by Rob Grant
Lister screamed 'Nowww!' but his shout only served to distract Kryten at the vital moment, and Death's hand whipped round and blasted both barrels at Kryten's chest.
Kryten staggered back as both rounds thumped into him, and in the instant of delay they caused, all the Apocalypse boys had their weapons in their hands and were slapping off shots with a carefree glee of FBI agents at a religious cult's stockade.
Jerking pitifully with each blast, Kryten tottered back, as if some invisible puppeteer were tugging him from behind.
Then silence broke out. Kryten staggered and swayed in the burnt stench of gunsmoke. He seemed, incredibly, to be pretty much intact. Dazed and staggering, but alive.
There was a barrage of metallic clicks as the Apocalypse boys broke open their guns and emptied their spent cases on to the ground.
As they tinked another round of bullets into their smoking chambers, Kryten moved.
Slowly, almost casually, his hands reached down for the black pearl handles of his dove guns.
In an easy, flowing arc, he lifted them clear of the leather, his thumbs cocking back the hammers, and raised them chest high.
His white-gloved fingers squeezed the triggers.
And the guns became birds.
Perfect-white doves.
They flew, as if in slow motion, out of Kryten's hands, and as Lister watched, they multiplied, until the air was filled with the beating of wings and a symphony of birdsong.
He felt the pain flooding out of him. His decapitated body kicked off the bolas, stood and picked up his head. He jammed it on to his neck, and looked around.
Where the Apocalypse boys had made their stand, there were just four piles of black ash, slowly being blown away by the wind from the wings.
He turned and looked for his crewmates. The Cat was sitting up, feeling his forehead for holes.
But Rimmer still lay in a molten pool of flesh.
And Kryten was motionless on the ground.
Lister clapped his hands, dreading the reality he might find when he got back there.
THIRTEEN
He slid off the helmet and looked around the ops room. The Cat was beside him, sitting on the deck, struggling with his own helmet. Rimmer's light bee was dangling from the AR unit. Lister picked it up. Melted beyond repair.
He raced over to the medi-bed where Kryten lay. The mechanoid was motionless. Gingerly, Lister peeled back his skull section. Ugly, black smoke wisped up from inside. The circuits were charred and warped.
The Cat peered over his shoulder. 'Bad as it looks?' he asked.
Lister nodded. 'Worse. Kryten and Rimmer are both totalled. Question is: did Kryten cure the virus in time to save the NaviComp?'
The Cat shot out of the room. Lister slipped Kryten's skull piece back reverently, and then bounded down the stairway after him.
When he reached the cockpit, the Cat was already jabbing at the controls. 'He did it! We're in!'
Lister slid into Rimmer's navigation station, trying not to think of the fact that Rimmer was gone, that Kryten had cured the virus and, instead of ridding himself of the infection, had chosen to save the navigation computer. Yet another friend had sacrificed his life for Lister. He'd better make damn sure it wasn't a hollow gesture. He powered up the station. The planet they were hurtling towards filled the screen. 'Less than fifteen minutes to impact. We're too close to steer away. Better slam on the anchors, pronto.'
'Buddy, I am so far ahead of you, you can't see me with an atomic-powered telescope.' The Cat reached out and fired the retros.
They'd been constantly accelerating, now, for several hours, and even with the retros on full power, their forward motion was hardly impeded.
The Cat turned to Lister, flustered. 'What's happening, bud? I'm hitting maximum reverse and it ain't working.'
'It is. We're slowing down.'
The Cat's eyes raced over his read-outs. 'Well, we're not slowing down fast enough to save my boxer shorts from major laundry work.'
'No — it's OK. I think we're going to make it.'
'Think?! Define "think".'
'Well, according to the NaviComp we'll stop completely in... just under thirteen minutes. That's so long as the fuel supply holds out.'
The Cat checked the fuel read-out. They were at the bottom of the red. The NaviComp prediction was that, at full thrust, they had just under twelve minutes' fuel. 'Well now, I'm no maths genius, bud, but those numbers don't fill me with good cheer.'
