Original subtitles

("RED DWARF" THEME)

Well, that's finished the test, sir. We just have to while the Navicomp processes the results.

Unfortunately, I have had to allow for the fact that you cheated at your eye tests.

- What do you mean, cheated? - There's no point in lying, sir.

You crept in here last night, knowing you were going to have a medical, and you copied the eye charts onto your shoes.

I admit I may have taken a peek, but I'm a competitive man, Kryten. Always have been.

- That's what makes me what I am. - We're all perfectly well aware of what you are, sir.

Oh, the results.

Everything ticketyboo?

Would you like to take a seat for a moment, sir.

- Problem? - You don't have any next of kin, do you, sir?

No, they all died of heart attacks.

Not just heart attacks - aneurysms, strokes, brain clots, you name it.

Are you of the school that, when faced with bad news, prefers to hear that news naked and unvarnished

or are you of the ilk that prefers to live in happy and blissful ignorance of the nightmare you're facing?

Ignorance every time.

Congratulations, sir! You've come storming through your medical with flying colours.

- See you next time. - Everything's OK, then?

Absolutely peachy.

- I want to know Kryten, if there's something's wrong. - If there was something wrong, sir, I would tell you.

- Even if I'd asked you not to? - Well, no. In that case I would lie,

and tell you everything was absolutely peachy.

Kryten, I want to know, that's why I asked for a medical in the first place. Is there bad news?

Lie mode cancel. Yes, sir. I'm afraid there is.

I knew it. It's the headaches, isn't it? And the heart palpitations, and the blackouts,

the chest pains and the voices, it's something to do with that isn't it?

Sir, when you died, you were recreated as a hologram.

Your exact personality was refined to an algorithm and duplicated electronically.

If that algorithm contained a flaw, that flaw would be duplicated also.

- Flaw? - It's not common,

but it's possible for a hologram to die.

Kryten, kindly get to the point, before I jam your nose between your cheeks

and make it the filling of a buttock sandwich.

As a result of both genetics and environment,

you are particularly prone to stress-related nervous disorders,

and your activities over the past couple of years

have pushed your brain to, well frankly, beyond breaking point.

(WHEEZES AND HYPERVENTILATES)

Your T-count, which is the hologrammatic equivalent of blood pressure,

is higher than a hippy on the third day of an open-air festival.

If you wish to avoid a gigantic electronic aneurysm,

it is imperative that you start on a program of relaxation.

I see. And you thought the best way for me to start this program of relaxation

was to tell me my brains are about to explode.

You've got the bedside manner of an abattoir giblet gutter.

Here's what I suggest. Try and avoid all stressful situations.

Spend more time in your hard light form and take a little exercise. And here...

Use these Chinese worry balls whenever you feel anxious or tense.

Hey, maybe some good news. Come and check it out.

Er... Kryten, I don't want the others to know about this.

I want you to behave as if everything's absolutely normal.

As you wish, sir.

- There she blows. - Logging onto the ident computer.

What's this?

We've come across that simulant ship we totalled a couple of weeks back.

We're gonna try and board it for supplies.

Is that wise, sir? The scan says the superstructure's highly unstable and could go at any time.

What if some of the simulants have survived?

There's an old Cat saying, "If you're gonna eat tuna, expect bones."

There's an old human saying, "If you're gonna talk garbage, expect pain."

- Look, we'll take our chances man, OK? - No K.

They're cybernetically-deranged mechanical killing machines.

Not content with blasting their ship out of the sky,

you now want to go back and steal what remains of their belongings?

That's the metaphorical equivalent of flopping your wedding tackle into a lion's mouth

and flicking his love spuds with a wet towel. Total insanity.

Look, ever since that refrigeration unit packed in,

we've had to live off a few pathetic handfuls of moss and fungi scraped off passing asteroids.

I can't stand it any more.

Sir, are you really saying you'd rather have a psychopathic mechanical killer

rip off your skull and play your frontal lobes like a xylophone

than have another bowl of my nourishing space nettle soup?

