by Doug Naylor
'Thanks,' said Lister numbly.
The room began to change and Lister blacked out.
* * *
The alarm clanged into life and Lister emerged from under sheets that looked and smelt as if they had been used by mating hippos, and started to grope around to silence the banshee wail that sliced through his head like a laser knife. He correctly performed all the cliches, groaning, knocking the clock off the bedside cabinet, banging his head as he stooped to pick it up, before finally surrendering to the inevitable. He flung his legs over the side of the bed, jacked open one eye and started to search for the 'off' button.
He turned the clock round and round, all the time its grotesque buzz burrowing through his eyes. It made his toothache worse and the boil on the inside of his left nostril throbbed more than ever. After what seemed an eternity, longer even than the time it used to take to get served in an electrical store on a Saturday afternoon, he arrived at the conclusion there was no 'off' button. He hurled the clock to the floor and smashed it to death with the heel of his shoe. Or thought he had. But no, just as he was climbing back into bed the clock lurched back into life and vibrated so furiously it appeared as if it were actually moving towards him across the matted green carpet that stuck to his feet like Velcro. He decided the only solution was to evacuate the room. He closed the door behind him and found himself in the kitchen.
The smell of dead gravy sodomized both his nostrils; leaning towers of dirty washing were piled on every available worktop; a metropolis of plate-squashed fossilized food leaked fresh vileness. He skated his way across the cooking-fat-splashed floor and opened the fridge. The smell of rotten warm cabbage and decomposing sprouts karate-chopped the back of his throat. Green milk pussed out of the top of bottles and something that looked dangerously close to an orang-utan foetus was in a bowl covered in Clingfilm.
'Well.' he thought, "I've lived in worse places than this. In fact, by my standards, the fridge and kitchen are pretty tidy.'
He looked down at the Welcome hamper on the table and picked up the scented red letter which had been placed on the top. He slit it open with a rusty bottle opener he found in the sink.
Dear Mr Lister,
You have been found guilty of crimes against the Gelf state. As a consequence, you have been sentenced to eighteen years in a cyberspace scenario designed and created by your own guilt.
Welcome to hell. Once you've settled in, we hope your stay with us here will be an excruciating nightmare of torment and revulsion and that your screams for mercy and redemption will be heard across the length and breadth of time itself. If for any reason you discover anything is comfortable or pleasant, or in any way to your liking, please do not hesitate to call us and one of our staff will be very happy to ensure that everything is extremely unpleasant and distressing again, as soon as possible.
Yours as ever.
The Cyberian Management.
Lister prised open the lid and peered in at the hamper's contents: sprout broth, sprout pate, sprout wine, anchovy sandwich spread, a roast armadillo, two dozen rice cakes, four packs of herbal cigarettes, American coffee, Portuguese tea, a carton of dog's milk and a book called Hamilton Academicals — The Glory Years.
Lister closed the hamper, picked up a meat tenderizer, clicked open the door and made a beeline for the clock still raging on the floor. Four blows and it was an ex-alarm clock.
He peered through the grime-laden window and, as a mosquito whirred round his head, was aware of the constant drips of a psychotic tap filling an already overflowing basin in the bathroom. Suddenly, from the apartment above, the strains of a Neil Diamond song vibrated the dead lightbulb and its filthy orange shade, while from the apartment next door the bass thump of a demented drum solo began to pound into his skull.
He consulted the TV guide and scanned the listings. Sit-coms with cute five-year-old kids, documentaries on the history of Jacobean furniture, Syrian soaps and a ninety-minute live broadcast of a rectal examination.
He had to get out of here. Had to think. He decided to throw on some clothes and take a look around outside.
But did he have any clothes?
An old dilapidated wardrobe stood sombrely in one corner of the room. He knew what was in it before he even opened its horrifying, eye-piercing squeak of a door. Five traffic-light-coloured striped tank tops hung neatly on a row of hangers. Two pairs of orange dungarees hung on two more hangers and, alongside them, three shirts painted with newly cut hair. Underneath were three pairs of shoes that Lister guessed correctly were half a size too small.