Lister shook his head. 'There's always more left in than the computers reckon.'
'You're sure?'
Lister looked Cat straight in the eyes. 'I'm betting my life on it.'
And there was nothing to do then but wait, and watch the arid face of the oncoming planet slowly reveal its geographical features. Geographical features of which they would become a part if Lister was wrong.
After three years that lasted for ten minutes, the Cat said. 'That's it, bud. We're registering empty.'
But the retros were still firing. Twenty seconds... forty seconds... and the jets sputtered and died.
Lister stared at the velocity readout. They hadn't stopped.
They'd slowed dramatically, but they were still drifting towards the planet's gravitational field. Once that grabbed them, they'd be accelerating again. To an inevitably lethal collision.
Impact in thirty-three minutes.
'Well,' the Cat flung up his hands, 'that just about rounds off a perfect week.'
'We're not finished yet.'
'Not finished yet? Get out your street map and look up Reality Central. There's no way we're getting out of this in one piece. Or if we are, it's going to be one big, flat piece.'
'There's still...' and suddenly, Starbug pitched violently to the right.
'Now what?' the Cat yelled in exasperation. 'We're not in enough trouble, the gyroscope has to screw up on us?'
Starbug yawed equally violently to the left.
'It's not the gyro.' Lister lurched to his feet and jammed his hand against the cockpit hatchway, as the ship rocked over again. 'It's Wildfire. Come on.'
He staggered into the mid-section and started slipping into his spacesuit. The Cat pitched out after him. Lister yelled, 'Suit up!'
The Cat tottered to the locker and grabbed his suit. 'What's that about Wildfire?'
Lister hauled himself into his leggings. 'Ace's ship — it's still tethered outside. When the Bug slowed down, Wildfire didn't...' Starbug lurched again. 'It's whirling around up there on the end of its tether, like a conker on a string. And it's dragging us around with it.'
The Cat yanked on his alarmingly light oxygen tank. 'So what's the plan?'
Lister sealed his collar and tugged on his gauntlets. 'We're going to try and shimmy up the tether. If we can make it to Wildfire, we'll cut ourselves loose, and whammo! We've got ourselves a working ship.'
Lister dug out his oxygen tank. Seven minutes of air. The Cat had nine. Would that be enough? Lister shrugged and clamped the tank. They were fresh out of choices. He sealed up his helmet and stepped into the airlock.
Outside, the face of the planet looked shockingly large. Widfire One was indeed whirling overhead like a stone in a sling, but with every revolution Starbug's counterweight was slowing down the spin and the climb didn't look nearly as lethally impossible as Lister had secretly feared.
They scrambled up the roof with magnetic clamps, and scurried over to the point where Commander Rimmer's ship was anchored to Starbug.
It would be impossible to jet up to Wildfire without risking being sliced in two by the rotating tether. There was nothing for it but to grab the line as it span by and shimmy
The Cat went first. Despite his injured leg, he made it look easy, and was halfway up before Lister moved.
Lister didn't find it quite so straightforward.
The line's spin was at its most violent near the bottom, and a couple of times, he was almost yanked loose.
When he finally clambered within gra
bbing distance of Wildfire's cockpit, he had fifty-one seconds of oxygen left.
He tumbled into the cockpit, and squeezed in, on top of the Cat. His eyes raced across the control fascia. It was all disturbingly unfamiliar. 'Where's the damn cockpit cover control?' He saw the lever by his left hand, and reasoned it controlled either the cockpit cover or the ejector seat. He pulled it, anyway.
The cockpit swung down, squashing him on to the Cat.
Lister's air ran out. He sucked, but nothing came. It occurred to him that the craft might not be fitted with its own oxygen regenerator.
He ran his eyes over the controls again, but he was beginning to feel light-headed and his vision was getting giddy.
He leaned in closer. There was a switch marked 'OR'. It was either 'OR' or 'QP', but Lister had given up caring. He flicked it anyway, and tugged off his helmet.
And breathed.
He spent a few moments making sense of the controls, and when he thought he'd grasped them, he pressed the button that shot loose the tethering line.
