Red Dwarf: Backwards

by Rob Grant

  And so he might have remained, were it not for a seemingly innocent suggestion by a cheap plastic talking toaster. Holly reflected sadly that actually being prepared to solicit advice from a budget-priced kitchen appliance was a mark of how low his intellect had dipped. Sadder still, he found himself wishing desperately that Talkie Toaster™ (Patent Applied For) was still around to advise him now.

  The toaster had suggested that Holly might accelerate his intellect at the cost of slightly reducing the life-expectancy of his runtime.

  And it had worked. Holly achieved a staggering IQ in the high twelve thousands. Only, instead of measuring his life expectancy in terms of millennia, he measured it in milliseconds.

  Still, in his brilliant state, the paltry seconds allotted to him had been enough for him to formulate a rescue plan.

  He programmed the ship's NaviComp to head for the backwards universe. Because of the reverse physics there, operating at his maximum intellect actually increased his life span.

  If he could have stayed there for a few decades, everything would have been just peachy. He would be one super-smart cookie of a computer right now. Unfortunately, he had to return to his own universe where he'd left Rimmer and the Cat stranded in Starbug. He couldn't remember, now, quite why he hadn't brought them with him. Perhaps the trip had been too dangerous for them. Perhaps the stasis booths wouldn't operate if time were running backwards. Whatever the rationale, his genius self had left them there, and must have had a damned fine reason.

  Still, he'd managed to prolong his life expectancy by several months, even running at super-intellect level. In order to extend it further, Holly then had to trade off some of his intelligence. He'd reduced his IQ to three thousand, but that only left him a few decades, which didn't seem very long at all. So he'd reduced it again. And again. And the stupider he got, the more it seemed like a good idea to more brain cells for more runtime.

  And now he'd reached the point where he was no longer smart enough to work out either his IQ or his life expectancy. He thought of reversing the process a little, but found he couldn't recall the procedure.

  He'd pored over the calculations he'd made when he was smarter, but they were hopelessly beyond his grasp. Meaningless algebraic squiggles that might as well have been Greek. Well, being algebra, in fact, some of it almost certainly was Greek, but for all the sense it made to Holly, it could have been marks left on paper by a battalion of soldier ants with diarrhoea.

  Holly could no longer remember if he'd enjoyed being super smart, but he certainly wasn't enjoying being one bulge shy of an underpants advert. It must have been nice, he thought, to know things. Not to feel baffled by the simplest of life's mysteries. Not to spend countless hours worrying, as he had recently done, about who it was that decided how many layers of peel there should be on an onion. Why some onions had just one while others enjoyed six or seven. Even if they came from the same batch. It seemed cruelly whimsical of Nature to deprive an innocent onion of sufficient protective mantle, yet to wrap otherwise identical onions in layer after layer of warm brown skin.

  Holly had got himself so steamed up about onion deprivation, he'd failed to notice that the crew had neglected to return on schedule. When he did notice, they were almost a decade late.

  He wondered if, perhaps, he should try to go and find them. But what if he missed them? What if he risked the perilous journey to the backwards universe, and they somehow came out another way? Then he'd have to risk the journey back. And what if he did that, and they'd arrived to find him missing, and gone back in to look for him? They could go on missing each other for centuries. And yet, what if they were waiting in the backwards universe, thinking 'Well, we're late, Holly's bound to come looking for us, we might as well hang around here till he shows up'? Then again, as far as Holly knew, he was the last remaining intelligence in this entire universe, and it seemed vaguely irresponsible, somehow, to leave it completely deserted. What if some life-form from some other universe popped in for a cup of tea and a chat? They'd think 'Oh, what a crappy universe this is. Totally devoid of intelligence in any shape or form. Well, stuff it, I'm off.'

  Holly chewed over the problem for a couple of years, worrying himself into a panicky funk, torn between his assumed responsibilities as representative of the universe and his obligations to what was left of the Red Dwarf crew, until he finally decided it wasn't worth the mental anguish any longer, and returned his attention to the semi-naked onion conundrum.