He dressed in his ridiculous, itching clothes and decided to take a stroll around town. Take a look at Hell from the outside.
CHAPTER 7
The herd of short-haired yaks gazed up into the night sky and paid no attention whatsoever as the small green ship dropped its landing legs and prepared to touch down. As the retros spewed their jets of orange flame into the desert sand, whipping it into vicious little tornado twisters, the yaks continued to munch. their hay and not think very much at all. They were not thinking very much at all, because, apart from having world-class bad breath, not thinking very much at all and looking stupid were the two features that singled out yaks as being perhaps the least appreciative species ever to witness one of the Cat's hand-brake landings.
Suddenly there was something else for the yaks not to be impressed about, as a panic of black-cowled figures hurried out of the half-moon of tents that were grouped around the watering hole and rushed past them, loading automatic rifles and unsheathing scimitars.
The small green ship landed on the crest of a surf of sand, its landing ramp concertinaed creakily to the ground in the baking desert heat and five figures stood in the open hatchway wearing fur-lined anoraks, ski goggles and snowshoes.
'Sorry, guys,' said Lister. 'My fault - didn't think ahead — should have checked the weather computer.'
'You didn't check the weather computer? But you said it was an ice planet.'
'It was a guess. It looked snowy to me when we were in orbit.'
'You never think ahead, you mookle,' said Kochanski without rancour. 'You're allergic to planning.'
They retreated back inside the craft and emerged some minutes later in beach wear.
Lister stood on the landing gantry and addressed the horseshoe of black-cloaked figures. He yelled through his cupped hands: 'Are you guys Kinitawowi? Nomads, badawi?'
No reply.
'We've been told you will help us.'
Silence.
'We have a friend in Cyberia. We need help: weapons, information, soldiers.'
Silence.
'We have much we can trade.'
'Sir, allow me.' Effortlessly, Kryten switched into Kinitawoweese: 'Kinitawowi, nekh nikhi nekh histan! Kanua watua nahoo.'
The hooded figures stood impassively. Then they pulled back their cowls and revealed the lugubrious snouts of some form of hippopotamus that had been genetically mixed with gorillas. 'Yurarg eor dor degga!'
Lister slid a trunk on to the top of the disembarkation steps and started hauling out some of the contents: 'Look, Levi jeans. Whisky. VCRs. Sperm. We need help? To rescue our comrade. Comprendez?'
Kryten translated: 'Aig gy gon banuu. Nilk tet kan ua nah oo yek ht!'
The Kinitawowi nodded and started back towards their encampment.
Rimmer stared after them. According to some rogue droid they'd met in a bar back on Blerios 15, Kinita-wowis were supposed to be friendlyish; they travelled in tribes, roaming the plains of the desert asteroids that made up most of the northern sector of the belt, and bartered with the various Gelf communities for emotions and memories which they sold on to Simulants for vast profit.
Rimmer didn't trust them.
In fact, he found it almost impossible to trust anyone; a characteristic which gave his face its fleshless lips and added sharp points to his nose and chin. His smile was like an iceberg, two-thirds of it remained under the surface, but nothing gave away his mis
trust of life more than his eyes. When clouded by doubt, they would narrow to alley-cat slits beneath a clutch of paranoid hair.
'Suggest two of us stay back in case anything should go awry. Don't trust this lot one bit. Why don't you take Kryten? He's expendable.'
'Good point. I'm on my way, sir.' The mechanoid beamed happily and made to walk down the disembarkation steps.
Lister stopped him with a look. 'If anyone stays back it should be Kriss. These dudes are supposed to be pretty weird around attractive women. Plus, if anything goes wrong she can pilot Starbug and get help.'
'Ms Kochanski, ma'am.' Rimmer saluted smartly. 'Wish to volunteer to be your assistant, ma'am, on your extremely dangerous mission to stay behind and look after Starbug, ma'am.'
'No need. I'll be fine, Mr Rimmer.' Rimmer gave her one of his icebergs.
* * *
A tent flap was flung back and the leader of the Kinitawowi strode towards them wiping his brutish paws on a filthy apron before shaking Lister by the hand. 'Hier bhju jnh dewj?'
