Grant Naylor - Red Dwarf

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Red Dwarf
Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers
by Grant Naylor
Version 1.0, if you find errors, typos, whatever, fix them and increase the
version number by .1 and redistribute (Yes "ageing" IS a word in Britain!)
Scanned, OCRed and proofread by RastaJew.
Part One
Your own death, and how to cope with it
ONE
'DESCRIBE. USING DIAGRAMS WHERE APPROPRIATE, THE EXACT CIRCUMSTANCES LEADING
TO YOUR DEATH.'
Saunders had been dead for almost two weeks now and, so far, he hadn't enjoyed
a minute of it. What he wasn't enjoying at this particular moment was having
to wade through the morass of forms and legal papers he'd been sent to
complete by the Department of Death and Deceaseds' Rights.
It was all very well receiving a five-page booklet entitled: Your Own Death
and How To Cope With It. It was all very well attending counselling sessions
with the ship's metaphysical psychiatrist, and being told about the nature of
Being and Non-Being, and some other gunk about this guy who was in a cave, but
didn't know it was a cave until he left. The thing was, Saunders was an
engineer, not a philosopher - and the way he saw it, you were either dead or
you were alive. And if you were dead, you shouldn't be forced to fill in
endless incomprehensible forms, and other related nonsensica.
You shouldn't have to return your birth certificate, to have it invalidated.
You shouldn't have to send off your completed death certificate, accompanied
by a passport-size photograph of your corpse, signed on the back by your
coroner. When you're dead, you should be dead. The bastards should leave you
alone.
If Saunders could have picked something up, he would have picked something up
and hurled it across the grey metal room. But he couldn't.
Saunders was a hologram. He was just a computer-generated simulation of his
former self; he couldn't actually touch anything, except for his own
hologramatic body. He was a phantom made of light. A software ghost.
Quite honestly, he'd had enough.
Saunders got up, walked silently across the metal-grilled floor of his
sleeping quarters and stared out of the viewport window.
Far away to his right was the bright multi-coloured ball of Saturn, captured
by its rainbow rings like a prize in a gigantic stellar hoop-la game. Twelve
miles below him, under the plexiglass dome of the terraformed colony of Mimas,
half the ship's crew were oft planet leave.
No planet leave for Saunders.
No R&R for the dead.
He caressed his eyelids with the rough balls of his fingers, then glanced back
at the pile: the mind-bogglingly complicated Hologramatic Status application
form; accident claims; pension funds; bank transfers; house deeds. They all
had to be completed so his wife, Carole - no, his widow, Carole - could start
a new life without him.
When he'd first signed up, they both understood he would be away from Earth
for months on end, and, obviously, things could happen; mining in space was
dangerous. That was why the money was so good.
If anything happens to me,' he'd always said, I don't want you to sit around,
mourning.' Protests. 'I want you to meet someone else, someone terrific, and
start a new life without me.'
What a stupid, fat, dumb thing to say! The kind of stupid, fat, dumb thing
only a living person would ever dream of saying.
Because that's what she was going to do now.
Start a new life - without him.
Fine, if he was dead dead. If he'd just taken delivery of his shiny new
ephemeral body and was wafting around in the ether on the next plane of
existence - fine.
Even if there was no life after death, and he totally ceased to be - then
again, absolutely fine.
But this was different. He was dead, but he was still here. His personality
had been stored on disc, and the computer had reproduced him down to the
tiniest detail; down to his innermost thoughts.
This wasn't the deal. He wanted her to start a new life when he was gone, not
while he was still here. But of course, that's what she'd do. That's what she
had to do. You can't stay married to a dead man. So even though she loved him
dearly, she would, eventually, have to start looking for someone else.
And... she would sleep with him.
She would go to bed with him. And, hell, she would probably enjoy it.
Even though she still loved Saunders.
She would, wouldn't she? She would meet Mr Terrific and have a physical
relationship.
Probably in his bed.
His bed! Their marital bed. His bed!
Probably using the three condoms he knew for a fact he had left in the bedside
cabinet.
The ones he'd bought for a joke.
The flavoured ones.
His mind ran amok, picturing a line of lovers standing, strawberry-sheathed,
outside his wife's bedroom.