  He'd so resigned himself to spending the rest of his days utterly alone, he'd given up checking his radar scanners, and didn't notice the approaching ship until it had actually landed in the docking bay.

  And with that one small error of omission, Holly's seemingly insoluble problems suddenly got considerably worse.

  THREE

  The Cat was now fifteen years old, and he was about to have sex for the first time in his life.

  Maybe it was the fullness of the moon, which gleamed its blue fantasy light on to the hermit's log cabin, tinting everything with an unreal fairy-tale quality. Or maybe it was simply his testosterone level, which, on the Richter scale would have brought down Los Angeles, Orange County and half the Pacific coast.

  But this was the most beautiful woman who ever dreamed of being alive.

  Her name, he'd learned through hours of humiliating eavesdropping, was Lindy Lou. She was some kind of cousin to Ezekiel and Zacharias, the mountain men who lived in the cabin. But then, most people Zeke and Zack knew were probably their cousins.

  Lindy Lou was blond, sixteen years old and wore gingham.

  And nothing else.

  Now, in the sweet heat of this restless summer, the red-and-white check dress clung to her firm, hot body like clingfilm over chicken in a microwave. The stitches in every seam of the garment yearned to snap. The half-crescent sweat marks that caressed the shadow of her trigonometrically impossible breasts served only to bring the Cat's desire to melting-point.

  He would have eaten his mother alive, just to lick this woman's armpits for ten seconds.

  Right now, his toes were Rudolf Nureyeving beneath the slatted window, as Zeke plucked at his banjo and Zack clapped and whirlygigged his bandy way around the single room of the cabin, with Lindy Lou sitting forlornly on the massive bed, her hands clasped deep in the folds of her bursting frock, staring forlornly out at nothing in particular.

  The fact that she was sad enraged the Cat irrationally. Whoever it was that had wiped the flushed smile from her full lips had booked himself a permanent place in the Cat's hate list. If he'd known at that moment that he, himself, had caused the look of sorrow on Lindy Lou's sun-tinted features, he would probably have haemorrhaged on the spot.

  Lindy Lou had arrived at Zeke and Zack's only the previous morning. She'd been bundled, tear-sodden, from the brothers' sparkling new pick-up truck, and trundled into the cabin, where her cardboard suitcase had been dutifully unpacked by the ever-attendant mountain men.

  The Cat had been helplessly in love with the girl from her luggage alone.

  A white, department store brassiere; a pair of blue knickers with the label clearly visible through lacy holes; an underskirt, the brevity of which defied gonadal control.

  All at once, the banjo fell silent. Zeke tucked his plectrum into the small pocket of his dungarees, and hung the instrument between two nails in the wall.

  And Lindy Lou began sobbing.

  The brothers crowded around her, making sympathetic noises and, from the little the Cat could understand of back-talk, began querying her about what ailed her.

  Eventually, the Cat could stand no more of her sobbing. He slipped gently away from the slatted window and ran out into the comfort of the moonlit woods.

  When he felt his heaving chest begin to subside, he threw himself down into a body-sized indentation in some thick, caressing bracken. There he lay, in the frozen moon's icy glow, his heart pounding wildly, his mind distraught and befuddled, and his loins glowing with a bizarre contentment
.

  Suddenly, he was aware of a strange scent in the mountain air. He sniffed. He felt at the same time bewildered and greedy. And then there was a growing, aching tumescence inside his trousers. He shifted uncomfortably in the bracken. His loins began to ache. To ease the pain, he unzipped his pants and eased them over his knees. His erection began to throb.

  He slid his shorts down the firm, muscular shanks of his thighs. The sex smell intensified. His whole body began to glisten with sweet sweat.

  And then he heard her. She was screaming through the woods towards him. He 'L'ed his body up from the indented bracken. His eyes caught a white glimpse to his left. He reached over and grabbed the whiteness.

  Panties.

  He clasped them to his face.

  He breathed them.