'He says do we want to trade, sir?' Kryten translated. 'Tell him we need aid to get our friend out of Cyberia. We understand for the right price he can help us.'
Kryten translated Lister's message and the chief spoke quickly in Kinitawoweese.
Kryten turned to Lister. 'Sir, he says it is true they can help, but the price will be steep.'
Lister nodded. 'Tell him we're loaded.' The Cat's laugh roared around the encampment. Kryten spoke: 'Grendee argenti nawagooty. ' The chief nodded and gestured for them to follow him.
* * *
The dead rogue droids lay on their backs in rows of tens. In all there must have been close to a thousand. It was like a cross between an android burial ground and a car dump. Most of them were injured: one-eyed, one-armed, legless or with holes in their stomach showing daylight.
'Ezenji.'
'He's saying choose, sir.'
'But they're all dead,' said the Cat. 'What the hell is there to choose?'
The Kinitawowi chief held out a box of micro-boards and shook it.
'He says they're disarmed. Once the micro-boards are restored to their CPUs they'll be fully functional.'
Lister took Kryten's arm and led him off to a point where they were out of the Kinitawowi chief's earshot. 'Can we trust him? Is he the sort of guy you can buy a secondhand droid off?'
Kryten turned and peered at the chief as he leaned on one foot, beating his hands together shiftily.
'If the truth be known, sir, probably not. However if we want to get your other self out of Cyberia we need help. And at present this is the only help that's available to us.'
Lister nodded and wandered back to join the chief.
'We want to see some of them working.'
'Hikmuie?'
'He wants to know which ones, sir?'
Lister stepped into the matrix of droids and started to make his choices.
* * *
The twelve droids stood to a sloppy attention as Lister walked down the line to inspect them. The first three were in moderate condition - all limbs present and correct. After that the platoon went downhill fast. Rogue droids four and five had missing left arms, six and seven had ears and left legs missing and moved by using their arms like three-legged dogs; eight's eyes hung down his chest on their sensor wires; nine was complete but had a tendency to giggle and blow saliva bubbles; ten had no upper body whatsoever, being basically just a pair of legs; eleven's head was absent without leave; and twelve was just a hand.
'Atten-shun,' Lister barked. 'By the left, quick march - left, right, left, right.' The platoon slumped, slouched, limped, hopped, crawled and shuffled up and down the desert dune as Lister put them through their paces.
'Juh utio as niug hui, ' said the chief.
'What's he saying?' asked Rimmer.
'He's saying Mr Lister has chosen well, sir.'
* * *
The Kinitawowi chief led them into the tent piled high with ammunition and computers and dome-shaped glass helmets patterned with lights, and invited them to sit on a row of strange-smelling cushions that were stacked around a dozing fire. Already seated around the fire were four other Kinitawowis, who stood, bowed, then reseated themselves. Two females, two males.
The chief flipped open a metal crate and took out a screw-top vacuum-sealed flask and emptied something into the palm of his hand. It was a tiny pink disk.
'What is it?' asked the Cat.
'A computer virus,' said Kryten.
'Fthgy arfgt deh bji kio.'
Kryten nodded. 'He says it is more powerful than the sun.'
'Gt bb id lk aftrhe.'
'It kills electricity.'
'Hye ngh io deh vikm Ipo seh.'
'Extraordinary. He says with the powers of the disk we will be able to bring down the entire cyber-system.'
'Show us,' said Lister, gesturing with his hands.
Kryten translated. The chief dragged two computers from the pile of dead machinery and quickly connected them together and then inserted the disk into the first machine. 'Fgjugrh erg nkiju.'
'He's inviting you to modem the virus from one machine to the next.' The Cat pressed the keypad and watched the second computer explode in a plume of blue flame.
The laughter and smiles swirled around the tent.
'GJb hnu hul Iks ain iifo do.'
'Now he says he will insert the antidote disk.'
