by Doug Naylor
The lift door rattled open and all six foot two of Lieutenant-Colonel Michael R. McGruder ducked out. Forty-two years old, he looked closer to late twenties because, like all the Mayflower's human crew, he'd had the gene responsible for ageing removed from his genetic make-up. He ran his tongue around his mouth. It still had that dead aftertaste that always lingered after getting out of Deep Sleep. He spat into a paper tissue, folded it neatly in eight and deposited it in a garbage chute. Then he turned left and started down the corridor.
It was his tour of duty. Every ten thousand years each of the marines was assigned a tour of duty. This was his fifth. Generally, it took about two days. He'd check everything was running smoothly, fix anything that wasn't and then write up his report in his beautifully neat handwriting. He'd heard some of the guys took time out to wake up a symbi-morph, get drunk and play around. Not him. No, sir. He had sworn to serve his planet and that's precisely what he intended to do. True, he'd never be the man his father was, but damn it all to hell, no man could be.
He looked up at the corridor arches - odd, they were covered in cobwebs — where were the skutters? He walked along the metal grilling of the corridor and turned left at the T-junction where a sign read: 'Gelf Quarters.'
It was part of his tour of duty to check the 'passengers'. First on his check-list were the Dolochimps. McGruder strode between the sleep units and arrived at the first stasis pen. Six Dolochimps roamed up and down in their glass dome.
Something was wrong. They'd been de-animated. Must be some kind of temporary electrical fault.
He moved on towards the next pen to check out the Simulants.
Simulants were the most expensive and complex artificial human substitute ever created by homo sapiens. They were human with add-ons; they lived longer, were more intelligent and their bodies were stronger and hardier than anything with chromosomes. They'd been programmed to be ruthless, to be primarily concerned with their own survival, and the reason for this was simple: they'd been designed to be like humans, to replicate the characteristics of the species that had clambered to the top of the evolutionary ladder, but they had been programmed to be better than human, more single-minded, more driven, an even greater surviving machine. The theory was, make the individual look after itself and the species would thrive.
The segregation laws were simple.
Simulants had been programmed to 'survive', and incidents in the past had illustrated these droids wouldn't hesitate in killing their human masters if they believed it would best serve the survival of their species. Without remorse, without guilt, they would strike them down with scarcely a nano-second's thought. They had no choice, it was why they had been created: to survive and flourish in a distant land; to wage a war against the lava, and tame a planet in a new solar system in a foreign galaxy.
The segregation laws were long and complex, but the only law anyone ever had to remember was this: never trust a Simulant. Treat them like pit bulls: always be scared. Only then would you be safe. McGruder knew this.
He looked in at the pen. The Simulants were all de-animated too. They grinned and screeched and licked the inside of the glass domes with their long grey tongues. He moved on to the next pen - a batch of symbi-morphs. The next Dingotangs. The next a couple of Snugiraffes. They were all de-animated.
He peered in at the next pen. It was — empty.
He read the sign: 'Simulants/Batch 2'. All seven sleep chambers were vacant. Seven Simulants were free. A trickle of sweat trundled its way down his smooth, handsome face and trickled off the edge of a jaw an architect could have used to draw straight lines.
He must remain calm.
What would his father have done? He breathed deeply. Probably round them up single-handedly after some titanic bloodbath, then climb back into Deep Sleep and not even bother to mention the incident to anyone. But he wasn't his father. He was just a damned good soldier. And right now he was scared. He would get the crew out of Deep Sleep.
Then a thought struck him. Where was the second batch of symbi-morphs? He'd seen the first batch, but according to his Itin. list there should be a second. Were they on the loose too? He doubled back to check.
He padded down the grilled deck. Passing the empty Simulant unit he peered in. It looked as if they'd pulled up the lead-lined grille covers and gone out through the ceiling. Maybe he should take a look. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. As soon as he was in he knew he'd been duped. This wasn't the Simulants Deep Sleep unit at all. This was the unbroken symbi-morphs assuming the shape of an empty Simulant unit to draw him inside. They shape-shifted out of the walls and overwhelmed him.
Twenty minutes later McGruder came round to discover he was now locked in the unit. He signalled the alarm from his transmitter.
Helpless and impotent, he watched as the mutiny raged for the next three days and nights. The electrical fault that had caused the temporary de-animation of the Gelf sleep units together with his own stupidity had allowed all the engineered life forms to escape. Now, led by the Simulants, they were engaged in a pitched battle with the human crew for control of the ship.
At the end of the third night the Mayflower's navigation system was destroyed in the fighting and shortly afterwards the ship fell into a worm hole. The ship was carried through the lesion in space time and taken down the dimension hyperway to the Omni-zone, and ejected into a new dimension of reality.
The ship hurtled through the stratosphere of its new reality and finally fell into the orbit of a volcanic moon, where it splashed down into a sea of molten lava and glooped its way to the bottom of the sea bed.
On the fourth day the hapless McGruder was released from the sleep unit by a group of victorious Dingotangs, who promptly took him prisoner. It amused them to have a human slave, and he became part of their crew when they finally navigated their way to the surface in one of the Mayflower's escape pods.