'No!' screamed Saunders, involuntarily. 'Nooooooo!'
Hologramatic tears of rage and frustration welled up in Saunders' eyes and
rolled hologramatically down his cheeks. He smashed his fist down onto the
table.
The fist passed soundlessly through the grey metal desk top, and crashed with
astonishing force into his testicles.
As he lay in a foetal position, squealing on the floor, he wished he were
dead. Then he remembered he already was.
Saunders didn't know it but, twelve miles below, on the Saturnian moon of
Mimas, Flight Co-ordinator George McIntyre was about to solve all his
problems.
TWO
George McIntyre sat in the Salvador Dali Coffee Lounge of the Mimas Hilton,
and stared at a painting of melting clocks while he waited for the tall,
immaculately-dressed mechanoid to return with his double Bloody Mary, no ice.
He couldn't stand Bloody Mary without ice, but he didn't want his shaking hand
to set the cubes clanking around in the glass, advertising his nervousness
when his visitors arrived.
Five minutes later they did arrive, and McIntyre wished they hadn't. When he
turned and caught sight of them, the heat left his body as quickly as people
leave a Broadway first night party when the bad reviews come in.
There were three of them. Big men. They each had the kind of build that looks
stupid in a suit. Shoulders tiered from the neck. Thighs like rolls of carpet.
Biceps and triceps screaming to be released from the fetters of the finely-
tailored lounge suits. The kind of bodies that only look right and natural in
posing pouches. In suits, no matter how expensive - and these were expensive -
they looked like kids who'd been forced into their Sunday best, all starched
and itching. McIntyre couldn't shake the feeling that they were yearning,
aching to get nude and start oiling-up.
They didn't say 'hello' and sat down at his table. One of them took up both
spaces on the pink sofa, while the other two drew up chairs from a nearby
table and squeezed into them. The armrests were forced out into a tired Vee,
to the accompaniment of an uneasy creaking sound.
McIntyre just sat there, smiling. He felt as if he was sitting in the middle
of a huge barrel of sweating muscle. He was convinced that if he shook hands
with any of the three, he would immediately die from an overdose of steroid
poisoning.
He wondered, though not too hard, why one of them was carrying a pair of
industrial bolt clippers.
The tall, immaculately-dressed mechanoid came up and served McIntyre his
Bloody Mary. All three of the men ordered decaff coffee. While they waited for
it to arrive, they chatted with McIntyre. Small talk: difficulties parking;
the
decor; the irritating muzak.
When the coffee came, McIntyre pretended not to notice that they couldn't get
their fingers through the cup handles.
The man on the sofa lifted up a briefcase and fiddled clumsily with the lock.
For a moment McIntyre found himself feeling sorry for the man - everything was
too small for him: the briefcase, the coffee cup, the suit. Then he remembered
the bolt clippers, and stopped feeling sorry for the man and started feeling
sorry for himself again. The case eventually sprang open and the man took out
a fold-out, three-page document and handed it to McIntyre with a pen.
McIntyre explained, apologetically, that it was impossible for him to sign the
document.
The three men were upset.
George McIntyre left the Salvador Dali Coffee Lounge of the Mimas Hilton,
carrying his nose in a Mimas Hilton Coffee Lounge napkin.
THREE
The four astros paid the fare, leaving the smallest of small tips, and
staggered through the jabbering crowd and up the steps into the Los Americanos
Casino.
Lister flicked on the 'For Hire' sign, and decided to take the hopper down
Central and back towards Mimas docks. He slipped the gear into jump, and
braced himself. The hopper leapt into the air, and landed with a spine-
juddering crunch two hundred yards down Eastern Avenue. The hopper's rear legs
retracted into the engine housing, then hammered into the ground, propelling
him another two hundred yards. As it smacked into the tarmacadamed three-lane
highway, Lister's neck was forced into the hollow at the base of his skull,
further aggravating an already angry headache. The hopper's suspension was
completely shot to hell.
Lister began to wish he'd never stolen it.
Hoppers had been introduced to Mimas thirty years previously, to combat the
ludicrous congestion which had blocked the small moon's road system so badly
that an average Mimian traffic jam. could last anything up to three weeks.