Buddy, I'd hand him the sticks and hold up the sheet music.

Lister, they are simulants. Why on Io should they have food supplies?

Because the ident computer says they do. Look...

- Stocked to the gills. - It's true, sir.

Rogue simulants carry large stocks of food supplies in order to prolong the torment of their torture victims.

In some cases, they've kept subjects alive for over 40 years in a state of perpetual agony.

If we wanted to live in a state of perpetual agony, we'd let Lister play his guitar.

- We don't. I say drive on. - Kryten, what's for dinner?

Tonight, sir, asteroidal lichen stew followed by dandelion sorbet.

We're going in.

Sir, can't you see your behaviour is totally irrational?

In which case, we can remove him from duty as per Space Corps Directive 196156.

196156? "Any officer caught sniffing the saddle of the exercise bicycle

"in the women's gym will be discharged without trial"?

Hmm. Sorry, sir, that doesn't quite get to the nub of the matter for me.

Sir, we have enough thistles and weeds and cultured fungus for you to scrum yourself stupid until the day you die.

This foolhardy trip beggars logic.

Lister, we'd be fools not to listen to him. When is he ever wrong?

Alright, he may have a head shaped like an inexplicably popular fishing float,

but he does operate from a position of total logic, and we'd be fools to ignore his sage counsel.

At least let me and Mr Rimmer go in your place.

We are after all, merely electronic life-forms and therefore expendable.

And what the smeg would you know, bog-bot from hell?

There's something else. I didn't want to say in front of the Cat.

The reserve fuel tank got punctured when we crashed into that ocean moon.

If we don't re-supply, we're out of power... two, three days.

- But what about the readouts? - I rigged the readouts, I didn't want to cause any alarm.

You rigged the readouts? You didn't want to cause any al- ?

(WHEEZES) I can't breathe! I'm hyperventilating!

- Please, sir, don't panic. - It's not panic, it's a full-blown hysterical fit!

Grind those balls, sir! Grind them!

So, let me get this straight. If we board that ship and get captured, we're finished.

However, if we board that ship, don't get captured, but the superstructure disintegrates around us, we're finished.

On the other hand, if we board that ship, don't get captured and the superstructure doesn't disintegrate around us...

but we can't find any fuel, we are in fact finished.

- That's about the shape of it, yeah. - After you with the balls, sir.

Look, we're out of options. We've got less choice than a Welsh fish and chip shop.

We've got to board that ship, even if it is on the brink of disintegration.

Just pray the crew are rotting in Silicon Hell along with all the photocopiers.

- Look, you three go. I'm not leaving Starbug. - Fine, that's fair enough.

Unless of course something weird and hideously ironic happens,

like, while we're away, you get boarded by a rampaging torture party of crazed simulants

in the rabid grip of bloodlust fever.

I'll go and pack.

Bring your extra brown rubber safety pants.

And your hard light remote belt. We need all the hands we can muster.

(RAPID BEEPING)

Life signs.

One of those suckers bumps into me, he'll be lunching on laser.

Last time we met I was wearing the same outfit, and no one's gonna survive to tell that story.

Listen guys, I suppose now's as good a time as any to tell you.

- Tell us what? - We can't actually use the bazookoids.

They're for psychological reasons only.

Look, the scan says the superstructure is so unstable that even a loud noise could start a shipquake.

That's why I skipped chillies for breakfast.

- Why are you all looking at me like that? - Like what?

- Like I'm a nostril hair in a Spanish omelette. - Why didn't you tell us?

- I didn't want to cause any panic. - You didn't want to cause any p-...?!

(WHEEZES)

Let me get this clear my head. If we meet one of these totally deranged killing machines,

we have to engage them in combat silently?

What do we do? Whisper "Charge", tippytoe up to them all screaming "shhhhhh",

and chloroform them with Lister's armpits?

Priceless.

- A teleporter. - Hmm. Fully functional.