  And then there was the sound of bracken snapping. Her screams were getting closer.

  He felt inexplicably ambiguous: afraid, yet strangely sated.

  Then she burst through the dark woods. Shoeless in the impossibly perfect gingham dress, thundering backwards towards him.

  She raced towards the spot where he lay.

  She stopped her caterwauling and turned to face him.

  The expression on her perfect face chilled him like liquid nitrogen.

  Her eyes and mouth were fixed wide in a silent scream.

  Then, the horror etched on her features, she straddled his strengthening erection.

  And she eased herself down on to it.

  And halfway down, she began to scream again.

  And then the screaming stopped.

  She began to slither up and down on him. She started to moan. Only this time, there was no pain in the moaning. She was crying out in ecstasy.

  And despite his confusion, the Cat became lost in his own version of that ecstasy.

  He yowled mightily as his orgasm sucked its way into him. His buttocks began to urge themselves towards her, to meet her urgent thrusts.

  And then they were making love.

  Without warning, she eased herself off him, and stood.

  He stood with her, feeling her gentle hands tugging on his chest.

  Then she grabbed his yearning erection and eased it into his shorts. She tugged up his trousers, giggling, and did up the zip. Then she stooped, scooped up her panties and slid into them, never taking her eyes from his.

  She kissed him. She kissed him long and hard, until his erection melted away.

  And then she linked his arm, and they began to walk backwards through the woods: her all the time talking, him smiling and nodding, not catching a quarter of what she said, but neither of them caring much about that.

  They reached the clearing where Zeke and Zack kept their still, and suddenly she kissed him, clumsily. She talked for a while, and he listened as best he could, then she smiled and skipped off backwards.

  The Cat was left in the clearing, confused and lost.

  He'd learned, over the years, to try and work things out backwards, after they'd happened, but no amount of rationalizing furnished him with an explanation of what had just gone on between him and this beautiful young woman.

  And that was because he was unaware of a certain anatomical fact.

  The fact was: unlike Cats, male humans do not have any special equipment to stimulate ovulation in the female.

  Which is to say: the human penis is not equipped with sharp and painful hooks.

  FOUR

  It was a little before nightrise.

  Kryten was standing under Starbugs belly, leaning back so that his chest light played over the gaping wounds in the craft's undercarriage. Given that the mechanoid always managed to find something to worry about, he was fairly happy with the way things were looking. The list of things he didn't want to think about currently consisted of only two items, which was just about an all-time record for him. And there were plenty of positive data to ponder.

  The last decade had seen the rust on the craft vanish completely. Weeks ago, they had detached all the welded panels, and on Lister's impulse they carried them to one of the mountain men's shacks and stacked them in a corner.

  And finally, the flight window was open. Technically speaking, they could take off any time over the next three weeks, but the absolute optimum take-off point, which would provide the biggest margin for error, occurred in the next couple of hours. Kryten was determined to make it.

  And all the signs were good.

  The twisted edges of the rents in Starbug's underside had grown sharper and shinier. An hour ago, a few had started sucking up smoke.

  Kryten twisted towards the cave walls. The ruts were starting to smoulder.

  He checked his internal chronometer and clucked with satisfaction. Time to round up the boys.

  He couldn't actually say at what point he'd started thinking of Lister and the Cat as 'the boys'. It had happened so gradually, he'd barely noticed it. A combination of small things, really. Their laundry, for instance. He'd noticed that their bed sheets had been clean more frequently, requiring more trips to the washing machine to get them dirtied up, and they'd emerge all crispy and crinkly. Gradually, the fifteen-year-old Lister had become incredibly moody, and the most innocent query from Kryten could send him into sulk mode for hours on end. He also seemed to need to be left alone more often. He had developed an insatiable appetite for computer games. He would spend hours in the rest quarters, feebly plucking at his guitar and singing mournful songs off-key. Sometimes, for no reason Kryten could discern, he would experience unprovoked depressions, and lock himself away simply to cry.