People had been known to die of starvation in particularly bad ones. Hoppers,
which could leapfrog over obstructions, and spend most of their time in the
air, helped ease the problem. True, there were a fair number of mid-air
collisions, and there was always the possibility of being landed on by a
drunk-driven hopper, but, by and large, you reached your destination in the
same season you set off.
Lister watched with envy as another hopper overtook him with the easy grace of
a frolicking deer. The next landing was the worst. The hopper hit a metal dram
cover with such violence that Lister bit his cigarette in half, and the
glowing tip fell between his thighs and rolled under the seat of his pants.
Frantically, he arched his body out of the seat and tried to sweep the butt
onto the floor as the hopper leapt madly down the busy highway, like a sick
metallic kangaroo.
Something was burning.
It smelled like hair. And since he was the only thing in the hopper that had
hair, it was fairly safe to assume some part of him was on fire. Some part of
him that had hair. He liked all the parts of him that had hair. They were his
favourite bits.
His eyes searched desperately for a place to park. Forget it.
In London people parked wherever it was possible. In Paris people parked even
where it wasn't possible. On Mimas people parked on top of the people who'd
parked where it wasn't possible. Stacks of hoppers, three, sometimes four
high, lined the avenue on both sides.
A typical Saturday night on Mimas.
The thick air hung heavy with the smells and noises of a hundred mingling
cultures. The trotters, Mimian slang for 'pavements', were obscured by giant
serpents of human flesh as people wrested their way past the blinking neons of
casinos and restaurants, the on-off glare of bars and clubs; shouting.
screaming, laughing, vomiting. Astros and miners on planet leave going wallet-
bulging crazy, desperate for a good time after months of incarceration in the
giant space freighters that now hung over the moon's shuttle port.
The Earth had long been purged of all its valuable mineral resources.
Humankind had emptied its home planet like an enema, then turned its rapacious
appetite to the rest of the solar system. The Spanish-owned Saturnian
satellite of Mimas was a supply centre and stop-off point for the thousands of
mining vessels which plundered the smaller planets and the larger moons and
asteroids.
Smoke began to plume from between Lister's legs.
Still nowhere to park.
Traffic blared and leapfrogged over him as he skewed across lanes, fighting to
keep control.
In desperation he grabbed the thermos flask lying on the passenger seat,
struggled with the unfamiliar cap, and poured the contents into his
smouldering lap.
A hiss signalled the aid of the cigarette. There was a second of delicious
relief. Then he smelted coffee. Hot coffee. Piping-hot coffee... Piping-hot
coffee that covered his loins. The pain had already hit him by the time he
poured the bottle of upholstery cleaner he found in the glove compartment over
his thighs.
The hopper, now madly out of control, caromed off the Mutual Life Assurance
building, taking a large chunk out of the neon sign before Lister wrestled it
back under control, and, still whimpering in pain, headed towards the docks.
The man in the navy-blue officer's coat and the blatantly false moustache
flagged down Lister's hopper and got in.
'A hundred-and-fifty-second and third,' he said curtly, and pressed the tash,
which was hanging down on the right-hand side, back into place.
'Going to a brothel?' asked Lister amiably.
'Absolutely not,' said the man in the blue officer's coat;
I'm an officer in the Space Corps' - he tapped the gold ban on his lapel -
'and I do not frequent brothels.'
I just thought, what with hundred-and-fifty-second and third being slap bang
in the middle of the red light area...'
'Well, you're not paid to think. You're paid to drive.'
Lister flicked on the 'Hired' sign, slipped the hopper into jump and bounced
off to the district the locals affectionately called 'Shag Town'.
On the first landing, the officer's moustache was jolted almost clear off his
face.
'What the smeg's wrong with the suspen-' his head disappeared into the soft
felting of the cab's roof '-sion...!?' He bounced back down into the seat.
'It's the roads,' Lister lied.
They stopped at a blue light. At right angles to them, thirty hoppers sprang
forward like a herd of erratic gazelles pursued by a pack of wolves.
'What's it like?'
'What's what like?' said the man, feeling his jaw, convinced a tooth had been
loosened in the last landing.
