by Grant Naylor
The rubber plant was surprised. If the rubber plant could have spoken, it wouldn't have said anything. That's how surprised the rubber plant was. Over the last few weeks it had witnessed the gradual deterioration of McIntyre's mental health, but if the rubber plant had had a name it would have said: 'George McIntyre is not the kind of guy to commit suicide, or my name's not...'- whatever its name would have been, had it had one.
Three medical orderlies duly arrived, followed by two doctors, the Captain, the Morale Officer, and the ship's Head of Security. They put McIntyre's body on a stretcher and took him away.
Eight people in all passed through McIntyre's room, and not one of them, the rubber plant reflected rather bitterly, had expressed the slightest interest in the gaping bullet hole which went straight through the middle of his favourite leaf. His biggest and greenest leaf. The only leaf he was truly one hundred per cent happy with.
The humans muttered darkly about why McIntyre would have done such a thing. The rubber plant knew, but it wouldn't have told them, even if it could have.
***
Saunders lay on the brown leather couch in the medical unit. Or so it appeared to the naked eye. In actuality, he was suspended half a millimetre or so above it. The hologramatic illusion of Saunders' body was provided by a light bee. The light bee, a minute projection device the size of a pin head, hovered in the middle of his body receiving data from the Hologram Simulation Suite, which it then transmitted into a 3-D form.
The effect was so convincing, so real, that all holograms bore a two-inch high, metallic-looking 'H' on their foreheads, so they could never be mistaken for living people. The stigma of the Dead. Not the mark of Cain, the killer, but the mark of Abel, the slain.
And so Saunders lay suspended an infinitesimal distance above the brown leather couch in the medical unit, trying to fend off a vision of his wife's seduction of the entire offensive line of the London jets' Zero-Gee football team.
'There was a Being,' the metaphysical psychiatrist was saying, 'and this Being was called "Frank Saunders". Now, that Being died.'
'Yes,' said Saunders, 'he was hit on the head by a four thousand kilogram demolition ball. He couldn't be deader.'
The good doctor shifted in his seat, re-crossed his thin legs, and tugged thoughtfully on his long nose. 'Frank,' he said eventually, 'let me ask you a question. Do you believe man has an eternal soul?'
'I don't know,' Saunders said, wide-eyed with exasperation. 'I'm from Sidcup. I'm an engineer.'
'I do, Frank.'
'Do you?'
'Yes, I do. And I believe, as we speak, Frank, your eternal soul has passed on to the next plane of existence, where it's very happy.'
'The point is,' Saunders said, 'if you have an eternal soul, then there's got to be something badly wrong when it's having a lot more fun than you.'
'Look,' the metaphysical psychiatrist continued unabashed; 'you are not the Being called Frank Saunders. The Being called Frank Saunders no longer exists in this dimension.'
'So, who's lying on this brown leather couch talking to you, then?'
'You, Frank, are a simulation of Frank Saunders. You act in the way the computer estimates Frank Saunders would probably have acted. You are a simulation of a possible Frank Saunders, or, rather more accurately, a probable Frank Saunders.'
He said this very slowly, as if he were talking to a small baby who'd splattered mashed apple and apricot dessert over the jacket of his father's new suit.
So Saunders was a computer simulation of a probability of a possible person. He didn't feel like a computer simulation of a probability of a possible person. He also didn't feel like listening to another philosophical discussion about the nature of Reality.
What he did feel like doing was taking a small ball-peen hammer and tapping it several times on top of the balding pate of the metaphysical psychiatrist who was now twittering on about tables - in particular, tables which had a quality of 'tableness'. And then, when Saunders was completely lost, the balding counsellor asked him if he was familiar with 'The Cartesian Principle'.
'Yes,' Saunders nodded. 'Didn't they get to number five with Baby, I Want Your Love Thing?'
'No, Frank. The Cartesian Principle is: "I think, therefore I am. And although you're not thinking, the computer is just making you think you're thinking; nevertheless, you think you're thinking, therefore you possibly are.'