  There were more subtle changes, too. For instance, the quality of recreational conversation among the party had diminished considerably. Lister had become increasingly opinionated. He would argue with anyone about anything, no matter how ill-informed he was on the subject. And the Cat, who was ill-informed on every subject, would argue right along with him.

  The most disturbing change, from Kryten's point of view right now, was that they had started to play. They could be out in the forest till all hours of the night, climbing trees and staging mock battles with each other. Sometimes, they could go missing for days on end. Kryten had warned them the previous morning of the proximity of the flight window, but they had both developed a bizarre disrespect for any kind of authority, and there was no guarantee they'd bother to turn up at all.

  The early autumn sun ducked its orange head over the mountains beyond. Kryten waddled up to the cave's entrance and stared out. Just a few weeks earlier, as the bronzed leaves had begun to leap on to the trees, a charred trail had started to show itself across the tips of the redwoods. Now, it was getting more blatant.

  Kryten heard Rimmer yawn down the ramp and come towards him. 'How's it looking?'

  'Most propitious.' Kryten waved his hand. In the glimmer of the twilight, some of the broken treetops were giving off smoke.

  Rimmer glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. 'Have they been out all night?'

  Kryten nodded.

  'Did you tell them we're looking to leave before eight?'

  Kryten nodded.

  'I don't suppose they paid much attention?'

  Kryten shook his head.

  Rimmer muttered 'Gits,' and strolled underneath Star-bug. 'What bothers me, is that pair of irresponsible gimboids are going to have to pilot this damn thing. It's going to be a hell of a ride, crashing backwards through those trees while those two masturbate furiously up front.'

  Kryten turned. 'Oh, I don't think they masturbate excessively, sir. Not for young men of their age.'

  'Are you kidding? It's like the bloody monkey house up in those rest quarters. There's more fiddling goes on up there than in the court of Old King Cole. I swear to God, they don't even stop during meal breaks.'

  Kryten didn't reply. All the available databases he'd been able to consult were singularly unforthcoming in this area. The truth was the boys' obsessive pursuit of sexual self-gratification did seem a little over the top to him. Then again, he was left somewhat bewil
dered by the human sexual process altogether. He understood that, in order to reproduce, humans sought each other out, got naked and jiggled up and down on top of each other until various ucky fluids had been secreted. Well, fine. It seemed to him a particularly messy process, but there: humans were stuck with it, the poor beggars. What was truly baffling was the amount of physical and mental energy the species appeared to devote to the pursuit of this sticky jiggling. Most of their songs seemed to be connected to it in some way. It cropped up in almost all of their books and magazines. He couldn't help feeling that if, heaven forbid, he himself had been afflicted with these irrational urges, then at the very least he'd have the good taste to keep quiet about it.

  'There's one thing bothering me about this take-off.'

  Kryten turned. Rimmer was peering up at the ripped metal around the engine housings. He looked towards the distant peaks through the cave's entrance. 'It looks like Lister's prediction was right. We come in low over those mountains and skim across the treetops. What I'm wondering is why?'

  'Why, sir?' Kryten tried to appear nonchalant. This was one of the two things he didn't want to think about.

  'Yes, why? Why do we come in so low over the mountains? Why can't we maintain altitude over the woods? It's been bugging me for a while. And this damage,' he pointed at Starbug's underside. 'I can believe most of it's caused by treetops. But that big hole at the back. That looks pretty nasty.'

  This was the other thing Kryten hadn't wanted to think about. The rip Rimmer was indicating was indeed more savage than the rest of the damage. Three metres across and almost circular, it had begun smoking before the rest of the craft. By now, it was getting almost red hot. Kryten had very few ideas about how that hole might be made, and none of them were palatable.

  He was saved from expounding them by Lister's breathless arrival in the cave.

  Rimmer stiffened visibly. His relationship with the increasingly immature Lister had soured to the point where they no longer conversed, merely exchanged insults. 'Ah, Listy.' He beamed and clasped his hands. 'So glad you could tear yourself away from your imaginary friends and join us.'