'Being in the Space Corps? Being an astro? I was sort of thinking of signing
up.'
'Were you really?' Contempt.
'D'you need any qualifications?'
'Well, not exactly. But they don*t just accept any old body, I doubt whether
you'd get in.'
Lister felt for the fare-enhancer button he'd found concealed under the
dashboard of die taxi, and added a few dollarpounds to the fare. The lights
changed and they lurched off, conversation impossible.
Lister had been trying to get off Mimas for nearly six months now. How he'd
got there was still something of a mystery.
The last thing be really remembered with any decent
clarity was celebrating his birthday back on Earth. He, and
six of his very closest friends, decided to usher in his twentyfifth year by
going on a Monopoly board pub-crawl around London. They'd hitched a ride in a
frozen-meat truck from Liverpool, and arrived at lunchtime in the Old Kent
Road. A drink at each of the squares was the plan. They started with hot
toddies to revive them from the ride. In Whitechapel they had pina coladas.
King's Cross station, double vodkas. In Euston Road, pints of Guinness. The
Angel Islington, mezcals. Pentonville Road, bitter laced with rum and
blackcurrant. And so they continued around the board. By the time they'd got
to Oxford Street, only four of them remained. And only two of the four still
had the power of speech.
His last real memory was of telling the others be was going to buy a Monopoly
board, because no one could remember what the next square was, and stepping
out into the cold night air clutching two-thirds of a bottle of sake.
There was a vague, very vague, poorly-lit memory of an advert on the back of a
cab seat; something about cheap space travel on Virgin's new batch of demi-
light-speed zippers. Something about Saturn being in the heart of the solar
system, and businesses were uprooting all the time. Something about it being
nearer than you think, at half the speed of light. Something about two hours
and ten minutes. And then a thick, black, gunky fog.
He'd woken up slumped across a table in a McDonald's burger bar on Mimas,
wearing a lady's pink crimplene hat and a pair of yellow fishing waders, with
no money and a passport in the name of 'Emily Berkenstein'. What was more, he
had a worrying rash.
He was broke, diseased and 793 million miles from Liverpool.
When Lister got drunk, he really got drrrrr-unk.
He brought the hopper to a crunching halt on the corner of hundred-and-fifty-
second and third, outside a garish neon sign promising 'Girls, Girls, Girls'
and 'Sex, Sex, Sex'.
'I understand,' said the man in the navy-blue officer's coat, surreptitiously
re-gluing his moustache, 'there are some excellent restaurants in this area,
offering authentic Mimian cuisine.'
'Look,' said Lister as he short-changed the officer, 'd'you want me to pick
you up?' He really didn't feel like cruising around in the bone-juddering
hopper for another fare. I don't mind waiting.'
The officer glanced down the street at the various pimpy types with poorly-
concealed weaponry under their coats.
'Fine. Wait round the corner.'
'How long will you be?'
'Well, I'm led to believe the Mimian bladderfish is particularly exquisite,
and I would be insane if I didn't at least try the legendary inky squid soup.
Plus, of course, pudding, brandy and cigars. Say... ten minutes? Call it
twenty to be on the safe side.'
Lister took the hopper round the comer, and saw his fare tride purposefully
towards a Mimian restaurant, pause outside, studying the menu, then turn and
walk straight into the building with the neon sign boasting 'Girls, Girls,
Girls' and 'Sex, Sex, Sex.'
Lister locked the door of the hopper. He wasn't totally crazy about this area,
safety-wise. He poured what remained of the coffee into the flask lid, and lit
a cigarette. What could be nicer, he thought, than smoking Spanish tobacco and
drinking real Spanish coffee? Except, possibly, having your whole body
vigorously rubbed by a man with a cheese grater.
He was sick of this armpit of a moon.
He'd spent the last six months trying to get the eight hundred dollarpounds he
needed to buy a shuttle ticket home. So far he'd saved fifty-three. And he was
probably going to blow that tonight.
Making money on Mimas wasn't easy. For a start you needed a work permit, and
Lister didn't have a work permit because, officially, he didn't exist.
