Original subtitles

("RED DWARF" THEME)

Ooh... Ooh...

Ah. Aaah...

Who the hell are you?

(WHISTLES CHEERFULLY)

(CRUNCHING)

Oh, welcome back on-line, sir.

- How are you feeling? - Not good. I don't know who I am.

- Where is this place? - Oh, you have a touch of amnesia.

That's not uncommon after a prolonged period in deep sleep.

- You have been out for over 200 years. - 200 years?!

I tried to wake you up in the spring, but you absolutely insisted on another three months.

I've just been preparing your breakfast tray.

These cornflakes have got grated raw onions sprinkled on them.

Well, that's how you like them, sir.

Ugh! (SPITS) The orange juice is revolting!

That's not orange juice, sir. That's your early morning pick-me-up, chilled vindaloo sauce.

I drink cold curry sauce for breakfast?

Well, it depends on your mood.

If you wake up in the afternoon, you generally prefer to start the day with a can of last night's flat lager.

That's why you sleep with a tea strainer next to your bed - so you can sieve out the cigar dimps.

I drink and I smoke and I have cold curry sauce for breakfast?

I sound like some barely human grossed-out slime-ball.

Oh, it's all flooding back, is it, sir?

No. None of it is.

Perhaps this will help. Your personal artefacts.

Kristine Kochanski. You dated her once for three weeks before she discarded you for a catering officer.

- She's beautiful. - It's your ambition, sir, somehow some day,

to win her back, and then lie on top of her and move up and down rapidly

in that curious way that humans find so agreeable.

Personally, I prefer partnership whist.

What? I play guitar?

Do I have a head like an amusing ice cube?

Go ahead, chuck out a few power chords. See if anything comes back.

(OFF-KEY, AIMLESS STRUMMING)

Yeah! The axe man is back!

Don't patronise me. I can't play guitar. Anyone with half an ear can tell that.

Sir, as soon as your personality is fully restored,

you will firmly believe you can play guitar like the ghost of Hendrix.

Is there something good you can tell me about myself? Something... laudable?

Laudable... Hmm... You sometimes help me out with my laundry duties

by turning your underpants inside out and extending the wear time by three weeks.

I'm an animal. I'm a tasteless, uncouth, mindless, tone-deaf,

randy, blokeish, semi-literate space bum.

Oh! Welcome back, Mr Lister, sir!

- What's that? - That's Mr Rimmer, sir. This is his light bee.

(RATTLES)

- He's a hologram. - Rimmer?

- He's my best mate, isn't he? - Sir, you are sick!

Maybe a touch of synaptic enhancer will do the trick.

Initiating boot-up sequence.

Downloading physical form.

Access personality banks. Load arrogance.

Load charisma.

Load neuroses.

Download memory.

Oh, THAT Rimmer.

Nice cornflakes. Nice and oniony.

Can you pass us that Tabasco sauce? Just needs a bit more pep in it.

Congratulations, sir. You're well on the way to full recall.

Next thing you know, you'll be convinced you can play the guitar.

I CAN play the guitar!

I'm a diva, man! I make that lump of wood sing

like a Yukon bear trapper on his annual visit to the brothel.

That's as maybe, bud, but the deal stays the same.

I know, I know. If I want to strum my guitar, I've gotta put on a suit and do it in outer space.

- Peasants. - I suggest we start debriefing.

- Mr Rimmer? - Thank you, Kryten.

Now, gentlemen, as we all aware, we have lost Red Dwarf.

This is not the time for small-minded, petty recrimination.

The time for that is when we get back to Earth and Lister is court-martialled.

- I didn't lose it. - Come on, Listy. You're the one who parked it

You're the one who can't remember which planetoid you left it around.

They're all the same, those little blue-green planetoids - blue-green and planetoidy.

Sirs, there's no advantage in finger-pointing.

We didn't lose Red Dwarf. Red Dwarf was stolen from us by persons or life-forms unknown.

Who'd steal a gigantic red trash can with no brakes and three million years on the clock?

Rogue droids, genetically engineered life-forms,

figments of Mr Lister's imagination made solid by some weird space ray.

Who knows? The important thing is that after 200 years following their vapour trail, we have them.

- What do you mean? - They've been forced to make a massive detour

to circumnavigate this asteroid belt.

However, Starbug is small enough to negotiate its way straight through the middle.

For the first time for two centuries, we have the opportunity to 'head them off at the pass', as it were, and recover Holly.

Kryten, you're forgetting about Space Corps Directive 1742.

1742? "No member of the Corps should ever report for duty in a ginger toupee".

Well, thank you for reminding me of that regulation, sir, but I can't see how it is pertinent to our present situation?

- 1743, then. - Oh, I see.