The Cat saw that Lister was breathing successfully, and took off his own helmet. 'You reckon you can fly this thing?'
Lister shrugged. 'Looks self-explanatory. Everything's marked up: tertiary, secondary and primary ignition. A lot of it's computer-controlled, anyway.'
'So, we head back for Red Dwarf?
Lister shook his head. 'What's there for us, now?'
'My entire suit collection, for one thing.'
'There's no Holly, no Kryten, no Rimmer...'
'True, but on the bright side, there's no Rimmer. Besides, where else can we go?'
'We can go anywhen.'
'Huh?'
'Ace has programmed this little baby for another dimension jump. I reckon we fire her up, and see where she takes us.'
'Where's that gonna be?'
'Dunno. I don't think Ace knew himself. Another place. Another dimension. Somewhere along our own destiny lines where our lives took a different path. You up for it?'
The Cat shrugged. 'I have no particular plans for the rest of this reality.'
'Right then.' Lister leaned forward and flicked on the tertiary ignition. 'Let's see what's out there.'
FOURTEEN
A combination of the intense G force and Lister's generous buttocks crushing him down rendered the Cat blissfully unconscious for the jump between dimensions. When he came to, he was more than happy to be in one piece and, apparently, still breathing. 'Did we make it?
Lister hunched his shoulders. 'As far as I can tell.'
'Where are we?'
Lister looked down at the control panel, but the readouts were blank. 'No idea. The panel's down. Radar's dead.'
'Well, wherever we are, we are getting out of this cockpit, bud. I'm so badly crushed, they're going to have to dig my testicles out of this seat with a pickaxe.'
'Hang on.' The control display flickered. 'Coming back on line. Radar shows something fairly huge close by, about six miles long and three miles across. If it's a ship, it could be...'
The computer screen indicated an incoming message. Lister flicked on the comms panel.
'... ship. Repeat: calling unidentified ship. Come in, please.'
It was Rimmer's voice.
'This is the mining ship Red Dwarf. You have encroached on our airspace without warning, which we must consider an act of aggression. Ergo, we surrender. Totally and unequivocally. Do you copy?'
Lister grinned and switched to 'send'. 'Rimmer, you are such a world-class smeghead.'
'Lister? Switching to visual.'
Rimmer's image appeared on screen. He peered forward, baffled and confused. 'Lister??'
Kryten squeezed in beside him. 'Sir? Is it you?'
'It's me.'
Rimmer said. 'How can we be sure it's you? Tell us something only you could know.'
Lister thought. 'I know gazpacho soup is served cold,' he tried.
Rimmer gritted his teeth and nodded violently. 'It's him all right, the obnoxious little gimboid.'
Kryten looked perplexed. 'I don't understand, sir. You're dead.'
'Dead?'
'We buried you some years ago. You and the Cat. You were both trapped in a lethally addictive game. There was nothing we could do to save you.'
The Cat poked his head over Lister's shoulder. 'Who are you calling dead, dog-chew head?'
'You're both alive? But how?'
'We'll tell you when we get on board. If we don't get out of this ship soon, the Cat's conkers are going to be crushed beyond recognition.'
'Well.' Rimmer's forehead wrinkled. 'You picked a rare old time to show up. We're about to be...'
Kryten cut him off. 'There'll be time aplenty for that, sir.' He leaned towards the screen. 'Head for docking bay four seven five, sir. I'll have a vindaloo sauce sandwich waiting for you. Signing off.'
Kryten reached down and ended the transmission.
Lister sighed with his entire body. They'd encountered a dimension where he and the Cat had died playing 'Better Than Life'. Where Rimmer and Kryten had never entered the game to rescue them. It wasn't quite what he'd been hoping for, but it was better than the dimension he'd left behind. At least Kryten, Rimmer and, presumably, Holly were still around.
Lister grabbed the throttle stick and brought Wildfire around in a slow, lazy arc. For as long as he could remember, all he'd wanted was to get back home.
He'd always considered that Earth was his home, but as the ugly red brute of a ship loomed into view, he felt a tingling in his stomach, and thought maybe he'd been wrong.
