by Doug Naylor
'Presumably as a means of enduring the lava's searing heat.'
'Precisely. But why would they only partly terraform the planet?"
'Perhaps the lava cover gave them a defence from Simulants or Gelfs who'd have come back and ransacked the ship.'
'But if this is true, ma'am, where are they? According to the psi-scan, the ship's deserted.'
'On occasion the psi-scan has been known to be wrong.'
Kryten nodded.
'The important point is this: if we can find some vials of the terraforming viruses, we may be able to use them to eat our way through the rest of the lava crust.'
'According to the mainframe, all viral strains should be located in the next ante-chamber.'
* * *
The hatchway door arced open and they stepped inside. The whole of the chamber had been pointlessly wrecked, vandalized, in the blood-rush of mutiny; a sea of ampoules, thousands and thousands of virus-carrying vials, covered the floor to a depth of several feet in places. All the racks where the vials had once been stored and labelled lay in pieces.
Kryten stooped and picked up a handful of the pencil-thin tubes of glass. He switched his vision from normal to micro and honed into the contents of the vial. Hundreds of thousands of virions writhed around inside, clambering over and under one another, vainly searching for an escape route out of their glass prison.
Kryten ordered his optic system to access 'maximum magnification' and zoomed in on one particular virion; it had a large head and a long thin tail that tapered to nothing. Inside the vial it was totally harmless, just a single molecule of DNA nucleic acid, unable to replicate until it came into contact with a host cell.
But what was it?
What kind of virion was this?
What did it do?
Identifying the different viruses was going to be close to impossible. Floodwater had washed away most of the ident codes and without them they couldn't cross-check with the mainframe to discover the nature of any of the strains. They simply had to find tubes with ident codes intact.
After almost an hour Kryten finally found a vial that did have an ident number. He returned to the gallery and searched through the data banks on the Mayflower's mainframe. There was a brief description of the virus's structure and what it did; it was intended to be used in the tenth year of the terraforming programme to help create a giant, fast-growing super-wheat. The virus rewrote the wheat's growth instructions. Fascinating but ultimately useless.
Kochanski pulled on her earlobe. There are hundreds of thousands of vials in there. It's taken over an hour to identify one, and we've got barely five hours left. We're never going to find it in time. It's a billion-to-one shot.'
Kryten started back into the ante-chamber. 'It's the only shot we've got, ma'am. We just have to keep looking.'
* * *
The twin beams of light zigzagged down the corridor and paused at a heavy-looking lead archway. A soft machine hum which leaked from the Cat's backpack was the only sound they made. They reached a T-junction and turned left, following a sign that read 'Gelf Quarters'. They walked in silence, past a series of sleeping domes — Dolochimps, Dingotangs, symbi-morphs — all empty. Rimmer peered into the fifth one; it contained something. Something slumped in the corner. He breathed on the glass and tried to wipe it clean. It was still unclear. 'You see that? What is it?'
The Cat peered into the dome. 'Not sure, and I can't smell much either.' He pressed the keypad and the glass window yawned upwards. The Cat walked into the dome, stooped and picked it up. It was a jacket, belonging to a marine named McGruder. Rimmer hated marines. They all thought they were God's gift to soldiering. The Cat tossed it to one side and they continued their walk through the crashed ship.
As they walked, Rimmer smiled. He'd dated a girl called McGruder once. Had a bit of a fling with her.
He started to remember how they'd met back on Red Dwarf. They were only a few months out into space, and he'd just finished his duties with Z-shift and was making his way back to the sleeping quarters when they caught the same lift together. She was pretty. Dark-haired, with computer-blue eyes. Normally shy around attractive women, unusually for him he'd opened the conversation when he'd inquired why she was wearing a white bandage around her head — was she a Buddhist or something? She'd smiled and said she'd just been released from the concussion ward: a large piece of machinery had fallen on her from a great height, but she'd made a complete recovery.
They'd got on like a house on fire. She found him amusing and attractive and told him so, even asking him to come round to her quarters that evening for supper. Of course Lister had taken the smeg out of him, saying she was only dating him because she thought he was someone called Simon.
