by Grant Naylor
Twenty minutes later, the truck was full.
'Let's go!' Rimmer hissed, and Kryten and the Cat climbed up into the cab. Then something made Rimmer stop.
Something about that truck.
Too yellow. Too new. Too convenient.
He started backing away.
'Come on, Buddy, let's move it. Let's go, go, go!'
'There! Polymorph!' Rimmer's voice was barely audible. 'It's ...'
The Cat swung out his mining laser. 'Where?'
'It's...' Rimmer could hardly speak with fear.
'Say it, dog breath. Where is it?'
'It's the truck! The polymorph is the supply truck!'
FOURTEEN
Kryten somersaulted backwards out of the cab and rolled down an aisle. The Cat's buttocks clenched so tightly they became a single ball, before he unfroze and launched himself after Kryten. As the Cat landed by his side, Kryten ripped a thermal grenade from his belt, twisted the detonator handle and bowled it under the cab.
The explosion flung the truck fully thirty feet in the air, and the blast debris rained down on top of them - tyres, engine parts, burnt-out chassis and broken windscreen glass. The Cat stood up and strode over the smouldering debris to the recess in the aisle where Rimmer was cowering. 'That supply truck ...' he jabbed at Rimmer with the barrel of his bazookoid, '... the one we just spent twenty minutes loading with supplies, was, get this: a supply truck.'
Rimmer smiled contritely. 'Yes,' he agreed. 'I can see that now.'
'Twenty minutes we spent loading that thing. And now we've got to start all over.'
'There!' Rimmer cut across him. 'In the shadows!' He pointed past Kryten down the aisle. 'Something moved.'
'I think he's ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh ...' Kryten whapped his head on the corner of a crate. 'I think he's right. The blast must have drawn it.'
'Set the bazookoids to heat-seeker. If there's anything out there, the laser bolts'll find it.'
Kryten and the Cat snapped the bazookoid control-setting over to heat-seeker, braced themselves for the recoil and fired. Two blue balls screamed down the length of the aisle, and vanished into the distant murk.
They waited for the explosion, listening to the fading howl as the bolts sped harmlessly down towards the far end of the supply deck.
But the explosion didn't happen.
There was nothing there.
Rimmer felt the Cat's look. 'Sorry,' he held up his hands apologetically, 'my fault. False alarm.'
The laser bolts reached the end of the supply deck, flipped over like two Olympic swimmers and began powering back through the traces of their own tails.
The Cat was still berating Rimmer, when for the third time in as many minutes Rimmer pointed past him, and said, in the same fear-stricken voice: 'There!'
'What now?' the Cat snapped. 'You've got a bad case of the jitters, Buddy.'
Rimmer shook his head. The Cat sighed, turned and saw the bolts speeding back towards them.
'I don't understand it,' Rimmer said. 'Holograms don't produce heat, neither do Mechanoids. What are they homing in on?'
Rimmer and Kryten turned and looked at the Cat. The Cat said three words. The three words were: 'So long, guys.' He hoisted his bazookoid on to his shoulder, and he started to run.
The Cat knew he could move. Even with the weight of the backpack and the bazookoid; even with the rather impractical tight silver trousers, and the two inch cuban heels, he would still have put money on himself to out-run just about anything.
But the question was this: could he out-run two heat-seeking laser bolts? The honest truth was, he didn't know. He had no idea whether it was even possible to shake off two spinning bolts of death whose entire existence was dedicated to finding something that emitted heat, and blowing it up.
Still, he thought it would be a good idea to try.
So he did.
His neck craned back and his knees pistoned up and down, pumping so high they beat his chest with every step. He heard the bolts' distinctive zhazhum as they rounded the corner and ripped down the aisle in pursuit. At the next intersection he zigged left and zagged right. The sound of the bolts faded slightly - he could corner faster than they could. Hey! Things were looking up. Sure, they were faster than him on a straight, but if he kept turning, if he found enough corners, he could out-run these suckers until their power ran down.
He was feeling good, now. This wasn't going to be nearly as difficult as he expected. He came up to a maze of intersections, twisted left, right and left again. Behind him he heard the bolts overshoot a turn, and their low humming throb dimmed in volume. He'd bought himself a couple of seconds; seconds he badly needed. He pulled out a mirror and checked his hair. It was still perfect. He pulled out a small metal cylinder, freshened his breath, and took off again.