Maybe this was home.
The rear jets flared and Wildfire looped gently towards the docking bay.
EPILOGUE
The Difference — 2
Arnold J. Rimmer, aged seven and almost five-sevenths, is crouched at the starting line for the Junior C two-hundred-yards dash.
His sports kit, handed down from his brother, Howard, is two sizes too big. But Arnold has spent the last three evenings sewing, and though his needlework leaves a lot to be desired, his stitches too large and uneven, the shorts and T-shirt hug his body tightly. His spiked running shoes are padded at the back with heel grips he's made himself out of papier mâché, and the fit is snug.
There are seven other boys at the starting line, and there's no doubt in anyone's mind that Rimmer will beat them all.
He has an unfair advantage over them.
While the rest of his class of the previous year have moved up to Junior B, young Arnold Rimmer has been deemed scholastically unsuitable to join them.
He's been Kept Down.
All his mother's entreaties failed to impress the headmaster, and he's spent the last three terms in a class where he's a good foot taller than the rest of the kids.
And to everyone's astonishment, Arnold has started to excel. The arithmetic that had seemed so ungraspable to him a year before has now become a breeze. The second time around, he actually understands his French lessons. He's even begun to develop a knack for the piano.
He looks to his left for the starter to signal marks, and Bull Heinman winks at him. A year ago, Rimmer had belonged to the chapped legs and doctor's note brigade when it came to ball games. Nowadays, he's the one who picks the teams. He's one of Bull's blue-eyed boys.
Nowadays, he's a leader.
He made a tough decision when his mother failed to save him. He decided, since he couldn't rely on his parents, he'd better start relying on himself. He could either wallow in shame and self-pity at being Kept Down, or he could roll up his sleeves and get stuck into making something of his life.
He discovered that the twelve inches he had over his classmates didn't single him out for ridicule, it made them look up to him.
And already today, he's won first-place medals for seven events. Winning the two-hundred-yard dash will net him a school record. He will have surpassed all the achievements of all his brothers.
Not that they'll hold it against him. They'll be there at the finish line, ch
eering him on like blue thunder. Slapping his back when he wins, and carting him off on their shoulders to the winners' podium.
His mother will be there, too, of course. Not cheering. Nothing so undignified. She'll watch him break the black-and-yellow once again, and when he's looking over, she'll favour him with the familiar nod. Then she'll turn and walk to the refreshment tent, and when he's collected his medal, he'll follow her there and she'll have chilled lemonade waiting for him.
And she won't say 'congratulations' or 'well done', but while he's sipping his well-earned drink, she might brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and that will be enough.
And suddenly, Rimmer's aware that the boy on his right is mumbling. He turns. It's Bobby Darroch. His eyes are screwed up like a new-born puppy's. Rimmer can't quite make out what the kid's saying, but it sounds as if it could be a whispered prayer.
He's a good sprinter, little Darroch. Rimmer usually picks him first for team games, partly because of his speed, and partly because the boy's parents divorced just before Christmas, and his father leaving home has been pretty tough on him.
The boy opens his eyes and glances nervously across at the spectators. Rimmer follows his glance and sees a man wave in his direction.
Bobby turns back and sets his eyes on the track before him. His teeth are clenched. His knuckles whiten against the red clay.
And the whistle blows, and Rimmer hoists off his front legs instinctively.
Before the slowest starter has left the line, Rimmer is three strides ahead of his nearest rival.
He can hear his brothers' raucous yells as he pounds away at the track, his arms and legs pumping rhythmically in synch, his breathing easy and measured.
And though it's not the thing to do, as he crosses the hundred-yard mark, he chances a look over his shoulder.
Bobby Darroch is right behind him. His face is purple with exertion. His balance is wrong. His arms are wind-milling round. He's not keeping up with good technique, he's keeping up with sheer willpower.
Rimmer looks forward again. He finds another gear and pulls away. And with thirty yards to go, he looks back. Darroch must surely be digging deep into reserves Rimmer didn't know he had. He's two paces behind, running for all he's worth.