As they soared out of the volcanic moon's orbit, looking for a desert asteroid to make their home, McGruder sat slumped in the hold. He knew he would never be the soldier his father had been. He would never even be a tenth of the man Arnold J. Rimmer was. He prayed now that they would never meet.
He couldn't bear the shame.
CHAPTER 5
The silver pool seeped under the bottom of the door frame, then sucked itself together and turned into a fly. The insect carefully walked up the hatchway surface before it inserted itself into the lock drive and became a computer key. The hatchway door purred open and Lister stepped out. By his side he was suddenly joined by a Gelf guard who walked with him down the hallway and up to the check-in desk.
They reached the counter and Lister's companion waved a note in front of the seated check-in guard. 'Transfer papers.'
'What transfer?'
'It's all on the form. Read it.'
Without breaking stride Lister and Reketrebn, still assuming the shape of the guard, dropped the note on the desk and strolled towards the exit.
'Hey, wait a minute!'
They quickened their pace.
'Hey! This isn't a release form.'
They reached a set of locked hatchway doors patrolled by two security guards. Reketrebn's hand turned into a key and they sauntered through.
'Hold that prisoner.'
As they ran down the long, wide hallway that stretched in front of them for almost 150 feet, Lister gradually became aware of Reketrebn's voice running by his side screaming at him: 'Jump on!'
He glanced across. By his side was a black-and-white mare.
'Jump on,' said the horse.
Lister leapt on, and Reketrebn galloped down the corridor. As they reached a T-junction they eased around the corner before powering down a second stretch of hallway and catching a lift as its doors were closing.
The lift doors squeaked open and Lister peered out. It appeared they were on some kind of maintenance floor. It was deserted. Lister trotted across the metal-grilled flooring, passing several rows of slowly rotating metal edifices three h
undred feet long. Clearly this was some kind of oil generator that powered the asteroid. He peered over the edge and watched as a pump disappeared into the infinity of the drill hole.
Behind him he heard the lift door open and a pounding of feet signalled a small battalion of guards close behind. Reketrebn galloped down a series of grilled promenades that overlooked the abyss and finally came to a dead end. He looked down at the dizzying drop to the oil chamber below.
The running footsteps were getting louder. There was no way out. 'Damn it.'
Reketrebn shape-shifted back to its neutral shape. 'Hide behind that canister.'
Lister huddled behind the canister as the symbi-morph started to shape-shift once more. Minutes later twelve Gelf guards started to inspect the end of the promenade.
One of them barked that it didn't make sense. They couldn't have just disappeared into thin air. Then a second pointed to the lift that was positioned at the end of the promenade and plummeted down into the abyss below. They punched the 'door open' keypad and all twelve guards shuffled in. Reketrebn stopped pretending to be a lift and watched as the party of guards plummeted into the infinity of the drill hole.
Lister got up from behind the canister, grinning. 'Come on, I know where the aeropad is. Let's grab a shuttle and get the hell out of here.'
* * *
The human and the symbi-morph emerged from behind a wall of crates and watched as a party of Gelfs started loading the star ship ready for take-off. From its markings Lister was pretty sure it was one of the supply ships from Arranguu 12, one that brought food and water from the less arid asteroid on the perimeter of the belt.
They crept up to the end of the line. Reketrebn morphed into a wooden packing case identical to the ones they were loading and Lister climbed gleefully inside. Soon he was being lifted and carried up a gangway and deposited in the cargo bay of the ship. It was dark but warm, and he quickly fell asleep inside Reketrebn's latest shape.
He awoke several hours later. He was no longer in the crate. Reketrebn had shape-shifted into its neutral form and was prowling around the cargo bay trying to work out where they were. He opened his eyes and sat up. 'What are you doing?'
'Where did you say this ship was going?'
'Arranguu 12. It's a supply ship.'
Reketrebn shook its head. 'Wrong. Look.' It pointed through the Plexiglass viewing window into the ship proper. The seats were filled with prisoners braced by ankle and wrist to their seats.
This is the gestalt volunteer ship. This is the ship you were trying to escape from. Somehow we've wound up on it.'
Lister's face mixed to grey. 'Not possible.'
'Know something else?'
'What?'
'I don't think we can even jump the crew.'
'Why?',
'There isn't one. The ship's on auto-pilot.'
'Out of the frying pan and into the very same, identical frying pan. Smegging great.' Lister prised open a nearby crate. 'Food and supplies for the volunteers.' He kicked one of the crates with the toe cap of his boot and then started to beat up one of the walls.
CHAPTER 6
The Deep Sleep unit hissed slowly to the ground from its nesting position high in the ceiling. Kryten sat upright while his optical system adjusted itself to the light. After a few seconds he stumbled groggily out of his slumber bay and waddled across to check out the other units.
He always liked to get out of Deep Sleep a week or so before the rest of the crew. It gave him time to catch up with his duties and deal with any problems that may have arisen during their time in suspended animation.
His eyes flicked over the array of bio-data. The rest of the crew were soundly asleep. All was well. He glanced down at the medi-computer that was spewing out endless data about the four sleepers: heart rate, blood pressure, cholesterol; info on ears, nose and throat; even up-to-date dental charts.