- Let's grab what we gotta and load up. - Quietly.

(RUMBLING)

It's not gonna hold much longer, sir. We better make this the last batch.

One more trip, Kryten. Let me get one more crate of that red-hot West Indian red pepper sauce.

Shh!

Well, if it isn't my old friends, the human vermin,

the scabrous slime, the pus-sucking, puke-laden walking cesspits of unspeakableness.

She remembers us.

Annihilated my ship, slaughtered my fellow simulants and you practically destroyed me.

Yes, I remember you.

One thing you should know - last time we met, I was wearing a cute little black number with peach trim and gold spangles.

And although this looks like I'm wearing the same outfit today.

It is in fact an entirely different cute little black number

with completely different gold spangles.

That was an important speech, sir, and it needed to be made,

but might I suggest that from this moment on, the rest of this discourse is conducted by those

with brains larger than a grape.

Take it away, bud.

OK, let's knock on the door and ask for Ronnie Real. This is a classic stalemate situation.

You can't use your weapons and neither can we.

So, let's chalk this one down to experience, and we'll be on our merry way, yeah?

Actually, as far as psychotic, deranged, ruthless killer simulants go, you're a bit of a babe.

- What are you doing tonight? - Dying.

- Care to join me? - Hey, come on. Let's just talk, OK?

We didn't start any of this, and I think that maybe NOW...

is a good time to sit down and parley.

Let's not hang around, just get on with it.

There is nothing for us to discuss. In 60 seconds, you'll be dead.

- You can't be serious. - I'm totally serious.

I don't believe you're being serious.

I do not understand why you're having such problems grasping this concept.

I'm a totally ruthless, amoral killing machine,

so why, in the name of all that's putrid, don't you believe I'm serious?

I'll say this once more. You've still got a chance to change your mind.

Think about it. Everything we've been through. Does none of that mean anything to you?

(CRASHING)

Cheers, Rimmer! He's started a shipquake!

- The superstructure's disintegrating! - The teleporter!

I must warn you, sir, the teleporter's not calibrated for human tissue.

There's a 20% chance you'll be turned inside out when you materialise.

Let me check my lining. Innards and lavender, I can carry that off.

- (CAT) What's this? - Don't you remember, sir. This is a week last Thursday.

In the panic, I must have made a programming error.

For goodness sake, Kryten!

Don't you know how rude it is to burst in on an earlier version of yourself without warning!

You've made our day totally surreal now. I'm very cross!

Pardon my paradox, it's just that the simulant ship you're about to encounter-

We don't want to know what we're about to encounter!

Don't compound your temporal faux pas by telling us our future.

Where's the rangy, handsome one?

What, you? You scarpered in that escape pod, you slimy, triple-faced, back-stabbing Judas.

Ah! I'm safe, then? Thank God for that.

Don't talk to them! Oh! You see what you've done now? Just get back to your own damn time line!

- Here we go. - Well, be you later.

Let's get out of the landing bay! It's gonna blow!

All in all, 100% successful trip.

But, sir, we lost Mr Rimmer.

All in all, 100% successful trip!

- I can't believe he did that, not even Rimmer. - Sir, I didn't get the opportunity to tell you before,

but earlier today I discovered Mr Rimmer is suffering from a stress-related nervous disorder.

Next time I see him, he'll be suffering from a fist-related teeth disorder.

- Incoming message. - My escape plan worked, then?

What escape plan?

The valiant plan whereby I set off the disintegration of the ship's hull

by bravely leaping into the escape pod, thereby creating a diversion, so you could...

- Actually, how DID you escape? - The teleporter.

That wasn't the only way, but as good as any I suppose.

Still, I'm sure no one's forgetting the sheer manliness and stiff-upper-lippedness of the diversionary part of the plan,

and to hasten with all speed the recovery of the modest hero of the hour.

- Actually, Flash, that might be a bit of a problem. - What do you mean?