'I possibly are?'
'Yes, Frank.' The psychiatrist smiled, believing Saunders had grasped the concept at last.
For a short time Saunders listened to the relentless clicking of the clock in the corner.
'I possibly are what?'
'You possibly are!'
'Ah! I possibly are!'
'Yes!' The Counsellor beamed.
'Well, thank you for all your help.' Saunders got up and made his way to the exit hatch. 'If I have any other little difficulties, any other little problems I don't understand, rest assured I'll be round in a shot.'
'I really have been of help?'
'None at all.' Saunders smiled for the first time in two weeks. 'You're a useless big-nosed goit.'
As Saunders turned to go, Weiner raced through his hologramatic body, and into the medical unit.
'Sorry, Frank,' she said, turning to Saunders.
'Doesn't matter. It's not as if I am - I only possibly are, anyway.'
Weiner crossed into the room, her face flushed from running.
'I've got some bad news, Frank. You'd better sit down.'
Saunders was a little bemused as to what could possibly constitute bad news for a dead man.
As Weiner relayed the news of McIntyre's suicide, the consequences began to dawn on Saunders. McIntyre was a flight co-ordinator. He outranked Saunders. Hologram simulation of a full human personality took up forty per cent of the computer's run-time, and burned up enough energy per second to illuminate Paris for three years, which was why Red Dwarf was only able to sustain one hologram at a time.
With his superior rank, McIntyre would take precedence over Saunders and become the ship hologram.
'So,' he said, slowly, 'I'm going to be turned off.'
'Maybe not,' said the psychiatrist. 'He committed suicide. Maybe he's unstable; not suitable for revival.'
'Of course he is,' Saunders said firmly. 'I'm going to be turned off. I'm going to die for a second time in a fortnight.' He gave the air a celebratory uppercut and danced a little jig of joy. 'Smegging great!'
SEVEN
'Surname?'
'David.'
'First name?'
'I told you: David.'
'Your name's David David?'
'No, it's David Lister.'
Caldicott sighed and reached for the Tipp-Ex.
Lister gazed out onto the busy Mimian street and tried to read the sign on the window: 'ERTNEC TNEMTIURCER NOITAROPROC GNINIM RETIPUJ'.
On a poster on the wall of the newly-painted office, two crisply uniformed officers, male and female, linked arms and smilingly invited all and sundry to 'Join the Corps and see Space'.
Caldicott Tipp-Exed out 'David' from the surname box on the recruitment form and, in his meticulously neat handwriting, replaced it with 'Lister'.
'Date of birth?'
'Unknown.'
'What d'you mean, unknown?'
'I was found.'
'In what way "found"?'
'In a pub. Under the pool table.' Lister paused. 'In a cardboard box.'
Caldicott eyed him dubiously. Caldicott spent his entire working day sitting in his immaculate white uniform in the window of the recruitment centre, projecting the Space Corps' corporate image. Which was white and brave, strong and smiling.
Once the suckers had signed up, they'd learn the truth soon enough. In the meantime, it was his job to be white and brave, strong and smiling.
He looked at the object sitting opposite him, presently working some unspeakable substances from the tracks on the soles of his boots with one of Caldicott's pencils. Fou
r or five gangly, matted plaits dangled from under the fur-rimmed leather deerstalker atop a podgy face built for a perpetual smile. Short, fat fingers, the nails blotched white from zinc deficiency, scratched at the gap between the top of green, multi-stained combat trousers and the bottom of a T-shirt, whose original colour was long lost in the mists of time. He looked like a casualty in a catering war: as if all the world's chefs had had a gigantic food fight, and somehow he'd got caught in the middle. If his daughter had brought home this specimen, Caldicott reflected, he would have shot them both without a second's reflection.
'Do you know when you were found?' He smiled whitely.
'Some time in November. 'Fifty-five.'
'Well, I need a date of birth for the form. When do you celebrate your birthday?'
'Most of the time, actually.'
'I'll put 1st November, 2155.'