Strange.
Kryten looked at Lister's dental chart. It was wrong. The machine was declaring that he had twenty-six teeth, when Kryten knew he had twenty-seven and one cap. He asked the machine to run a secondary check on the data, which it did. Still it declared Lister had twenty-six teeth. Kryten asked the computer to delve into the medi-log and confirm that two winters ago he had replaced Lister's central incisor with a cap and at the same time removed all four of his third molars. The computer flashed up an old X-ray of Lister's teeth — no third molars and one cap. Kryten asked the computer to show him the present dental chart of the sleeping Lister - all third molars present, no cap, and two missing second pre-molars, three missing first molars and one missing first pre-molar.
Extraordinary.
Some of Lister's teeth had grown back.
Unlikely.
Kryten checked through the medi-computer for Lister's scar history. He had four scars in all — two appendix scars (due to a freak of nature which had bequeathed him with a double helping of the body's most unnecessary organ), a scar on the top of his right shoulder which had been caused by a childhood accident, and an artificial earlobe due to a run-in with some acid rain.
Kryten compared the scars with the scar history of the presently slumbering Lister - three scars; right thigh, left arm, right knee. He looked in at the body presently sleeping soundly in the safety of decelerated time.
He was not Lister.
Or rather, he was not their Lister.
Here they were about to go into orbit around the lava planet, twenty-odd weeks away from Cyberia, and they were carrying the wrong Lister. Thank goodness he'd come out of Deep Sleep early. At least now he'd have some time to evaluate the situation and compute the most advantageous course of action. This was the Lister who'd been a prisoner in Cyberia. Why would he pretend to be their Lister?
Kryten needed more information. He scuttled through the hatchway and stumbled up the steps to the ops room and turned on the com channel. Minutes later a beeping noise announced he'd successfully logged on to the derelict Starbug's on-board computer. An hour after that he'd outwitted the security system and gained access to the crew's personal files, confidential reports that had been written before the nuclear leak that had wiped out Red Dwarf's crew. Kryten downloaded the file marked 'Lister, David' and started to read.
Confidential
Personnel evaluation on crew member: Lister, David.
Technician, third class.
Report completed by
Flight Commander Dr Alice Kellerman.
Lister first came to my attention when Dr Nicholas Thompson told me he had a particularly difficult patient and asked if I would see him. In Dr Thompson's opinion, Lister was a grade two sociopath and he requested my view. My only previous knowledge of Lister was that he'd been a constant offender during his time in Deep Space and had spent most of his passage either in the brig or confined to his own quarters for a range of misdemeanours ranging from shoplifting to beating up an officer. Naturally I was curious as to how a personality such as Lister's was able to have passed the initial intake committee and been accepted into the Star Fleet.
In all I had six meetings with Lister, who was happy to talk to me about his life and history.
In keeping with the model for sociopathic behaviour, I found him to be a man of immense charm, a trait he used frequently to manipulate and exploit others. Indeed, he used this ability and his ability to project absolute sincerity to extricate himself from many of the predicaments he found himself in. We talked about his schooldays, which were littered with examples of truancy, suspension and expulsion. Before joining the Space Corps at the age of twenty-three, he had spent his time in and out of work; he told me that after a few weeks of employment he became restless and discontented and he found it impossible to hold down a job for more than a few months. During this time there were also two periods of imprisonment; the first for burglary and the second for drunken driving. He boasted to me that he had committed several robberies and had escaped scot-free.
Throughout his life, he explained, he had found it close to i
mpossible to form lasting relationships with either sex. He claimed he had never been in love and doubted whether the concept even existed. In total, he has fathered three children, all to different mothers, but at the time of writing has lost contact with them all.
He exhibited no remorse about his life or his predicament and had no guilt feelings about his behaviour or his actions which had led to any of his crimes; most of which were spur of the moment and totally unplanned. He found his failure to plan ahead almost always got him into trouble, but his impulsiveness and general recklessness prevented him from overcoming this trait.
I agree with Dr Thompson that his personality disorder is caused by both genetic and environmental influences.
Orphaned from birth, his adoptive father was sentenced to a ten-year prison term for embezzling funds from the Miranda Insurance Company when Lister was nine years old. He was then reared by his adopted mother, Beth Thornton, who had a history of manic-depression, a fact withheld from the authorities to allow the Thorntons to adopt Lister.
Lister's case follows a classic pattern. Children born to parents with criminal backgrounds who are then adopted by middle-class parents with similar law-breaking tendencies have a greatly increased chance of developing sociopathy. Also, from a genetic point of view -
'What are you reading?'
Kryten wheeled round, looking for the source of the voice. Lister stood under the arc lights of the hatchway sipping a cup of coffee, darkly serious and unsmiling.
Kryten fumbled together the sheaf of papers in his hand. 'You're out of Deep Sleep, sir,' he said, unnecessarily.
The pause was long and sinister. 'And so are you.'
Kryten stood frozen, as immobilizing swathes of terror wrapped themselves around his body. 'I always de-animate a few days early, sir. It, uh, allows me to catch up on any little tasks that may need doing.'