You're accelerating away from us way above our top speed.

I've logged into your ident computer, sir.

Rogue simulants looted the pod from a colonisation seeding ship constructed in the 25th Century

There are no controls as such, it is programmed to take you to the nearest planet with an S3 atmosphere.

- How long is it going to take to get me back? - Well, let's see shall we?

Checking the local area. Er... no, nothing there.

Going to mid-range... Er, still nothing.

Going to long-range...

Long-Long-range...

Long-long-long-range. Ah, here we have it, just computing.

- Well? How long? - Have you still got those Chinese worry balls, sir?

- Yes. - Well, start grinding them like you've never ground before.

- How long? - Let me tell him, Kryten.

- How long? - A year and a half.

That's ridiculous! You've got to find a way of getting me back!

Well, we could try and bring you down with a round from the laser cannon, sir?

Form an orderly queue behind the gun sight.

- Another way! - Sir, there are no other options.

Wait. Something's happening. Course change.

Check. Your guidance system's found a nearer S3 planet.

It's taking you through that wormhole at 495-372,

That's a lot better, you should make planetfall in four days.

Isn't there some sort of time-dilation problem when you go through a wormhole?

Well, yes there is. Since you're travelling through a compressed space,

time will move more swiftly for the object passing through the wormhole.

One minute on this side of the wormhole will represent many years on the other.

So, is that good?

Balls on standby, sir.

- More than a year and a half? - Er, yes, sir. A little more.

- How much more? - Well, let's not beat around the bush - a lot more.

Kryten, that's still beating about the bush. Just tell me.

Well, remember that medieval war, sir, that lasted quite a long time?

- The Thirty Years' War? - No, not that war, sir. The other one.

- The Hundred Years' War?! - Now take that figure and multiply it by six,

then you'll come up with your golden number, sir.

- Six hundred years?! - Pinch me!

We're losing contact, any minute.

Six hundred years with just myself as company? I'll go raving mad!

There's an old Cat saying... but you don't want to hear it right now.

On the upside, according to your inventory the pod's stocked with solar accelerators.

That should keep your hard light drive going for as long as you need.

As the pod was looted from a seeding ship,

there may even be emergency terraforming equipment on board. Possibly even at a genetic capability.

But I'll never survive. I'm not the Robinson Crusoe type.

I'm lousy at woodwork, i'm no good in the wild.

Do you know, when I was at school, it took me five terms to make a tent peg.

How long is it going to take me to build a two-storey home with running water and a balcony/sun patio?

Six hundred years? I won't even have finished planing the wood!

Losing contact any second. See you in eight lifetimes.

One last word, sir - remember your condition. Whatever, try and avoid stressful situations.

Whatever befalls you, try and greet it with a smile on your face and a song in your heart.

You are a total, total complete and utter, total, complete and total-

- Well, he's gone. - So, what do we do now?

Nothing we can do, I know for a fact there's no champagne.

Our side of this time dilation phenomena it will appear as if Mr Rimmer is gone for just a few hours,

but from Mr Rimmer's point of view, he will have to wait six entire centuries for us to reach him.

To hell with the champagne, we can celebrate with urine recyc.

This is the personal log of Space Corps hard light hologram Arnold J Rimmer.

Day 1: After landing, I ventured forth to explore the place I would be calling home

for the next two thirds of a millennium.

A desert planet, the only life-forms - the most basic single-celled protozoa - and me.

Relationships would be difficult, but not impossible.

I repaired to the pod to appraise the supply situation.

The pod had indeed been looted from a seeding ship.

Among the supplies, I found two strange devices labelled "eco-accelerator rockets".

I held out little hope that they might improve my lot, but launched them anyway.

For six days and nights, the entire planet was wracked with storms,

the like of which I had never witnessed before or since.

Then, just as suddenly, they stopped.

In just six days, I had created my own world, lush and verdant.

I had created Rimmerworld,

I was Adam in my own Eden, and only one thing was missing - my own Jane.