"No registered vessel should attempt to traverse an asteroid belt without deflectors."

- Yes! God, he's pedantic. - Rimmer, check out the supply situation.

Your hologram's on battery back-up. Oxygen for three months.

Water, if we drink recyc, seven weeks.

And, worst of all, we're down to our last 2,000 poppadoms. We're in trouble, man. Big time.

You know how unstable those belts are. Rogue asteroids, meteor storms...

One direct hit on that plexi-glass view-screen,

and our innards will be turned inside out quicker than a pair of Lister's old underpants.

We're out of options, man. We're going in.

Recommend the Cat pilots. With his superior reflexes and nasal intuition, that will give us our best chance.

Oh, for pity's sake! One breach in that hull and we're people pâté.

There's an old Cat proverb - it's better to live one hour as a tiger than a whole lifetime as a worm.

There's an old human proverb - whoever heard of a wormskin rug?

Yes, nice stickwork, man.

- Something's coming. - Nothing on the navicomp.

I can smell it. Something big.

- I'm getting nothing, either. - These nostrils never lie.

He's right. Co-ordinates 5341 by 6163.

Take a peek, gentlemen. There's a meteor bigger than King Kong's first dump of the day...

and it's steaming straight towards us.

- (KRYTEN) Too vast to go around. - Reverse thrust!

There's no time. Face it, we're deader than corduroy.

- Kryten, you know what to do. - I'm on my way, sir.

- Will you tell me what's he doing? - He's customised the waste disposal unit,

filled the eject system with rocket fuel and turned it into a kind of high-impact garbage cannon.

You're going to try and shoot that out of the sky with tin cans and banana peel?!

There's a surprise in the middle - a thermos of nitroglycerine.

- Waste disposal unit armed and ready. - Kryten, will this work?

Lie mode.

Of course it'll work, sir. No worries.

Hook, line, sinker, rod and copy of "Angling Times", sir.

- Here it comes! - Ready, Kryten? Fire!

(LISTER) Yes!

Relocating Red Dwarf's vapour trail. At present speed and course,

estimated time to interception, 12 hours, 7 minutes.

Check out your screens! I'm getting something new, and it does not smell good.

There. Got it. Looks like some kind of ship.

Hang on a minute, there's another one... and another!

- I'm getting them too. Ten... no, twelve. - All derelicts.

It's like this is a giant spaceship graveyard.

Does anyone else here get the feeling that we've been led here like lambs to the kebab shop?

We're not moving another inch until we found out what brought those ships down.

Recommend we stop engines and launch scouter.

Engines stopped. Scouter launched.

(KRYTEN) We're in.

- What's that? - Human remains.

Wait. Angle up five degrees. Across ten degrees.

There. Some kind of writing on the floor.

P-S-I-R-E-N-S.

Psirens.

The poor devil must've scrawled it in his death throes,

using a combination of his own blood and even his own intestines.

- Who would do that? - Someone who badly needed a pen.

What I don't understand is why he went to the trouble of using his kidney as a full stop?

I don't think he meant to do that. It probably just plopped out.

Whoever he was, clearly he was desperate to warn any other poor wretches who might wander into the same deadly trap...

Scouter's located the black box.

OK. Replay final entry.

They're closing in. They're all over the ship.

I know I'm next. It's just a matter of time before...

Oh, God! You're beautiful! I can't resist you.

Have to be strong. I know what you want!

No... no you don't. You don't want to love me...

You want to suck out my brains with that straw like you did the rest of them...

Get away from me!

Argh... No!

Ah! What have you done, you evil harlot!

You've squeezed all the ketchup out of my burger!

Now what? No! Get that straw out of my ear!

(SQUELCHING AND GROANING)

OK. Scouters checked out black boxes on three of the derelicts.

This entire belt is swarming with some kind of genetically engineered life-form

who can alter your perception telepathically.

They're called Psirens, like with Ulysses in that ancient Turkish legend.

- I believe the legend was Greek, sir. - Whatever.

Some country big on curly shoes and hoummos.

The point is, they use this power of illusion to lure you onto the asteroids.

and they strip the ship of whatever they can use... and then suck out your brains.

They shouldn't bother us, then There's barely a snack on-board.

We can't turn back now, sir. We'll lose Red Dwarf.

Look, we'll be through the belt in three, maybe four hours. We've just gotta stay on the case.

They'll try to tempt us, scare us, break our morale - anything to force us down onto the rocks.

Incoming message.

It's pretty weak.

Please help us. Our settlement is almost extinct

- There are only women left. - Barely 3000 of us.

If we are to survive, we need males to spread their seed amongst our number.

- We beg you... make love to us. - Make love to all of us.

You heard 'em, they want seed-spreaders. I'm going to apply.