'Not November. I was about six weeks old then. It was probably some time in October.'
Caldicott reached for the Tipp-Ex again.
'How about 14th October?'
'Brutal.'
'Why do you want to join the Space Corps?'
Lister thought for a moment. 'I want,' he said, 'to visit strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilisations. To boldly go where no person has gone before.'
Caldicott smiled wanly and wrote: 'Possible Attitude Problem' in the comments box.
'Qualifications?'
'Technical Drawing.'
'What level?'
'What d'you mean?'
'Master's degree, perhaps?' said Caldicott, almost imperceptibly raising his left eyebrow. 'Ph.D., maybe?'
'GCSE.'
Caldicott wrote '1 GCSE, Technical Drawing'.
'It doesn't really count, though, that, does it?' Lister picked at a flap of rubber hanging from the sole of his boot.
'Why not?'
'I failed.'
Caldicott took out the Tipp-Ex again and obliterated the word 'Possible'.
'If you'd just like to read through this, and sign where I've indicated.'
Caldicott pushed over the application papers, picked up the phone and stabbed in a ten-digit number.
Lister cast his eyes over the conditions of employment. He was signing up for five years. Five long years. When he got out, he'd be pushing thirty. An old man.
Ha! Want to bet?
He wondered why he hadn't thought of this before. Join the Space Corps, get on an Earth-bound ship, and as soon as he got home: thank you, goodnight. Lister, David, AWOL.
He signed and pocketed the pen, including its metal chain and holder.
'OK,' said Caldicott, putting down the phone, 'the situation is this: there are fourteen ships in dock, but no vacancies for anyone with your ... abilities.'
'What are my abilities?'
'You haven't got any. You'll have to enter at third technician level.'
'Technician?' repeated Lister, impressed.
'That's right,' said Caldicott, smiling.
A third technician's duties basically consisted of making sure the vending machines didn't run out of chicken soup, mopping floors, and a thousand-and-one other tasks considered too menial for the service droids. Caldicott didn't feel this was absolutely the best time to put Lister in the picture.
'Technishem,' said Lister, putting on a pseudo-swanky voice. He glanced up at the white uniformed officer with the Burt Lancaster smile in the poster. 'I'm a bleeding technishem, don't yew know.'
'As soon as something crops up, we'll let you know. Leave your address.'
'Address?' Lister wondered what to put.
He settled on: 'Luggage locker 4179, Mimas Central Shuttle Station.'
EIGHT
'Shuttle Flight JMC159 for White Giant now boarding at gate number five,' the tannoy announced, and proceeded to make the same announcement in Esperanto, German and three different dialects of Chinese.
A group of miners stubbed out their cigarettes and finished their beers, then reluctantly swung their kit-bags over their shoulders before joining a group of white-suited officers and some grey-suited technicians in the queue to gate five.
Two Shore Patrol officers strode through the milling crowds, casually swinging their argument-settlers. People pretended not to look at them. You didn't mess with the Shore Patrol. Not unless you wanted your skull rearranged to resemble a relief map of Mars, canals and all.
'This has got to be a joke.'
'This is the address we were given,' said the blonde.
They stopped at the huge bank of luggage lockers and looked around, searching for number 4179. The dark-haired one banged on the door.
'This has got to be a joke,' she repeated.
***
Lister was awakened from a dream about a pickle sandwich that spoke fluent Italian by the deafening metallic clanging, as Shore Patrolwoman Henderson beat the luggage locker door with her steel truncheon.
'It's a joke. I'm telling you.'
'Hang on,' called Lister. 'Let me get dressed.' In the confined space of the locker, which was designed to accommodate two smallish suitcases, he groped around in the blackness, located his clothes, and pulled on his coffee-and-upholstery polish-stained trousers. 'Who is it?'
'Shore Patrol. We're looking for a guy called "Lister".'
'I'll see if he's in,' called out Lister, stalling for time. 'Uh ... why d'you want him?'
'He's been assigned. They've found him a ship.'
