Red Dwarf: Backwards

by Rob Grant

  He swung his good leg over the side of the bench, dragging its unresponsive partner along with it. Hanging on to the bench with his right hand for balance, he swung his left shoulder several times until his limp hand flopped up on to his lap and he could check his watch. Six thirty-six.

  This was good. He knew where he was. He knew the time. Now, if only he could remember what the smeg he was doing here, all would be right with the world.

  Again, he heard the hissed, 'Lister... Lister...', and the dull clanging of an enamel cup against metal mesh.

  The voice sounded familiar.

  'Can you hear me, old Building and Loan drinking buddy?'

  Oh my God. It couldn't be.

  'Petersen?' he called, timidly.

  'Thaat's riiiight! I knew I recognized that smegging snore!'

  What was going on? He hadn't seen Petersen in two years. Not since he and Krissie had been re-assigned from Red Dwarf to the Europa test base. What was the mad Dane doing in the next cell? Had it all been a cruel dream?

  'Petersen? Where are we?'

  Petersen's laugh rattled the mesh in Lister's cell. 'Haaaa! That's my old buddy, all right. We're in some kind of prison, is my guess.'

  'But we're on Europa, right?'

  'Could be. Yes, I think so. Blue-moon-ish-type planetoid, close to that big bastard with the red spot?'

  'Yeah. That's Europa.'

  'Bingo!' Petersen said, and laughed again.

  Lister started massaging some life back into his dead leg. 'Question is, Olaf, what are you doing here?'

  'It's a little hazy, but about twenty-four hours for drunk and disorderly I would reckon.'

  'Yeah, I mean, why aren't you on Triton?'

  'Triton? Oh, yeah. That house I bought. No good. I couldn't take it. Beautiful house, but no oxygen, no gravity and worse than that, no alcohol. Those sly bastards won't even let you smuggle it in honestly. I mean, hey, I don't mind floating around a twenty-five bedroom mansion in a space suit twenty-four hours a day, with no neighbours for a million miles or so, but doing it sober was such a drag. So I signed back up on the Dwarf. Incidentally, the house is on the market, if you're interested.'

  'Red Dwarfs here? In space dock?' Could that be possible? That big ogre of a rust bucket had been all the way to the edge of the solar system and back here, with eighteen months of mining in between? Could it really have been two and a half years since he left?

  'She's here all right, baby. We put into orbit last night. At least, I think it was last night. I came down on the first shuttle to see my old buddy, but no one could find you. So I went to the bar and stayed for a beer or thirty-seven waiting for you to show. Next thing I know: hhhnnnk-hrnnn, you're snoring in the next cell like a wounded wild hog with asthma!'

  'Is Lew Pemberton still on board?'

  'Pemberton? Sure, Said I should say hello from him. He's gotten two promotions since you saw him last. Officer class, now.'

  Lewis Pemberton. Good luck to him. Lister smiled. He wouldn't have lasted two months on Red Dwarf without Lew as his room-mate. He was the guy who'd brought Lister and Kochanski back together after their first bust-up; given them this big. speech about passion and how it can blow up and get destructive, and you can't expect the first throes of love to maintain that mad intensity, but you have to guide the relationship gently into something more stable. It was Pemberton who'd encouraged him to sign up for night classes in mechanics — even helped him with his homework. No question, you'd be looking at a different Dave Lister right now if it hadn't been for Lewis Pemberton.

  'I was asking around about you, Davey boy. They say you're a responsible fellow, now A father. With kids, even.'

  'Twins. Jim and Bexley. Just coming up two years old.' Lister reached into his overall pocket. 'I've got a picture, but I don't think I can get it through the mesh.'

  'That's OK. I'll just imagine I've seen it.' Petersen paused, and then in a dull flat monotone said, 'Wow. They are beautiful. Just like their old man. But I think they have their mother's eyes. Good enough?'

  Lister grinned. 'That'll do, yeah.' He popped the photo back in his pocket.

  'Question is, what's a reliable, upstanding family man like you doing in the drunk tank?'

  Reality slapped the smile from Lister's face. 'I'm not in here for D and D. I'm in for gross insubordination.'