You guys deal with this Psiren thing. I'll deal with this.

Call me paranoid, but you don't think they were these Psiren dude things, do you?

Even the brunette?

If anyone wants me, I'll be taking a cold shower in liquid oxygen.

Well, if that's the most sophisticated enticement these Psirens can throw at us,

I hardly think we're exactly in danger of being 'bewitched'.

If I may postulate, sir. That was merely the level of sophistication required to lure the Cat, and it worked.

Had we not been here to stop him, he would now be on one of those asteroids, crawling around without a brain,

trying to write "Oh, boy, was I suckered?" with his own intestinal tract.

Incoming message. Here they go again.

This Captain Tau of the SCS Pioneer. We're under attack.

Some form of scavengers... Psirens.

They lured us onto this god-forsaken asteroid, killed most of the crew.

(WAILS)

Is this genuine?

Don't try to help us. We're finished. Save yourselves.

- Kochanski! - Dave, is that you?

- I thought you were dead. - No time to explain. We're overrun.

- Get out of the belt while you can! - It's Kochanski.

We'll be OK. They'll never take us alive.

I'm keeping back three bullets, for me, one each for the two kids.

- Kids?! - Your two sons, Dave.

How...? I-I don't understand.

When you went into stasis, I broke into the sperm bank, back on Red Dwarf?

You're a father. Here they come! Jim, Bexley, come to Mummy.

Wait, don't do anything, I'm coming in! Kryten, bazookoids. Rimmer, plot a course!

Lister, tune into Sanity FM!

- You saying they were Psirens? - Of course, it's as plain as a Bulgarian pin-up.

- More trouble, and it's heading straight for us. - What is it?

Er, what do you call giant meteorites that are all covered in flames?

- A giant flaming meteorite? - That's it.

Should I load the garbage cannon, sir?

- It wouldn't make a dent. - Plot course change.

- Engaging re-heat. - Wait, there's nothing on the radar.

- So? - I think it's another illusion.

- What, Psirens? - Cat? Are you getting any scent from that meteorite?

I didn't even know they had a duty-free shop!

- Can you smell anything? - No...

Suggest we maintain present course.

- That fireball does not exist. - Say you're wrong?

- Sir, I'll stake my reputation on it. - Kryten, you haven't got a reputation.

No, but I am hoping to acquire one from this escapade.

It's closing in. Too late to run.

Relax, gentlemen. You're quite safe.

Ah. Smug mode.

Well... I can't hang around here saving your necks all day.

I guess I'll go make a start on that ironing.

I'm getting another one. Better get Kryten. He'll know what to do.

I'm perfectly capable of dealing with a giant flaming meteorite, thank you so very very much indeedy.

We do not need to enlist the help of a domestic droid with a head shaped like a genetically flawed lumpfish.

OK, keep your "H" on. So what do we do?

There's nothing on the radar. It's another illusion. We do nothing.

Yo, guys, what's happening? Cabin temperature's rising.

Psirens again. It's another illusion. It's all in hand.

What if the fireball's real and the radar read-out's the illusion?

Gentlemen, relax. We're quite safe.

(BOOM)

- Any damage? - Not too bad. A couple of the sensors are out,

fuel-intake chambers are both flooded and the left pilot seat doesn't go up and down any more.

- We came through that intact?! - Starbug was built to last, sir.

This old baby's crashed more times than a ZX81.

It's what it's made of. Back in the 22nd Century Aerospace engineers discovered that, after a plane crash,

the only thing that always survives intact is a cute little doll, so they built Starbug out of the same stuff.

- Is that a fact? - Cat, you're so gullible.

Thanks!

- How long before we can take off again? - Oh, just a matter of... Oh, wait.

The front landing stanchion is embedded in rock up to the joint. We're going to have to get out there and blast it free.

- I'll go. - Sir, the atmosphere is very thin,

Besides, this place is likely to be crawling with Psirens.

Kryten, you look after the engine. I'll be out there, being brave. Two minutes maximum.

- How's that? - (CAT) Looking good.

We'll clear the rest on take-off.

- On me way back. - Hi, Dave.

- Smeggin' hell. Pete Tranter's sister? - Remember me, Dave?

You lusted after me all through your puberty.

And now, at last, I can be yours.

Stay back, Pete Tranter's sister. I know what you want.

It's pink and it's moist and it's in my head, and that's where it's staying.

You know what you want.

You want to squeeze my buttocks together to make one juicy giant peach.

I get it. You're trying to make me to drown in my own drool.

- Don't fight it. - Stay back, Pete Tranter's sister.

How long has it been since you made love to a woman?

I admit it's been a while.

It's been over three million years, Dave.

I prefer to count it in Ice Ages, then it's only four. In fact in leap ice ages, hardly even one.