Officially, Lister wasn't here. Officially, he was a space bag lady called
Emily Berkenstein. Hence his problem. Which he attempted to solve by stealing
taxi hoppers.
Each evening, or at least each evening he felt in the mood, which turned out
to be about one evening in four, he'd hang around taxi hopper ranks and wait
for the drivers to converge for warmth and conversation in a single cab. When
he was convinced it was safe, he'd steal the rear-most hopper and bounce
around the seedier districts of the colony, where few taxi cabs and absolutely
no police ever went, and pocket the night's takings before abandoning the
hopper at a busy rank back at Mimas Central.
If he'd set about his hopper scam in a slightly more business-like way, the
chances are he'd have been off Mimas within a month. Unfortunately, he found
Mimas so deeply depressing - quite the most hideous place he'd ever been,
worse, even than Wolverhampton - that quite regularly he felt compelled to hit
the bars and drinking clubs, and blow every single pennycent he'd saved. In
some half-assed, subconscious way, he felt, if only he could get drunk enough
he was sure to wake up back outside the Marie Lloyd public house, off Regent
Street in London, trying to hail a cab to get a Monopoly board.
Sadly, the price of alcohol on Mimas was so outrageously prohibitive, he could
only ever buy enough Mimian sangria to get him in the mood to start drinking
seriously, before his money ran out and he'd have to slope back to the shuttle
port, where he'd hire a left-luggage locker, and sleep in it.
'Life,' thought Lister, 'sucks.'
Outside the hopper two pimps were having a minor disagreement about a girl
named Sandra. It was brief and, for the most part, friendly. It ended when the
severed ear of the taller pimp landed with a soft, wet plop on the hopper's
windscreen.
Lister double-checked the door locks, and suddenly found it important to read
the A to Z of Mimas with fierce concentration. He was only half-aware of the
hopper rocking gently from side to side as the two men rolled on its bonnet.
Suddenly there was another soft, wet plop, and a second, slightly smaller, ear
joined the first on his windscreen.
What the hell's happening? thought Lister. It's raining ears on my windscreen.
He turned on the wipers, and used his window
wash. When the windscreen cleared, the ears had gone, and so had the pimps.
Saturday nights on Mimas were wild. So wild, m fact, the Mimians had
instigated an eight-day calendar, so that everybody could have two Sundays to
recover from Saturday night. Sunday one and Sunday two, then back to work on
Monday.
Lister looked at the hopper clock. Forty minutes since the man in the blue
officer's coat had gone for his 'meal'. He slipped his taxi-driver's night
stick up the arm of his jacket, stepped over the body of a dead, one-armed
pimp, and dashed across the trotter towards the building with the 'Girls,
Girls, Girls' sign.
FOUR
Denis and Josie were lovers. Not that they actually made love. Not any more.
They hadn't made love for the last four years; neither of them had been
capable of it. Denis was into Bliss, and Josie was a Game head.
Denis huddled in the shop doorway, tugging the remnants of his plastic
mackintosh around his knees for warmth, his hangdog eyes searching the busy
Mimian street for a 'roll'. Even chough it was cold, he was sweating. His
stomach had bunched itself into a fist and was trying to punch its way out of
his body. He hadn't eaten for two days; his last meal had been a slice of
pizza he'd stolen off a drunken astro. But it was a different kind of hunger
that was gnawing at him now. He took out a long-empty polythene bag, and
licked pathetically at its already well-licked insides. Denis had a second-
class degree in Biochemistry. Though, if you asked him now, he probably
couldn't even spell Biochemistry.
Josie was sitting by his side, laughing. She'd been laughing for nearly an
hour. Her long, once-blonde hair was matted into a series of whips which
lashed at her pale, grimy face as she tossed her head, giggling idiotically.
Of the two, she was the really smart one. Josie had a first-class degree in
Pure Mathematics. Only, right now she couldn't even have counted her legs.
They'd met at the New Zodiac Festival six years earlier, when the Earth's
polar star had changed and the entire zodiac had to be realigned. Everybody
shifted one star sign forward. Josie had moved from Libra to Scorpio, and
Denis had changed from Sagittarius to Capricorn. It was a turning-point in
both their lives: they both felt so much happier with their new star signs
and, along with the other five thousand-or-so space beatniks who'd gathered
for the four-day festival in the Sea of Tranquillity, they'd taken many, many
drugs, and talked about how profoundly the shifting constellations had changed
them, and how maybe the druids were the only dudes who'd ever really got it
right.
