Backwards

by Rob Grant

  He pirouetted around and raced back.

  A voice-operated ore scoop wouldn't be ideal — its shovel was too small to carry a full body — but at least he might use it to shove Lister and the Cat towards the stairs. At least there was a chance it would nudge them awake.

  He skidded up to the metre-long buggy and crouched, breathless, to peer at the controls. Five buttons. Start, forward, reverse, left and right.

  At first, he couldn't see a voice-activation unit.

  He craned under the crude dashboard, but there still didn't appear to be a voice-activation unit.

  He scrambled all the way around the vehicle, but the words 'Voice Activated' didn't occur anywhere on its body.

  He lay down on his back and wriggled as far as he could into the eight-inch gap between the chassis and the deck. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the gloom and scanned the undercarriage for the tell-tale microphone unit that would indicate the device could be operated by voice activation.

  But there was none.

  There could be only one explanation. This voice-activated motorized ore scoop was, in fact, not a voice-activated motorized ore scoop at all. It was simply a motorized ore scoop which had never been fitted with the voice-activation option.

  The cheap, penny-ante, petty-minded sons of whoremongers' dogs who kitted out this stinking craft from the seventh pit of Hell had decided to save a few lousy penny-cents by opting for the un-voice-activated model!

  Rimmer lay under the buggy. The corners of his mouth tugged his lower lip down to expose his bottom teeth, causing the bones in his neck to stand out, and he released a long, senseless moan.

  When he thought it over, your basic motorized ore scoop would normally operate in atmosphereless conditions, on ore-laden moons and larger asteroids. There'd be no point in making it voice-activated, because sound couldn't carry without an atmosphere.

  Truth be told, it was highly improbable that a voice-activated motorized ore scoop existed anywhere in the universe.

  Kryten heard Rimmer's low, long moan, and felt a tug on his back as the weakening hull gave up a little more to the relentless vacuum outside. 'Please, Mr Rimmer, sir!' he called. 'The hull's integrity is about to collapse completely. You have to do something!'

  Rimmer slid from under the buggy. He was about to vent his venom on Kryten when he heard what sounded like the wheel on the engine-room door spinning. He held his breath.

  He heard the engine-room door scrawp metallically open until it clanged against the railing. He heard footsteps fall on the landing of the metal stairway.

  Kryten's eyes flitted left. Torchlight fell on his face, temporarily blinding him.

  Booted feet clomped down the steps.

  Kryten's eyes adjusted to the glare as shimmering silver boots stepped on to the deck in front of him.

  Upside-down, Kryten had to move his eyes chinwards to make out the face looking down at him.

  When he saw it, he was convinced he had gone fear-crazy.

  SEVEN

  Unless his visual interpretation systems had been damaged in the most inexplicable fashion, Kryten was looking into the face of another Arnold Rimmer.

  He wasn't exactly Rimmer, this new one. He didn't sport the familiar mad sprout of a wiry regulation crew cut, for instance. Instead, his hair was thicker, more wavy and pliable. It hung down over his right eye in a fetching way. His nose was the same shape, but the nostrils didn't flare so. His neck was more muscular, so his Adam's apple didn't poke out of his windpipe like a warthog being swallowed whole by a boa constrictor.

  This Arnold Rimmer, if Kryten was any judge of these matters, actually appeared to be handsome.

  He crouched to his knees and ran silver-gauntleted fingers over the hull that enfolded Kryten. 'Well, old chum-burger' — he smiled good-naturedly — 'looks like you've got yourself in a bit of a pickle jar and screwed the lid down tight.' His voice was full of charm and confidence, and despite the gruesomeness of their predicament, Kryten actually felt himself relax.

  'Don't worry about me, sir.' Kryten nodded towards the prone figures of Lister and the Cat. 'You really should take a look at them.'

  The new Rimmer glanced over his shoulder, then back towards Kryten. 'First things first, old sausage. If we don't secure this hull somehow, we're all going to wind up as space porridge.' He stood and crossed to a girder supporting the gantry opposite. He tested its strength, looked over at the inverted Kryten, and then back at the girder again. 'Am I being an incorrigible old thickhead, or does this transport belong to some sort of mining ship?' He asked.

  Kryten nodded. 'Indeed it does, sir.'