  'Oh, good. Not just plain old ordinary insubordination. Gross insubordination. Nice to know you've cleaned your act up, being a daddy and all. Hope you didn't chew out someone too important.'

  'Nah.' Lister grimaced. 'Only the admiral.'

  Petersen whistled through his jagged teeth. 'Well, at least you're thinking big, Davey boy. At least you're thinking big. Smeg. You could be in here for weeks.'

  Lister rested the back of his head against the cold brick. 'Months, even.'

  'But that... Wait a minute. I've only got a four-day pass.' There was horror in Petersen's voice. 'We won't be able to get drunk together.'

  Keys jangled, metal bolts slid back from their housings and a door clanked open. Boots clicked down the metal corridor. They stopped outside Lister's cell. He looked up to see the 'SP' on the guard's white helmet bent towards the cell's keypad. The door sprang back, and the guard said, 'You're out of here, friend.'

  Lister straightened and stretched. 'I'm free?'

  'As a birdie.'

  Ace stepped into the door frame. 'Special clearance. Operation Wildfire.'

  Lister stepped out into the corridor. 'Really? You cleared it with the old man?'

  Ace grinned. 'Let's just say he won't object.'

  Petersen's face was pressed up against his mesh. 'What about me?' He smiled in a way that, on another face, might have come out as coquettish. On Petersen, it looked like a mad, threatening leer. He batted his eyelids. 'I'm thoroughly sober now, good guardian of the law.'

  The SP turned to face him. 'Do you have any recollection of the events of last night, friend?'

  Lister folded his arms and settled back to listen. He was going to enjoy this. Not surprisingly, this was a scenario in which Petersen frequently found himself, and, over the years, he'd polished his responses to such a degree he might be considered a true artist in the field of bullshit.

  Petersen put on his best contrite and humble look, and began. 'I can't quite recall every single episode of my regrettable misadventures with absolute precision, officer, but I'm sure I behaved in many beastly ways, for all of which I most deeply and humbly apologize. Rest assured, most respected lawman, my contrition is complete. I intend to forswear the demon alcohol which brought me to this sorry pass, and live for ever more in this blessed state of sobriety.'

  So you don't remember, say, racing across the parade ground singing the theme from The Dambusters and bombing the guard post with luminous, urine-filled condoms?'

  Petersen's eyes flitted up and left. 'Can't say it strikes a chord, no. But if I did commit such a heinous deed, it would be most out of character, as I am, at all times a thoroughly wholesome, gentle and amiable chap, much given to poetical musings and charitable acts, as my good friend of many years with extremely high security clearance here will readily attest.' He nodded encouragingly at Lister.

  'Does your memory stretch to the part where you stole a motor cycle from the compound and scrawled obscenities over the ornamental garden in tyre marks?'

  'Did I really do that? Then I must repair forthwith to the nearest pharmacistic establishment and have them replace my medication, which, despite its salutary effect on my incurable heart condition, quite clearly produces disastrous and unacceptable side-effects.'

  'And I'll bet you don't recollect stapling my colleague's penis to his groin.'

  Petersen licked his lips. 'I don't suppose you'd consider an extremely substantial bribe? I can give you the deeds to an exceptionally desirable residence, on one of the solar system's most up-and-coming moons...'

  'Do you have the remotest conception of the penalty for affixing a shore patrolman's genitalia to his
thigh? You are history, friend. We're going to shut you in and melt the lock.'

  Petersen turned his pleading eyes to Lister. 'Davey? Can you help me, here?'

  Lister turned to Ace.

  The commander rolled his eyes, and stepped forward. 'He's with us, Sergeant.'

  'Commander? You want me to release him?'

  'He's essential to the project.'

  'Essential to the project? What do you do, use his breath for fuel?'

  'You can release him under my cognizance, Bob. I'll see he stays out of trouble.'

  Reluctantly, the guard tapped the release code into Petersen's door lock. 'If you say so, Commander.' He paused before the last digit and looked up at Petersen, who was struggling to keep delight off his face. 'If I were you, friend, I'd steer clear of Reinhardt.'

  'Reinhardt?'

