forward to light up a fuse wire that sprang out of the bundle.

  Lister yelled 'Cat!' as War rose up in his stirrups and hurled the fizzing dynamite towards the bank.

  The Cat's first shot hit the dynamite at the top of its arc, sending the deadly bundle spinning up in the air. War yanked hard on his reins, dragging a skull-splitting whinny from his horse as it skidded to a halt.

  The dynamite started to drop, and the Cat squeezed off another bullet, launching it skywards again. He didn't need a third shot.

  The bundle exploded mightily, sucking dust up from the street and sending a hot, sulphur hurricane roaring through the town.

  As the thumping echoes of the blast died away, Lister squinted through the blistering wind into the dust cloud. War sat stock-still in his saddle, looking venom at the group clustered on the jailhouse porch. Then he curled his lip in a dangerous smile, grabbed his reins and whipped his mount. The horse reared up screaming, its front legs punching at the air, and galloped off into the fog of the dust.

  Rimmer shuddered. He'd seen War's wicked smile, too, and could have lived without it, thank you. He turned to Lister, holding his hat to his head against the wind and shouted, 'What was all that about?'

  Lister shrugged. 'I dunno, exactly. But I reckon this town, the people and the buildings, probably represent some part of Kryten's functions. The bank could be his memory, or maybe his mathematical operations. Whatever it is, the virus was trying to wipe it out.'

  'Well, that's good news then. We stopped it.'

  'Yeah,' Lister wiped dust from his eyes. 'It's good and it's bad. Now we know we can help slow the spread of the virus. But the virus knows there's a new game in town, and I didn't much like the look that dude shot us.'

  'They'll be back, sure enough,' Carton said, and stepped back into his office.

  Lister watched him go. 'We can hamper the virus, but Kryten's the only one who can wipe it out for good. We should probably set up some kind of patrol, keep an eye out for sneak attacks, while one of us stays here and tries to help Kryten come to his senses.'

  Immediately, Rimmer said, 'I'll stay.'

  The Cat sneered. 'What's the problem, Frisbee nostrils? There's no need to be a coward in here; you can't get hurt.'

  'You're right,' Rimmer nodded. 'Sorry. Habit. You stay, Listy. Me and my compadre here will keep the township safe. Worry ye not.' He rubbed his hands, tucked his thumbs under his belt and John Wayned down on to the street. The Cat closed his eyes, shook his head and stepped down after him.

  The street was deserted, but there were faces in almost every window. They strolled past the saloon, and Rimmer caught sight of a particularly ugly visage staring out at him, sporting an unusually wide lopsided leer. He nudged the Cat. 'Who the smeg's that? Gurning champion of the century?'

  The Cat looked over. 'That's not a face, dog breath. That's somebody's ass.'

  Rimmer squinted. It was true. One of Jimmy's cronies was mooning them. Infuriated, Rimmer turned and headed for the saloon. The Cat caught his arm. 'We're not looking for trouble,' he said.

  'Right, you're right.' Rimmer tensed his jaw, then fell back in step with the Cat. 'You're absolutely right. We're not looking for Trouble. But if Trouble comes, it's going to regret the day Mr and Mrs Trouble decided to have it off.' He allowed himself a little chuckle. It was fun, this macho lark, once you got the hang of it.

  Somewhere off to their right, a brass band started up a slow dirge. Round from the back of Peter Pessimism's Undertaker's Parlour, a funeral procession slow-marched on to the street and dragged its sad way towards them.

  The Cat and Rimmer stopped to let the cortège go by. When the black-plumed horses hauled the hearse level, Rimmer could make out the sorry, cheap coffin, and the inscription on the hastily chiselled tombstone resting above it. It read: 'Here lies Cecil Central Processing Unit, plum dead.' He turned to the Cat and said, somewhat superfluously: 'I don't like the look of this one bit.'

  Then, above the relentless pounding of the bass drum, there was a knocking. Rimmer had a horrible feeling it was coming from inside the coffin.

  There was more knocking, and this time Rimmer saw the coffin lid rattle with each thump. He exchanged looks with the Cat, and then scooted to the front of the procession and held up his arms. 'All right, everyone, just hold it right there.' The band stopped marching and the music wound down discordantly. The undertaker reined in the horses, and the small troop of black-clad mourners stopped weeping.

  The quiet that followed was broken by a small, muffled plea from inside the coffin. 'Let me out, please.' Not insistent, just kind of weary and plaintive.

  Rimmer looked up at the sallow-faced, frock-coated undertaker with distaste. 'What are you doing, man? This chap's not dead.'

  The undertaker looked down at Rimmer from under his top hat, and said, dispassionately, 'That's your opinion, friend. I got orders to bury him, and bury him I will.'

  'You can't bury the poor bastard, he's alive.'

  'Says you.'

  'All right then.' Rimmer leapt up on to the hearse and tapped on the coffin lid. 'Excuse me,' he called, 'Are you alive, or what?'

  From inside, the small voice said: 'I surely am. I ain't even sickly.'

  Rimmer turned to the undertaker. 'Well, according to him, he's alive.'

  The undertaker seemed unimpressed. 'Listen, friend. I ain't no medical expert, you ain't no medical expert and that there corpse ain't no medical expert neither. The doc pronounced the feller dead, and far as I'm concerned, that's plenty good enough for me.'

  'Well, without wishing to disparage the undoubtedly magnificent skills of the local quack, I'd say there was sufficient doubt to warrant a second opinion. Might I be so bold as to suggest we sequester the services of another doctor? Possibly one blessed with the gift of eyesight, perhaps?'

  'Someone castin' aspersions on my abilities?' A man pushed through the crowd. He swatted at a crowd of insect
s buzzing away at his head, and grinned a black-toothed leer that sat awkwardly among the angry pustules on his scab-ridden face.

  Rimmer cocked an eyebrow. 'Pestilence?'

  Pestilence acknowledged his name with a nod. 'Old Doc Diagnostics went down with acute bullet poisonin', rest his soul. Now I'm the medical examiner round these parts.'

  'I see.' Rimmer jumped off the hearse. 'Well, let me put it like this: anyone who wishes to bury this gentleman is going to have to come through me. And that includes any pox-rotted retards with terminal syphilis.'

  Pestilence's leer broadened. 'Well, I reckon I can accommodate you in that respect.' He turned and strode towards the sidewalk, wrapped his arms around the thick wooden strut that held up the overhang and with a single grunt tugged it free. The roof splintering and collapsing behind him, he turned and brandished the strut, two-handed. 'I'm gonna send your teeth so far south, you're gonna be flossing through your butt-hole.'

  Rimmer smiled, easy like, 'Well, my disease-brained friend, that should make it all the more pleasant for you to kiss it. And kiss it you will.' He parted the crowd and crossed over to the horse rail. He spat on his hands, wrapped them round the rail, said, Tucker up,' and pulled.

  And nothing happened.

  Rimmer wrinkled his brow, straightened, flexed his muscles and bent to the rail again. And pulled.

  And nothing happened.

  Disgorging a primal yell, he redoubled his efforts, straining up and up, his neck bones jutting out like the struts on a whalebone corset. His face reddened, then purpled, then turned marble white. With a final hissing grunt, like a steam train pulling into a station, he flopped limply over the rail, arms dangling, lungs scorched and pumping for air.

  The horse rail hadn't budged a single millimetre.