Another right, another left, another right.
And suddenly, he was in a straight.
A long narrow corridor lined with cargo crates. Three hundred yards without a turning in sight, and no exit - just a door at the very end of the corridor, marked 'lift'. The bolts rounded the bend behind him.
The confident grin dribbled off his face.
Then, the Cat did the most stupid thing possible: he stopped.
He planted both feet firmly on the grilled metal deck, and waited for the lasers to hit him. Half a second before they did, he climbed into the air, he kicked his legs above his head, and back-flipped his feline form over the sizzling bolts.
He watched them as they soared down the aisle before they corrected their course and curved back towards him.
He started to run.
He started to run straight at them. Two feet from impact, he launched himself upwards again and Fosbury-flopped over the deadly blue missiles.
Again they roared by underneath him and prepared to turn. He glanced down the aisle and started towards the lift.
The metal on his cuban heels spat sparks as he skidded up to the lift and slapped the lift call button and waited.
Nothing happened.
He slapped it again. The laser bolts streaked towards him.
He slapped it a third time, and the doors opened, but too late. He felt the bolts' heat on his face, and ducked - simultaneously slapping the 'door close' button.
The doors hammered shut, and trapped them.
The Cat peered in through the observation window and watched the bolts helplessly swirling around inside.
He pulled a tiny silver toothbrush out of his jacket pocket, and started to groom his eyebrows. 'You either got it, or you ain't. And you little blue guys - you ain't even close.'
***
He smelt the girl's perfume as she leaned over his shoulder. To the Cat's mind, she was the second most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen. Long black hair, short orange pvc suit, thigh-length boots and a whip. It was hard to stop his eyes from watering. Clearly, this girl had class.
She spoke. 'What are you looking for?'
'A mutant,' the Cat said, casually. 'It's dangerous.' His eyes half closed and his eyebrows smouldered above them. 'Can turn into anything.'
'Sounds pretty scary.'
A bravado snort jetted down the Cat's nostrils.
'Must take a pretty brave kind of guy to do this kind of work?'
'You think?'
'And smart. Bet you have to be smart, too.'
'Definitely. You've got to have your wits about you all the time - don't let up for one second, or it'll sneak up behind you and blip! you're dog meat.' They reached an intersection. The Cat held up his hand and leant out. When he was satisfied it was safe, he beckoned her forward with a nod of his head. 'Come on, baby.'
'Did anyone ever tell you you're quite a guy?'
The Cat shrugged. 'Not since this morning.'
'Smart, brave, handsome ...' She ran her hand sensually down the curve of her hip. 'In fact, I think you're probably the best-looking guy I've ever seen.'
'Well,' he laughed, modestly. 'I didn't want to be the first to say it.'
'You
know what I'd really like?' She tormented the button on his jacket with a long-nailed finger. 'I'd really like to make love to a guy like you.'
The Cat lost a short, one-sided struggle with a large, cheesy grin. 'We-e-ell. I'm sure I have a window in my schedule somewhere.' He raised his wrist, and looked at a watch that wasn't there. 'What are you doing in, say, ten seconds' time?' 'Nothing I couldn't cancel.' The Cat leant into her. 'Hi. I'm the Cat.'
'HL' She leant back. 'I'm the genetic mutant.'
'Glad to know you,' the Cat leered. 'Jenny who?' There was a revolting ripping of flesh, and the girl's head folded in on itself. From the mess of pink blubber, a feeding tentacle snaked out and hit the Cat between the eyes.
The polymorph suckled noisily as it feasted on the Cat's vanity.
FIFTEEN
Kryten heard the Cat's scream and doubled his pace. At top speed he could waddle at nearly twenty-five miles an hour, and he soon lost Rimmer in the maze of crates.
He came across the Cat lying groaning, barely conscious.
Kryten set down his bazookoid, and cradled the Cat's head in his hand. 'My goodness. Are you all right?'
The Cat moaned and blinked open his eyes. 'Don't worry about me, Bud - I'm nobody.'
Rimmer appeared around the corner. 'Is he dead?'
'Who cares?' said the Cat.