  'Sergeant Arden Reinhardt. The guy whose wanger you whacked with the staple gun? He had a very hot date tonight, only his little German soldier's going to be wrapped up like King Tutankhamun for the next two months, and he isn't in the best of humours. Last I heard, he was making plans to return the favour, only with hot steel rivets.'

  'Ouch.' The door swung open and Petersen stepped free. 'Thanks for the warning, officer.' He turned to Lister and Ace, rubbing his hands. 'Now then, gentlefolk and essential personnel. Let's get on with Project Wildflower.'

  'Wildfire.'

  'Whatever.'

  NINE

  'So it's on then?' Lister followed as Ace led the group across the quadrangle towards the briefing room. Petersen brought up the rear, his eyes darting nervously from side to side, searching for mad, limping Germans with high-pitched voices brandishing rivet guns.

  'It's on all right, Spanners. Kick-off at oh-eight hundred.'

  'The old man seemed pretty anti, last I saw him. So what changed his mind?'

  'You did, Spanners.'

  'Me?'

  'Another one I owe you, you old lemon tartlet.'

  Lister shook his head. No matter how many favours Ace did you, he always made it seem like he was in your debt. 'What happened?'

  'He resigned.'

  'He resigned?'

  'Best thing for him, old love. He was on the brink. Maybe he'll start to enjoy life a bit, now. Left me in charge of Project Wildfire.'

  'So what's the plan?'

  Ace stopped. 'I'm just off to give the tech boys a final briefing. I want you to give the crate a quick once-over: I've checked it myself, and it seems fairly kosher, but I wouldn't feel right if it went up without your blessing; then I want you to hot-tail over to mission control. If anything does go wrong on the launch, I'd rather you were up there giving me feedback.'

  'No prob.'

  'Appreciate it. Then' — Ace fished in his pocket — 'I want you to take a couple of weeks off with the fam. I've already organized the paperwork for you and Krissie to get leave. Here.' He tossed Lister a set of keys.

  'What are these?'

  'I've got a quaint little holiday cottage on Io. Nothing fancy, but a beautiful view. Own private beach. It's yours, if you want it.'

  'For the whole fortnight?'

  'Permanently.'

  'Wait a minute: you're giving me your holiday home?'

  'Well, I'm not going to need it any more, old sausage, now, am I?'

  'What about me?' Petersen leaned his chin over Lister's shoulder and grinned winsomely. 'Can I do you any small personal favours in return for extravagant gifts of real estate and suchlike?'

  'What you can do for me, matey, is stay out of trouble.'

  'My plan absolutely. I am a reformed character. You can bet your last pennycent on that, Commander.'

  Ace nodded, flipped an unofficial, desultory salute and headed off to the briefing room.

  Lister looked at the keys, then at Rimmer's rapidly shrinking figure. He shook his head. 'What a guy,' he said.

  'A prince.' Petersen agreed. 'There's just one thing bothering me.'

  'What's that?'

  'Where in the hell am I going to get a drink at this time in the morning?'

  TEN

  A chunk of grey ash tumbled from the tip of the double Churchill cigar and plopped into the bath water, where it sizzled happily a moment, and then sank beneath the sweet-scented foam.

  Admiral Stinkfoot-No-More Tranter sighed a contented plume of brown smoke into the steam-filled air and slipped deeper into the bath, so that the bubbles formed an Abe Lincoln beard under his chin.

  He was relaxing. It felt as if he were truly relaxing for the first time in his adult life, but he chose not to dwell on that aspect of the sensation, because it would have disturbed his relaxation.

  He hooked his big toe, which by now resembled a large pink walnut, under the plug chain, and tugged. Slowly, the water gurgled away, leaving him swathed in a suit of foam. He climbed out of the tub and padded towards the shower cubicle. He hit the cold tap and thrust himself, cigar and all, into the icy curtain of water, where he stayed until his testicles-had retracted almost completely into his body.

  Clad only in goosebumps, he dripped his way out of the bathroom into his oversized office and dragged open the largest drawer in his gargantuan desk. He took out the service revolver, checked it was loaded, clicked off the safety and headed back into the bathroom.