  'Then you must have some sort of cutting laser lying around, and some welding gear, too.'

  Kryten nodded again. 'Over there.'

  The new Rimmer followed his gaze. 'Don't get up,' he grinned and strode over to the bazookoid storage bay. 'By the way, old sauce, I don't think I caught your handle.'

  'It's "Kryten", sir.'

  'Series four thousand mechanoid, aren't you?'

  'That's right, sir.'

  'Salt of the Space Corps, the four thousands. We'd be lost without you chaps, and no mistake.'

  Kryten watched him sling a heavy bazookoid over his shoulder with easy grace, then pick up an industrial welder and mask and head back for the girder. 'Sir, is your name... I don't know what to call you, sir.'

  The newcomer ditched the welding equipment and pointed the bazookoid at the top of the girder. 'The name's Rimmer. Arnold Rimmer. My friends call me "Ace".' He flicked the safety panel off the bazookoid trigger guard, and aimed the nozzle just a little above head height, ready to begin severing the girder.

  Out of their view, Rimmer crept along the parallel corridor. He'd heard their voices, Kryten's and the newcomer's; not well enough to catch the context of their conversation, but enough to quash his fears that the stranger belonged to the much-dreaded and inevitable agonoid boarding party. In fact, whoever he was, the intruder sounded strangely familiar.

  Rimmer ducked behind an engine mounting and peered through the support struts, trying to catch a glimpse of the interloper. Just as he poked his head above the mounting, there was a blast of bazookoid fire, and Rimmer dropped back down to the deck like a meat carcass being hurled into a refrigeration truck.

  When the blasting ceased, and his heart had stopped mimicking the timpani section of the Ionian Philharmonic Orchestra performing an amphetamine-inspired rendition of the 1812 Overture, he slowly raised himself for another peek. As his eyebrows crept above the mounting, the bazookoid went off again, and he ducked down to the safety of the deck, where he vowed to remain until the end of time, if need be.

  Ace watched the girder crash to the ground. The gantry it had been supporting bowed ominously, but held.

  He bent down, grabbed the girder one-handed and started dragging it over towards Kryten.

  At first, Kryten couldn't understand why he was attempting such a strenuous endeavour without using both his hands; then he saw the curious way Ace's right elbow was tucked by his side and wondered if the arm was injured in some way.

  The girder clanged down just below Kryten's upturned head. There was no sign of strain or pain in Ace's voice. 'Think you can grab on to that and hold it against your chest, Kryters?'

  'Of course, sir.' Kryten hefted the girder up to his chest, not without considerable effort. He was astonished that a human could have moved it at all, let alone drag it across the width of the deck with one arm out of commission.

  Ace returned with the welding gear. 'Hope you don't mind, Kryten, but I'm going to have to fuse this to your chest. That way, if the hull gives out, you'll still be jammed in with us, at least. Jake with you, my old fruit salad?'

  'Superlative scheme, Mr Ace, sir.'

  Ace tipped the face piece of his welding mask down and fired up the welder.

  Rimmer heard the flame's rasping roar, and caught its blue-hot reflection in the dull metal of a control panel opposite.

  What
in the name of all that smegged was this interloper up to? Was he a rogue agonoid after all? Was he now torturing Kryten with a welding gun, in order to discover Rimmer's whereabouts? And if so, how long would the chicken-hearted son of a prostidroid hold out before giving him up? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty milliseconds?

  Suddenly, the welding gun was turned off. Rimmer strained to hear what was being said. He heard the intruder's voice, quite clearly now. 'There,' he was saying, 'this season's essential mechanoid fashion accessory.'

  Rimmer definitely knew that voice.

  It sounded like one of his brothers. But the voice was too deep to belong to Howard, too polished to be John's and too plummy to be Frank's.

  He crept to the side of the engine mounting and risked a sideways peek. The silver-jacketed figure was crouched over Lister's body. Rimmer saw the familiar Space Corps logo on his sleeve, and the badge of rank. Commander.

  A Space Corps commander had Errol Flynned to the rescue.

  Rimmer was about to get up and duck through the struts to introduce himself, when he saw the commander's profile as he put the tips of his gloved hand to his mouth and tugged the gauntlet free.

  Somehow, this stranger had acquired Rimmer's face.