The Mechanoid shook his head. 'I think he's lost his vanity.'
Rimmer's eyes spat hate at Kryten. 'You've done it again, haven't you?'
'Done what, sir?' Kryten's plastoid brow crinkled into a frown.
'Failed. First, the Nova 5. Whose fault was it the ship crashed? Whose fault was it the crew died?'
'But that was ...' Kryten stammered. 'I didn't... I was only trying to ...'
'And who brought the polymorph aboard Red Dwarf in the first place?'
'Yes, but I didn't know. I ...' Kryten's mouth yacked open and closed, but no sound came out.
'First Lister, now the Cat. You won't be happy till everyone's dead, will you?'
'Oh,' Kryten's voice cracked. 'Please ...'
'Please what? We were supposed to stick together - you let the Cat run off alone.'
'But that wasn't...' he stuttered. 'I mean ...'
'He trusted you. Now look at him.'
Kryten covered his face with his hands. 'Oh, goodness! I feel so ... so ... guilty.'
Rimmer smiled. Then his head collapsed in on itself, and a green sucker ripped out from the slime and fastened on to Kryten's skull.
The real Rimmer skidded round the corner as the polymorph finished feeding on the Mechanoid's electronic emotion, and evaporated into a cloud of steam. 'What's going on? What's happened?'
Kryten turned to face him. 'The polymorph - it turned into you, then sucked away my guilt. I have lost the single emotion that prevents my transgressing the mores and manners of civilized society.'
'Come on - let's forget the supplies. We'll go back for Lister and just get the hell out of here.'
'Screw Lister,' said Kryten, flicking out a middle finger and jabbing it in the air. 'And quite frankly, Rimmer, screw you.'
SIXTEEN
Half-way back to the medical unit, something happened to Rimmer. They were speeding along one of the series of mile-long moving walkways, the Cat slugging from a bottle of cheap Tunisian whisky he'd smashed out of one of the dispensing machines, and Kryten was taking laser potshots at the advert boards that sped by, when Rimmer staggered and clutched his stomach.
Kryten shot out the mouth of a man advertising toothpaste, and turned, sniggering, to see Rimmer totter to his knees. 'What's the matter with you groin-breath?'
'It's ... inside me,' Rimmer gasped. 'The polymorph.'
'Oh. Is that all?' Kryten tutted, and went back to his target practice.
The Cat blew his nose into his tie, and belched twice. 'Hoinnnnnnnnnk. Huuuurp. Hurrrrrrp. How is that possible? It's not here.'
Kryten blasted the Kookie Kola Bear out of existence. 'It's broken into the hologram simulation suite, turned itself into electronic data and infiltrated his personality disk. Anyone whose brain wasn't constructed from discarded sphincter could work that one out.'
'You're right,' said the Cat, 'I'm a moron. I'm a nobody. I'm not fit to be alive.'
'Agreed,' Kryten nodded, and trained the barrel of his bazookoid on the Cat. 'Kiss your ass goodbye, Cat,' he said, and fired. There was a disappointing click, and the charge metre flashed: 'empty'. 'Damn,' said Kryten.
'Aw, hell,' said the Cat, 'I was really looking forward to being dead. I don't deserve any better.'
'Don't worry, I'll kill you later, when I get a new gun.'
'Well,' the Cat smiled gratefully, 'only if it's convenient. It's not worth putting yourself out for a useless piece of shit like me.'
Rimmer lay writhing on the floor as the polymorph wriggled through his databank, searching through his personality disk, trying to stimulate a new emotion to sample. Images jolted into Rimmer's brain. Memories, half-forgotten ...
A hot summer day, waiting outside a cinema for a girl who doesn't turn up. Three hours, he's waited. Three hours. Boy, that makes him ...
Putting together a cheap, self-assembly study desk with four missing screws, hammering his thumb with a wooden mallet. 'Smegging mallet!'...
A baby, now, five months old. He's dropped his teething ring, and no one picks it up. Can't they hear him screaming? Don't they know how badly he needs that teething ring? God, they really make you...
Twenty-four, and in the Space Corps. He's coming home on a weekend furlough, and he's stuck in a traffic jam for six hours. Six precious hours are totally wasted, and all the time he's getting more and more ...