  Still chewing on the sodden Havana, he slipped his wet forefinger inside the trigger guard. A part of him felt that what he was about to do was somehow sacrilegious and more than a little crazy, but frankly he didn't much care any more.

  The blast from the gun was massively amplified by the tiled walls of the bathroom, and when Melissa, the admiral's secretary, flung open the outer door, she was convinced a bomb had exploded. She was astonished that the office appeared completely undamaged. She tilted her head and peered into the bathroom. Tranter was standing butt-naked with the smoking revolver in his hand and a shocked expression on his face. A thin trickle of blood slowly oozed out of his ear. He caught her movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to face her. His face split into a cheeky schoolboy grin and he said, too loudly, 'Bugger me, that was noisy.'

  Melissa couldn't think of anything sensible to say, so she asked him if he was all right.

  The admiral wrinkled his brow and cocked his head because he'd seen her lips move and he hadn't heard a thing, so she repeated the question at a shout.

  'Oh, yes. Never better, Mellie,' Tranter assured her, opening his bathroom cabinet and fishing out a roll of cotton wool. He stuffed a thick wad in each ear, aimed the revolver again and fired.

  He yelped with satisfaction as the bullet smashed into a full bottle of navy rum perched on the water tank above his toilet, shattering the glass and splattering the tiles and carpet with the red-brown liquor which he had formerly used to torture his liver and poison his life. He turned to share the moment with Melissa, but she had slipped out of the office, and was, in fact, running full pelt across the parade ground towards the guard post.

  Tranter wiggled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, blew the smoke from the gun barrel and snapped the safety back on. He walked back into his office, tossed the revolver back into the drawer and squeaked back into his huge leather recliner.

  He was a free man. His resignation had already been E-mailed to Central Command. By the time it filtered through the thick layers of bureaucratic incompetence to the correct computer screen, Commander Rimmer and the Wildfire ship would be long gone.

  Tranter lifted his foot on to the desk and tapped the monitor link button with his wrinkled toe. The screen flicked on and Ace's helmeted face appeared. The take-off dialogue blarted tinnily out of the speakers.

  .. Wildfire. We're all go-go at this end. Zero minus thirty, from my mark. And... mark!'

  'Tertiary ignition... engaged.'

  Tranter smiled. In less than half a minute, thirty billion dollarpounds of Space Corps spondulics would be winging their way out of this reality for dimensions unknown, and none of the promotion-pinching turdbuggers at Central Co
mmand could do a blind thing about it.

  Of course, their initial reaction would be to take it out on Tranter. They might threaten to withhold his pension, or have him declared insane, or even drag him before a Court Spatial. But, in the end, they'd back down. They wouldn't want it known to the government agencies who allocated budgets that the money had been flushed away pointlessly. They'd build up the importance of the breakthrough. Tranter might even come out of it a hero.

  Not that he cared much. Within twenty-four hours he'd be en route to his condominium on Venus, where he would at last be able to indulge his enthusiasm for one-third-gravity golf, preferably with his wife, who at least still shared that passion with him. He thought they still might make something of their marriage, with a little work from both sides. They might even make it all the way to happiness.

  He smiled to himself and shook his head softly. He felt good. He felt Ebenezer-Scrooge-on-Christmas-morning good. Born again. He'd spent so many unnecessary years trapped in this prison of a job, without realizing he was his own jailer, and all he'd ever had to do was walk free.

  The huge blast of Wildfires take-off rockets drew his attention back to the screen. Ace's image juddered out of Europa's meagre grasp and howled towards Jupiter. The mission controller's voice tzzed: ' Wildfire, you are go-go, ' and the crowd in the control tower cheered mightily.

  Tranter smiled and tugged open another pointlessly large drawer. He fished out his Hawaiian shirt and plus fours and began to dress in the only clothes that ever allowed him to feel comfortable, the clothes of his new life.

  Of course, there was a large element of the unknown in that new life. Even an admiral's pension wouldn't provide for an opulent lifestyle, and there was no guarantee his wife would decide to go with him to Venus. She might even make good her threats to divorce him, which would leave him fairly close to destitute. Still, whatever his future held, Tranter embraced it.