The chief inserted a blue disk into the second computer and it pinged jauntily back to life. Lister led the applause. 'OK, we'll take the virus and the antidote and the dirty dozen out there. Say half a test tube.' Lister rolled up his trouser leg and took out a single cigar tin that was tied around his ankle. He pulled the top off the tin and let a test tube fall into his hand. 'Deal?' He handed the test tube to the chief.
The chief rolled it around in his hand then pulled out the cork and smelled it. 'Rhy jio nkjh opoiu nmj?'
'He says what is this?'
'What does he think it is?'
'Gju ski gimj.'
'He says it smells like sperm.'
'Tell him it's mine,' said Lister proudly. 'I can vouch for it.'
'Hy bji,' Kryten replied.
'Nuj fer gimj?'
'He says, "And you're giving it to me?"'
'You bet,' Lister twinkled.
'Sir, I...'
'Proki, mgetm klif kzzen.'
'He says this is an outrage...' 'He wants more,' said Lister, unrolling his left trouser leg. 'Well, I'll give him more.'
'That's mine,' said the Cat, pointing at himself.
Lister turned to Kryten. 'Is there a problem?'
'Listy, mon frère,' said Rimmer, wearing a grin the size of a billboard. 'Methinks the Kinitawowis aren't sterile and consequently don't have a spermatozoon-based monetary system. And if that's the case — imagine how it looks. Because to his eyes you've just given him a tube of your love custard, then looked mighty peeved when he wasn't thrilled to receive it.'
'Hakh nik ikh han nab ekh! Pakh nij imh abe kh!'
'What's he saying now?'
'He's saying to make up for this insult you must prove that you have respect for him and for his people.'
'Tell him I do respect him and his people.'
'Fgb hn hm ojm ne im mkij mn djh nakjdpkij bgd be.'
'He says you must prove it.'
'Yes, sure - anything. Well, anything except hand-to-hand combat with their strongest warrior wearing just skimpy leather thongs.'
The chief spat and jabbed his finger in the air and pointed at the group of Kinitawowis sitting around the fire.
'Sir, he says to prove you have respect for him and his people you must marry his daughter.'
'His daughter?'
The chief strode across the tent and gestured at the figure sitting in the middle of the group. She was six foot six and covered in matted brown fur, with a black hippo nose and encrusted saliva around her mouth.
'That's his daughter?'
'One of three,
sir. Apparently she's the looker.'
'Hey, wait - what about Kriss? I'm taken.'
Rimmer's nostrils flared open. 'Come on, Listy, it's your duty - besides, you've dated worse.'
'Only due to very poor disco lighting.'
'Hann abe kh nik nitre khp.'
'He's saying, no wedding, no deal.'
The Kinitawowis rose and barked abuse at Lister, stabbing their dirty gorilla fingers into his chest and hurling the bangles and hats and jeans they'd accepted as presents on to the straw matting of the floor. Lister stood, shoulders slumped, trying to protect himself from their verbal savaging with his best idiotically winsome grin. They spat into the roaring fire, putting it out, and departed. He watched them go and then turned to look at the others, shaking his head.
Lister suddenly became aware that three pairs of eyes were staring at him with looks of barely concealed irritation.
'Hold on, let's get out the sheet music and play the Real Waltz. I am not going down to Moss Bros, for anyone who is less attractive than my own armpit after twenty games of table-tennis.'
Rimmer was incredulous. 'Are you going to blow the whole deal just because she doesn't hit your G-spot?'
'Rimmer, believe me, it would never work out. I'm a Pisces and she's part smegging hippopotamus — that, to my mind, makes us incompatible.'
'Sir, they're a proud people. They won't change their minds. The only possible way we are ever going to get our hands on the virus and the rogue droids is if you agree to marry Khakhakhakkhhakhakkkhakkkkkh.'
'That's her name?'
Kryten nodded.
'Man, I could never settle down with someone whose name sounds like a footballer clearing his nose.'
'Look, Listy, the plan is as plain as a Bulgarian pin-up. We do the trade, you go through with the wedding, and when everyone's asleep we come back and rescue you.'
Lister shook his head. 'Not a chance. No way. Wipe the idea from your minds. I'm telling you right now, guys. Forget it. OK? Forget it.'
CHAPTER 8