  Ace pressed his fingers against Lister's neck. 'This one's going to be all right. Strong pulse.' He ran his hand up and down Lister's body. 'Nothing broken, far as I can tell.' Gently, he rolled Lister face up, and froze. The lad looked like a younger version of Spanners. His eyes flitted over at Kryten, then back again. 'What's this chap's moniker?' he asked.

  'Lister, sir...'

  'Dave Lister?'

  'Yes, sir. How did you... ?'

  'Later, my friend.' Ace rolled back Lister's eyelid. 'Pupil's OK. He'll have a bit of a headache. Mild concussion, worst case. Where's the medi-kit?'

  'Just behind you, sir.'

  Ace stood and walked towards it, trying to make sense of this new dimension he'd found himself in. It wasn't too much of a surprise that Spanners would exist here, too -Ace had predicted he'd travel along one of his own destiny lines, and he'd been fairly sure some of his familiar colleagues would be around — but why on Io would his friend be a good ten years younger here? And what was he doing so far away from his home system?

  And, strangest of all — where was his other self?

  He grabbed the medi-kit and turned back. As he did, he caught a glimpse of something moving out of the corner of his eye. He didn't stop, just carried on back towards Lister.

  He knelt and took out a transdermic. 'A spot of synaptic transmission enhancer,' he said out loud. 'This should get him up and dancing the Mashed Potato.' As the STE hissed into Lister's neck, Ace dropped his voice. 'Kryters, old sport, don't let on, but I think there's someone lurking behind that engine mounting.

  Kryten peered over Ace's shoulder. 'Yes, sir,' he whispered back. 'That will be...' He didn't know how to say it. '... well, it's Arnold Rimmer, sir. He's sort of another you.'

  'Well, what d'you suppose he's lurking there for?'1

  'He does a lot of lurking, sir.' Kryten lowered his eyes in embarrassment. 'He's a bit, uhm, well... he's different from you, in many ways.'

  Different? Ace turned his head towards the engine mounting.

  Rimmer realized he'd been spotted. Time to make as dignified an entrance as possible.

  He stood up and ducked under the struts.

  'My God,' Ace grinned warmly. 'It's me, only much more handsome.' He turned his grin towards Kryten. 'Looks like I'm surplus to requirements now, old fruit loaf, Arnie's here to save the day.'

  'I'm afraid, sir, that Mr Rimmer is somewhat undercapacitated. He's a hologram.'

  Ace turned back to Rimmer. 'Dead, eh? Bad luck, old boot. What a crushing bore that must be.'

  Rimmer simply stared, incredulous. Dying was bad luck? Death's biggest inconvenience was that it was a crushing bore? What planet was this guy from, for crying out loud?

  Ace tried to keep his grin in place while he watched Rimmer's open-mouthed querulous gawp. Why didn't he speak? Was he simple-minded? What rotten twist of fate had spawned this incarnation of himself? What terrible decision in their mutual past had reduced him to this gawky-looking creature?

  Finally, Rimmer spoke. 'Who are you?' he asked, accusatorially.

  'I'm you, old sprout. We share the same past, up to a point. I'm test-flying a new kind of crate, with a transdimensional drive. Wound up here. Look, I'll join up the dots later. First off,' he nodded at the Cat's still body, 'I've got to sort out this chap. Why don't you dig up some sheet metal from the stores for us, Arn? We're going to have to steal up this hull breach, pretty pronto.'

  'Dig up some sheet metal? And how am I supposed to do that?' Rimmer held up his transparent hand. 'I'm dead, remember? And I don't know how things work in your dimension, but here, in what we like to call "reality", holograms can't pick things up.'

  'No need to be such a fuss-budget, old love. Improvise.'

  Rimmer glared as Ace stood, crossed over to the Cat, and started checking his condition.

  Fuss-budget, now. Pointing out the shortcomings of trying to get by as a dead man made him a fuss-budget? Rimmer sighed angrily, span on his heels and scowled off to the storeroom.

  Fuss-budget, indeed!

  Lamenting the consequences of his death was fundamental to Rimmer's emotional make-up — it was the only way he knew of eliciting sympathy from the others, which, in turn, was the closest he ever came to receiving genuine affection. The very idea of not mentioning it, or, worse still, playing it down and making light of it, was an anathema to him.