He'd ignored him.
For two and a half days everything was fantastic. This was the real McCoy. Then, quite suddenly, and for no reason he could work out, Lister's remarks had got to him: so he'd set out to prove to himself that Lister was wrong. He decided not to phone her. He would wait for her to phone him. It was only a little thing, but in some small way it would prove to him that she really did care.
Yvonne never phoned. They never dated again. And although they shared nods when they passed in the ship's corridors, they never really spoke ever again.
Why had he let it slip? What a schlub.
What he didn't know was this: twenty minutes after he'd left her quarters McGruder had fainted in the bath. She was kept in the medi-quarters overnight, where she became convinced that her 'relationship' with him had been a fantasy; something she'd wanted so desperately her concussed mind had convinced her it had actually taken place — she'd been hung up on him long before their meeting in the lift.
The solution was simple: she would wait for Arnold to phone. If he did, she would know it had happened, if not she would know her mind had played the cruellest of tricks.
He never phoned. They never dated again. And although they shared nods when they passed in the ship's corridors, they never really spoke ever again.
* * *
Rimmer and the Cat turned on to a new corridor and walked under an archway which detected their presence and slid open, revealing a large, horseshoe-shaped crypt. They ducked inside.
Computer terminals carpeted in a shag-pile-thick layer of dust lined three walls. At the end of the chamber a giant multi-coloured matrix covered in a strange notation dominated the room. It was as if it were some kind of keyboard, but the hieroglyphics on the giant keypads were chilling in their bizarreness.
Rimmer's torch beam turned left and started to explore the left bank of computer terminals; the Cat's beam made a bee-line for the matrix of coloured squares. He jabbed one, as much to discover the depth of the dust as anything else. A soft humming sound kicked in, then the chamber came to life, as line after line of multi-coloured neons clicked on and advanced around the horseshoe of machinery like a forest fire.
Rimmer turned. 'Don't mess with that. We don't know what it does.'
The Cat poked at a second square. 'I'm just taking a look.'
'Well, don't take a look, and that's an order.'
The Cat hissed at him quietly, then went back to pressing the keypads.
Suddenly there was a noise from above and, as Rimmer looked up, a glass cylinder slid from the ceiling and dropped neatly over him with a satisfying squish. Rimmer's eyes scrolled up inside his head. 'Why me? Why is it always me? How many times did I tell you to leave it alone?'
'I'm a cat, I'm curious. Sue me.'
Rimmer hammered on the inside of the glass cylinder. 'If I'm not out of here pronto you're in trouble big time. Got that?'
'Stay slinky. I remember the sequence.' The Cat went back to jabbing the keypads.
'Get Kryten.'
A flashing red light triangled into the chamber, accompanied by a stern bass throb. The sound made the dust dance off the machinery and pattern the light shafts with shimmering hazes.
The Cat was transfixed. 'Wow, that's beautiful.'
'Forget the light show. Go and get Kryten.'
'Wait — I'm getting something.'
A computer throbbed into being. 'Transmogrification sequence initiated.'
'Transmogrification? What the hell's that?
'Hey, maybe it's something nice. Stop thinking loser.'
'Gene sample accepted and cloned,' the computer burred. 'Please key in new genetic structure.'
'Do nothing! Press nothing! Go and get Kryten.'
'Hey, you think I can't handle this on my own? I have to rush off and get novelty condom-head to bail you out? I got you in this mess, I'll get you out. OK?'
'Get Kryten,' repeated Rimmer in precisely the same steadfast tone.
'Relax, would you, I know what I'm doing.' The Cat started pummelling the keyboard with the ends of his clenched fists.
'New genetic structure accepted. Metamorphosis in ten seconds and counting.'
The Cat twinkled winningly. 'Hey, I've got an absolutely terrific idea. Why don't I go and get Kryten?'
'Forget Kryten. Press the pads. Any pads. Keep pressing!'