That's a long time, Dave, for a man of your drives.

It's a long time for an Albanian shepherd who's allergic to wool.

- Kiss me. - I can't resist you any more, Pete Tranter's sister.

Your death will be exquisite. I'll take you to the peak of ecstasy,

then I'll blow your mind.

Come on, Dave. Let's get out of here.

"Dave"?

- (KRYTEN) Sir? Is everything OK out there? - What's the delay?

(LISTER) A couple of Psirens wiped each other fighting over my brains.

Oh, smeg. It's the TV weather girl from Channel 27,

- Fight it. Don't look at her. - It's not that easy.

You can't see what she's doing with her pointy stick.

- I'm starting the engines. - Get back in here now!

On me way.

Ooh, it's me.

It's getting pretty hairy out there, Kryten, let's vamoose.

What the hell are you doing, taking off when I'm still outside?! Let me in!

- I'm afraid, sir, you're already here. - He's a Psiren, Kryten. Don't let him in.

For God's sake! He's the Psiren! I can't hang on any longer. Let me in!

- What are going to do? - We can't tell which is which. We've got to let him in.

Then we'll definitely have a Psiren on-board, a brain-sucking psychotic temporal-lobe slurper.

There's a 50% chance we've already got one on board.

We can't risk killing Mr Lister. We've got to let him in.

Look, how many times? He's the Psiren. I'm me.

How can you believe this?! He doesn't even look like me.

He's podgy. He hasn't got my classic profile.

- You're both identical. - (BOTH) No way!

I'm going to try some tests.

Both right-handed. Correct. Kryten?

Now then, gentlemen. Trim your toenails.

Enough!

- Play the guitar. - What?

- Here? Inside? - Play it.

(PLAYS ROCK SOLO SKILFULLY)

- How did you know that wasn't me? - Because that dude could play.

- He was no better than me. - That's the way you believe that you can play, sir.

That's why when the Psiren read your mind, he shared your delusion

that you are NOT a ten-thumbed, tone-deaf, talentless noise-polluter.

You're seriously saying you think he was better than me?

(TUNELESS RACKET)

- What's the difference? - Little survival tip, bud.

Never play your guitar in front of a man with a loaded gun.

I resent this. I resent you saving my life in this way.

Er... Where's it gone?

- It's crawled down into the engine room. - (ALARM SOUNDS)

Meteor storm off the starboard bow! It's a biggie.

Suggest you know man the cockpit. Mr Rimmer and I will pursue the Psiren.

Er... That's QUITE a good plan, Kryten.

Excellent in all but one small detail. I think you know what it is. Bye!

(BEEPING)

(RAPID BEEPING)

Please, there's no logic in trying to engage me in combat.

I am unseduceable in that I have no desires or lusts,

and my brain is synthetic and consequently of no use to you. Give yourself up.

Professor Mamet? My creator.

- Hello, Kryten. - What is the function of this illusion?

You cannot harm me. It's coded into every cell in your body. You're totally defenceless against me.

True. However, the others are not so hampered.

You're also programmed to obey my every command. Drop the radio.

- Open the waste compactor. - What are you doing?!

- Climb inside. - No! No! (GRUNTS)

- This serves no... - Engage the mechanism.

You are sick!

Die.

(LISTER) Kryten? Are you there?

The meteor storm was another illusion. The Psiren's not as badly injured as we thought.

(RIMMER) Kryten?

- (WHISPERS) It's got him. - Kryten!

My battery's going. Only seconds left. I need a recharge...

And then there were two.

- Want a drink? - Buddy, I'm parched.

Wait a minute. What's a vending machine doing in the engine room?

I'm almost annoyed.

- That's it, we're clear of the belt. - What about Red Dwarf?

Well, according to the NaviComp, it's gone into that gas nebula.

Then that's where we're heading.

- Tea, sir? - Cheers, man.

Suggest you don't put it on the console, sir. It leaves those ugly ring marks. Why not use me as a table?

- I thought you were going to go away and fix yourself? - Not before I've finished all my duties, sir.

I can't go gallivanting off operating my self-repair unit,

not when there's a pile of laundry in the washroom the size of the north face of the Eiger.

Besides, the Cat has invited me to join him in the weekly crap game tonight.

He's gonna be the dice.

- Approaching nebula. - (LISTER) Well, let's see what's in there.

# It's cold outside, there's no kind of atmosphere

# I'm all alone, more or less

# Let me fly far away from here

# Fun, fun, fun

# In the sun, sun, sun

# I want to lie, shipwrecked and comatose

# Drinking fresh mango juice

# Goldfish shoals, nibbling at my toes

# Fun, fun, fun

# In the sun, sun, sun

# Fun, fun, fun

# In the sun, sun, sun #