  Ace craned over the Cat, trying not to be judgemental about his other self. He was, after all, dead, the poor devil, and allowances should be made. Still, it was hard to shake the notion that there was a lot more to the man's problems than that. Ace's hand brushed down the Cat's femur. It was cleanly snapped, the bone jutting out of his trousers. 'This one's none too clever. Temperature's climbing up the wall. Bad break of the right leg. Can't rule out internals. How are your medical facilities?'

  'Primitive, sir,' Kryten tilted his head to try and get a look at the Cat's injuries. 'We have a basic medical scanner up in the ops room, and a surgical laser, but that's about it.'

  'Should be enough.' He shot the Cat a dose of jolly jelly. 'Can't have him waking up before we've sorted out his break. And I'm going to need some help for that.' He heard a groan, and glanced over at Lister, who was beginning to stir. Ace checked his watch. 'He'll be back in the land of the living in five minutes or so. I'll re-set the leg then. Meantime...' he straightened and stretched '... I'd better check out how Arnie's doing with the sheet metal.'

  Ace ducked under the support struts and headed for the storeroom.

  Rimmer was standing outside the stores, jacked up on his toes, peering through the stain-streaked window in the door, like a little boy penniless outside a sweet shop.

  Ace stopped behind him. 'Anything?'

  'Yes,' Rimmer pointed, 'there's a whole stack of panels over there.'

  'Well, then?'

  Rimmer turned. 'Well what then?'

  'Well, they're not much use in there, pal of mine. Aren't you going to start bringing them out?'

  'Yes of course,' Rimmer spat. 'I was planning to use the power of my mind to move them telekinetically, only you broke my concentration.'

  Ace raised his eyebrows. 'You're telepathically endowed? That's marvellous, we can...'

  'No, no, no.' Rimmer grinned coldly and shook his head. 'I'm not telepathically endowed. I was making what we call in this dimension a "joke".'

  'I don't follow you, old chum. You were being sarcastic?'

  Rimmer rolled back his eyes. 'Yes! Brilliant. Well done you.'

  'Why?'

  'Why what?'

  'Why were you being sarcastic?'

  'How many times do I have to explain to you? I, me, moi, je - I'm dead. Snuffed it. Kaputski. Can't touchee things.' To amplify his point he passed his hand through the door. 'No pickee th
ings up. Savvy?"

  Ace glanced over his shoulder down the aisle. 'There's a motorized ore scoop back there. You could use that.'

  'Oh, ingenious. I can see how you got your pips, Commander. The only minuscule flaw in that little corker of a plan, is that it isn't a voice-activated motorized ore scoop.'

  'Well, I wouldn't expect it to be voice-activated. Not much call for that out in space, old fruit.'

  Rimmer sighed. He was losing patience with his other self's mindless refusal to surrender to problems. 'Then how,' he said in his trying-to-communicate-with-small-children-and-lower-primates voice, 'am I supposed to turn it on'

  'You've got a light bee, haven't you?'

  'Eh?'

  'Well, in my dimension, holograms are generated by a light bee that sort of whizzes around inside them, projecting their image. You've got one, haven't you? In fact,' Ace squinted at Rimmer's transparent form, 'I think I can see it buzzing around in there.'

  'Well, yes. I've got a light bee.'

  'Then why didn't you start up the scoop by using that?'

  Ace strode passed Rimmer, opened the door into the storeroom and started loading metal sheets on to a palette.

  Rimmer just stood, staring at the ore scoop.

  Ace was right. He could have activated the buggy by hurling his light bee on to the start button. He could even have steered it, crudely, by bouncing up and down on the directional buttons. It would have been tricky, and slightly risky, in that the light bee was fairly delicate, and he'd have looked plenty silly hurling himself up and down on the control panel as it sped along the aisle, but it was undeniably and infuriatingly possible. He'd become so used to not touching anything, he hadn't even considered the notion that the small physical presence he did have might be an advantage.

  He was staring at the scoop when Ace emerged with the palette of hull plates stacked on a motorized forklift. Rimmer could have used his light bee to operate that, too.

  Ace smiled at him and carried on back towards Kryten. The smile appeared genuine enough, but Rimmer guessed it concealed a degree of loathing. Certainly, loathing was what Rimmer was beginning to feel for the good commander, with his easy charm and his superior air, and his calm resourcefulness.