The door opened and Lister jumped the six feet down to the ground. He cupped his chin in one hand, placed the other on the back of his neck and snapped his head to one side, to the accompaniment of a series of stomach-churning cracks.
'Your papers have come through,' said Henderson, 'and...'
'Wait a minute,' said Lister; 'I can't see yet. Give me a minute.'
He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes. Slowly, the two Shore Patrolwomen came into focus.
'Hi,' said Lister. 'I'd invite you in, but it's a bit of a mess. It's more of a bachelor luggage-locker than —'
'How long have you been sleeping in there?' Henderson interrupted.
'Since my second night on Mimas. I tried sleeping on a park bench, but I woke up in the middle of the night completely naked, and this old Chinese guy was licking my foot. So, compared with that, this is the Mimas Hilton.'
'No work permit, right?'
'I have, actually, but it belongs to a woman called Emily Berkenstein. It's a long story.'
'Get your stuff together.'
'I've got my stuff together.'
'Where is it?'
'In my pocket.'
They walked back across the shuttle lounge towards the departure gates.
'We've got to deliver you to gate nine.'
'Time for breakfast?'
'If you make it quick.'
Lister peeled off from his escort and, without ever stopping, walked through the Nice'n'Noodly Kwik-Food bar, picking up a half-eaten soya sandwich and a three-quarter finished noodle burger that people with weaker constitutions had left behind.
'You're probably thinking I'm a slob,' said Lister, finishing off a quintuple-thick milkshake and hoovering around the base with the straw. 'But I'm not - I'm just hungry, OK?'
'Hey, it's a real pity you've got to go on this ship, and everything,' said Henderson; 'because, otherwise, you could maybe have taken me out for dinner You know, a couple of half-eaten egg rolls. Maybe root through a bin for the remnants of a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Then back to your place for half a bottle of paraffin. It could have been so romantic.'
'Well' listen,' said Lister, totally missing the irony, 'I'm not exactly married to this spaceship idea. Why don't we do it? Just promise not to bring your steel truncheon.'
'To Canymede and Titan,
Yes, sir, I've been around,
But there ain't no place
In the whole of Space,
Like that good ol' toddlin' town ...
Lunar City Seven,
You're my idea of heaven.
Out of ten, you score eleven,
You good ol' artificial terraformed settlement ...'
Through the shuttle's tinny sound system Perry N'Kwomo, the African ballad singer, was crooning one of the many 'easy listening' hits from his bestselling album, Nice 'n' Nauseating.
Lister sat in the packed shuttle with the rest of the new recruits on the twenty-five minute jag up to their assigned ship, gazing out from his window seat as Mimas dropped away below him like a bad taste he'd spat into the night.
He thumbed through the shuttle's in-flight magazine, Up, Up, And Away! He stared for a brief moment at the blisteringly unpromising contents page: 'Salt - An Epicure's Delight'; 'Classic Wines of Estonia'; and 'Weaving the Traditional Way' were just some of the more fascinating articles. How is it possible, Lister wondered, to fill a hundred-and twenty-page magazine without actually including anything remotely readable? He tucked it back into the netting of the seat in front of him, and decided to read the plastic card containing the crash-landing instructions for the second time.
The shuttle buzzed slowly through the groups of gargantuan space freighters that bobbed in orbit like a bunch of clumsy balloons.
Aerodynamics was never a consideration in starship design. All the ships were constructed in orbit, designed never to land, never to encounter wind resistance or gravity, and were consequently, a variety of bizarre and outlandish shapes.
For five full minutes the shuttle ran alongside a supply ship called the Arthur C. Clarke: a two-mile length of dirty grey steel, orange lights dotting the huge, bulbous cargo hold, out of which sprang a long, thick, tubular nose section, curling and twisting like the stem of an oriental hookah.
Eventually the shuttle reached the cusp of the star freighter's bulb, and turned.
Lister's window was filled with red.
And red.
And red.
He couldn't see where it started and he couldn't see where it finished. But it was big. No, it was BIG.