Now, ten. He wants to go to the Russian circus. Not much to ask. It's making a once-in-a-lifetime visit to his hometown. Everyone in his class has been, and then his parents say he can't go, because he didn't mow the lawn. Because he didn't mow their lousy, smegging lawn. Not fair! That really makes you ...
He's thirty. He's opening a letter. '.. .failed to meet the required standard ...' but he's worked harder than anyone. It makes him feel so damn ...
Seventeen. And for the first time in his life, he brings a girl home to meet the family. Sunday afternoon, he chances into the greenhouse, and there she is, behind the tomato plants with his brother John. Would you believe it? Your own brother's got his tongue down your girlfriend's throat... It really makes you angry!
Now he's fourteen. Boarding-school. Being beaten for talking during lunch. And all he said was 'pass the salt'. It makes him so angry!
Still in boarding-school, in the dormitory, and he's being beaten again, this time for snoring. Snoring in a dormitory is a beating offence? Snoring with malicious intent? And the thick rubber running-shoe slams against his thin cotton pyjamas, and how is that fair? And he's so frustrated and impotent and... angry!
He's got an exam in the morning. He's thirty years old and he's got an exam in the morning. All his life, he's always seemed to have an exam in the morning. And those BASTARDS in room 1115 are having a smegging party, and how many times does he have to tell them he has an exam in the morning. And every time he tells them, what do they do? They turn the music UP!
And another letter. '... overlooked for promotion ...' for the sixth year on the run, overlooked for promotion. Have to wait yet another year and it's just not FAIR! It makes you so FURIOUS!
The countless frustrations of a lifetime welled up inside him until he felt he would burst.
Then he did.
Anger dragged a primal scream from his throat.
'Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!'
And fifty-three decks above, in the hologram simulation suite, the polymorph devoured his anger.
Rimmer collapsed on to the moving walkway, panting, empty and drained of all his rage.
SEVENTEEN
Lister paced up and down the medical unit, swinging a baseball bat, his lip curled in a deranged snarl. He smashed the bat into a lab bench bet
ween Kryten and the Cat. 'It's war.'
Rimmer shook his head, and re-crossed his legs. 'Look, people,' he said with an even calmness, 'just because it's an armour-plated mutant killing machine that salivates unspeakable slobber, that doesn't mean it's a bad person.' He bit on the end of his pipe, which he'd requested from his hologrammatic accessory computer, along with a T-shirt printed with the words 'Give Quiche a Chance'. 'What we've got to do,' he continued serenely, 'is get it round a table, and put together a solution package, perhaps over tea and biscuits.'
'Look at him,' Kryten slid down from the lab bench. 'We can't trust his opinion - he has no anger - he's a total dork!'
'Good point, Kryten,' Rimmer said kindly. 'Let's take that on board, shall we?' He turned to Lister and smiled. 'David, do you have any suggestions you'd like to bring to this forum?'
'Yes, I have, actually, Arnold,' Lister mimicked. 'Why don't we go down to the ammunition store, get a nuclear warhead and then strap it to my head? I'll nut the smegger to oblivion.' To emphasize his point, the sixty-one-year-old man butted a metal panel on the wall, leaving a large indentation.
'Right. Well, that ... that's very nice, David,' Rimmer mumbled genially. 'But let's put that one on the back burner for a while, shall we? Cat, do you have a contribution?'
The Cat looked up from a wastebin he was scavenging through for food. 'Don't ask me my opinion. I'm nobody. Just pretend I'm not here.' He glugged noisily from a bottle of meths he'd found on one of the shelves and belched loudly.
Rimmer nodded benignly. 'That's lovely, thank you very much.'
'You guys are all insane,' the Toaster chirped from its vantage point at the back of the room. 'You're all emotional retards. This is a problem that calls for the leadership abilities of your old buddy, Talkie Toaster® (patent applied for).'
There was an awkward pause. 'Well,' said Rimmer, finally. 'Moving on a step, and I hope no one thinks that I'm setting myself up as a sort of self-elected chairperson, just see me as a facilitator, Kryten, what's your view? Don't be shy.'
'Well, I think we should send Lister in as a decoy. And while it's busy eating him alive, we can creep up on it from behind and blast it into the stratosphere.'