Now they were on their way to Neptune, for Pluto's solstice, when Pluto took
over from Neptune as the outermost planet of the solar system. They'd been
travelling for five years, and so far they'd only managed to bum their way up
to Saturn. Still, they weren't in a particular hurry - the solstice wasn't
going to happen for another fifty years. So Denis scanned the street for a
roll while Josie sat beside him, laughing. Across her brow gleamed the metal
band of a Game head. Underneath it, needle-thin electrodes punctured the skull
and burrowed into her frontal lobes and hypothalamus.
The Game started out actually as a game. It was intended to be the zenith of
computer game technology. Tiny computer chips in the electrodes transmitted
signals directly to the brain. No screens, no joysticks - you were really
there, wherever you wanted to be. Inside your head, your fantasies were
fulfilled. The Game had been marketed as 'Better Than Life'. It was only a
month after its release that people realized it was addictive. 'Better Than
Life' was withdrawn from the market, but illicit electronic labs began to make
copies.
It was the ultimate hallucinogen, with only one real major drawback.
It killed you.
Once you entered 'Better Than Life', once you put on the headband and the
needles wormed into your mind, it was almost impossible to get out.
This was partly because you weren't even aware you were in 'Better Than Life'
in the first place. The Game protected itself, hid itself from your memory.
Your conscious mind was totally subverted, while your body slowly withered and
died. At first, well-meaning friends tried to rescue Game heads by yanking the
headset out of the skull, but this always resulted in instant death from
shock. The only way out of the Game was to want to leave it. But no one ever
wanted to leave.
Most Game heads, unable to look after themselves, died very quickly. But Josie
had Denis. And Denis at least shared his food with her, and kept her alive.
When Josie first bought the headset from a South African Game dealer on
Callisto, she'd urged Denis to get a set too. She wanted to try 'multi-using',
when two or more headsets were connected together, so the users could share
the same fantasy.
But Denis was into Bliss.
Bliss was a unique designer drug. Unique for two reasons. The first was that
you could get addicted to Bliss just by looking at it. Which made it very hard
for the police to carry out drug busts. The second was its effect. It made you
believe you were God. It made you feel as if you were all-seeing, all-knowing,
eternal and omnipotent. Which was laughable, really, because when you were on
Bliss you couldn't even lace your shoes. The Bliss high lasted fifteen
minutes; after coming down, the resulting depression lasted twenty-five years.
Few people could live with it, so they had to take another belt.
Denis took off his boot, unrolled a second polythene bag, which contained a
teaspoonful of the soil-coloured substance, and toyed with it pensively. He
always saved a final belt for when he needed to roll someone for money. Which
is what be was going to do right now.
Lister should have known better. He'd been on Mimas long enough to know not to
turn round when he heard the voice. He should have put his head down and run.
But he didn't. And by the time he worked out what was happening, it was too
late.
'Stop, my son!' the voice bellowed, and Lister twisted to see the Bliss freak
in the plastic mackintosh swaggering towards him in a Mysterious Way.
'Dost thou knoweth who I am?'
Lister's eyes darted from side to side, looking for an exit, but the Bliss
freak edged him into a doorway, and there was nowhere to go.
'Dost thou knoweth who I am?' he repeated.
Yes, thought Lister, you're a smegging Bliss freak.
'Yes,' he said aloud, 'you're God, right?'
Denis beamed and nodded sagely. The mortal had recognized Him. Not everybody
摘要：

RedDwarfInfinityWelcomesCarefulDriversbyGrantNaylorVersion1.0,ifyoufinderrors,typos,whatever,fixthemandincreasetheversionnumberby.1andredistribute(Yes"ageing"ISawordinBritain!)Scanned,OCRedandproofreadbyRastaJew.PartOneYourowndeath,andhowtocopewithitONE'DESCRIBE.USINGDIAGRAMSWHEREAPPROPRIATE,THEEXAC...

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