Without warning the cylinder whited out and cut Rimmer off in mid-rant. The Cat stepped over and peered through the glass. A thick, swirling smoke rotated inside the cylinder, making vision practically impossible. Gradually, agonizingly, the vapour twirls began to dissipate. The Cat's face suddenly looked as if a large question-mark had been branded on it. His eyes darted around, looking for some sign of Rimmer. He wasn't there. Nothing was there apart from a chicken. A chicken that was glowering at him furiously.
'Sequence complete,' the computer said coyly.
The Cat fled out of the chamber and off down the corridor calling for Kochanski and Kryten.
* * *
Kochanski peered into the cylinder and watched transfixed as the chicken pecked furiously at the glass.
That's Rimmer?'
The Cat nodded. 'What can I say except "whoops"?'
Kryten gazed at the array of hardware. 'What is this machine?'
Kochanski stretched upright. 'Must be some kind of DNA modifier to help the terraformers.'
The Cat gazed around at the vast network of computer banks. They really must have liked chicken a whole hell of a lot to go to all this trouble though, bud.'
Kochanski peered at one of the hard-drive facias. 'Looks like its hard disk is loaded in some sort of digitized form with a kind of fossilized DNA from an incredible variety of life forms. A kind of library of life - well, potential life. Presumably you just summon up whatever combination of genes that you need and put together the resulting life form.'
'But Rimmer's a hard-light hologram, ma'am. He hasn't got any DNA.'
'The computer must have managed to do a transposition - swapping hard light for genes. I don't understand how.'
Kryten made comforting clucking noises as the chicken circled angrily inside the cylinder. 'The question is, can we turn him back again?'
The Cat shook his head. 'The question is, do we want to?'
Kryten moved across and gazed up at the matrix. 'Hypothetically, there shouldn't be any problem recalling Mr Rimmer's original form. It's simply a matter of decoding the keypad. Seems a fairly straightforward hexadecimal layout. Logically, this should be the recall sequence.'
Kryten tapped expertly into the keypad. 'Let's try that.'
For a second time the cylinders whited out and three sets of eyes gazed in through the smoke.
A white-bellied brown-backed Mongolian gerbil, with unnecessarily ridiculous ears, returned their stares with a look of seething ill-humour. It lassoed in its long tail and furiously set about cleaning its whiskers, trying to take its mind off the fact that a group of so-called crew-mates were seriously screwing around with its molecular structure.
'That's not it, is it?' Kryten exchanged a look with Kochanski and they both started to study the DNA modifier as if they were only seconds away from the solution.
It took four hours. Four hours where Rimmer underwent nearly three hundred genetic reshapings, involving most of the animal kingdom. They ranged in size from a rimmerphant, which plodded around the chamber and made rather a mess, all the way down to a small buzzing rimmeroo, which had the legs of the Australian marsupial and the head and upper body of Red Dwarf's finest.
Finally Kryten deciphered the hieroglyphics, tapped in the correct override sequence and the glass cylinder retreated back into the ceiling. An ashen-faced Rimmer stepped out of the plumes of smoke and shakily staggered through the hatchway.
As the others left, Kryten hung back in the chamber and stared wistfully at the huge multi-coloured matrix. Here in this room was a machine that could fulfil his greatest desire: it could make him human. No longer would he be second class, no longer would he be a prisoner of his ridiculously shaped angular face and absurd body. This machine could make him human.
When the time was right he would return.
CHAPTER 9
The ship swooped through a nest of cloud and the autopilot landing procedure light clicked on on the facia of the drive monitor. Lister hammered impotently at the controls.
Useless.
They were landing on this planet with its Gelf-created gestalt whether he liked it or not. He glanced down at the ship's navi-comp and couldn't help noticing something rather large north-north-west. It was like a huge tornado half a mile wide powering across the planet's surface.
'What is that?' he said to no one in particular. 'Is that a storm? What the hell is it?'
The ship stabilized and the retros furied into life and started to lower the craft gently to the ground. Behind him the volunteers' restraint-cuffs clicked open and gave them their freedom. Simultaneously, the ship's controls whinnied and died. Lister jabbed hopelessly at the keypads. Some kind of electrical interference had killed the ship. No option now. This ship was going nowhere; they had to get off.
The craft's airlock door chu-chunged open and the volunteers began fighting their way down the disembarkation ramp. The heat hit Lister like a punch in the face.
He reeled backwards and steadied himself. Suddenly his all-in-one flight suit felt bulky and absurd. The planet's thin air made his heart hammer around in his ribcage like a demented pinball.
He huddled behind Reketrebn, blinking back tears of sweat as he battled his way down the steps. Halfway down a particularly vicious sand swirl smacked into his back and sent him careening forwards. His hand grabbed for the rope rail, missed and he flipped over the edge and started to plummet towards the ground twenty feet below. Reketrebn's hand rubbered down and grabbed him expertly in mid-fall before setting him back upright on the ramp.
'Nice place,' Reketrebn remarked.
Lister nodded. 'As Godforsaken hell holes go, this is definitely one of my favourites.'
'Now what?'
'Kill some time before we die, I guess.'
* * *
Lister and Reketrebn splintered off from the rest of the volunteers and headed along a pass between two sand mountains, looking for shelter. The planet seemed unremarkable: almost total desert, with only the occasional straining patch of light vegetation. As they reached the end of the pass they climbed the eastern of the two sand mountains and stared down at the land below.
Rich greens of grass and trees, vivid yellows of wheat. Lister swivelled to look at the desert pass they had navigated. From his vantage point it looked quite different. It was almost as if a huge lawnmower had been driven across a whole strip of land, incinerating every single piece of vegetation as it went.
Was this the planet's gestalt? He asked Reketrebn to form Kryten and they started discussing it as they headed back for the ship.
But then, without warning, darkness fell. They stopped and made camp for the night. Reketrebn became a fire and Lister hunched in front of it and was soon asleep.
He felt her body nuzzle next to his. Still drugged by sleep, he turned and wrapped his arms around her and they started to kiss. Soon they were clawing at one another's clothes, in a tangl
e of naked limbs. He opened his eyes and stared into the eyes of Kristine Kochanski. 'Reketrebn, uh, what're you doing?'
'Making love to you. I am being Kristine Kochanski.'
'Why?'
'It's what you need. I can read your libido.'
'Don't read my libido again, OK?'
'Not if you don't desire it.'
'I don't, no.'
'It is because we are bonded with only one hook. I misread your desires.' 'Night.
' 'Night.'
* * *
Lister stood on the crest of the hill and stared down at the valley below. It was as if someone had taken a gigantic razor and cut a swathe across the land. He followed the twisting but perfectly mown pathway of obliteration as it dipped and rolled before it finally disappeared over the horizon. In the middle of the carnage was the carcass of what was left of the ship. The skeletal outline of the craft was just about recognizable, but the outer walls had been devoured, the inner furnishings ravaged. All that remained was the pathetic squeaking of the hideously contorted metal work.
Silent and numb, Lister and Reketrebn searched through the wreckage. They found the bodies of many of the volunteers. Oddly, they hadn't been devoured; they were perfectly normal apart from the fact that they were dead. Many of them were holding makeshift weapons of wood and metal. Several were locked together in combat. A bitter wind of fear howled through Lister's guts. 'It's almost as if they killed one another.'
Then suddenly a cliche happened: a handful of small rocks rolled down the gully and scattered around their feet; a ring of figures surrounded them. Partially blinded by the sunlight, all Lister could see were eight silhouettes, who barked something in machine code.
Lister and Reketrebn exchanged looks. Then a spear, seven feet long, sheathed in fur and tassels, buried itself in the ground a yard from Lister's foot.
Reketrebn started to shape-shift. The neutral form undulated into a hovering transparent curtain that wrapped itself around Lister and then hardened. Lister was forced to squat on his haunches as he found himself cocooned in a reinforced glass shell. The figures kicked the glass nut without result, before, accepting defeat, they picked it up and started to carry it back to their base.