As I studied the pod's textbooks, my excitement grew.

It seemed entirely possible for me to create a fully grown female clone

using my own DNA as a template.

This, of course, created the most enormous moral dilemma.

Technically, she would be my sister, and therefore unable to take me as her lover.

After much soul searching, I reluctantly decided.

What the hell? I just wouldn't tell her.

After months of careful nurture, the cocoon cracked.

Something had gone hideously wrong.

The clone was just an identical copy of me. I went back to the manuals and tried again.

There she blows, an S3 planet.

Navicomp locked. Entering atmosphere.

Got something. Try quadrant four-niner-seven-two.

- According to the scan there's life signs. - Confirmed. Thousands of them.

Either Mr Rimmer had the incredible good fortune to land on a populated planet, or...

- Or what? - It's too hideous to contemplate.

Preparing to land.

- Wait. Nasal alert! - What, you're getting something?

I sure am. My nasal hairs are quivering like an opera singer's bosom on the high notes.

- Halt, abomination! - Rimmer?

- Silence, travesty. - Rimmer?

Never have I seen such a hideously formed and unnaturally freakish deviant.

Rimmer?!

Silence, mutant! How dare you stand there and address a norm using that face!

It's a revolting insult against nature.

This might sound like a bit of a corny line, but... I can't even bring myself to say it.

Say what?

- Take us to your leader. - Oh, sir, how could you?

Let the Great One judge them.

Who disturbs our royal snooze?

- Rimmer? It's us. - Dear lord, what created such foulness?

Is this the product of a marriage 'twixt woman and gerbil?

Don't you remember, 600 years ago? We used to be your shipmates. We've come to save you.

We found them in the woods, Your Flared-Nostrilness

and have brought them here to be tried as travesties.

That ain't goalpost-head. He doesn't smell right.

Agreed, he scans as organic, not hologram.

The "H" is an affectation, possibly it has become a symbol of power.

These deformed monsters are no sight for my concubines.

My treasures of pulchritude, run along.

Avert your eyes from her great beauty.

(GRUNTS) Let the trial begin before my jacuzzi water grows tepid.

These three abominations stand charged on eight counts of gross deviancy.

Not content with not looking like The True Image, they flaunt freakish behaviour

such as charm, bravery, compassion and... honour.

Are there no signs of normalcy in these wretches?

No cowardice or pomposity? No snideyness or smarm?

Not even basic honest-to-goodness double-dealing two-facedness?

Sire, these creatures did not even attempt to sell each other out for their own freedom.

They lack even the most basic natural drives.

- How do you plead? - Sir, we wish to speak to the hologram known as Rimmer.

I am he!

Not so. We are seeking the creator of your race, the father of your people,

the first true Rimmer, the template for your species.

Enough of this heresy. At the stroke of dawn, take them out and kill them.

And when you've killed them, burn the bodies, then bring me the cold ashes on a silver plate...

with a glass of chilled Sancerre.

This guy's an animal. Doesn't he know it's red wine with cold ashes?

- Rimmer? - Smell checks out.

That truly is old toilet-brush hair himself.

Of course! I remember.

Custer! Derek Custer!

Kit!

Titan!

What's happened to him, bud?

How long have you been in here, sir? In this god-forsaken dungeon pit from hell.

Speed count mode...

557 years?!

What, you've been stuck here in this cell all that time?

- What happened? - Can you imagine a society composed entirely of me?

I'm trying not to. The last time I did that, it took me a week to dry the mattress.

Thousands upon thousands of back-stabbing, treacherous, hypocritical, cowardly slime-mongering Judases.

They overthrew me. And when they found out they couldn't damage my hard light drive,

they locked me in here so I could never threaten their insane lust for power.

Look, bud, can understand them locking you up, but what have they got against me, Derek and Titan?

Anyone who deviates from the template is reviled.

The smallest physical flaw and they're banished from society.

Anyone who displays behaviour deemed "out of character" or "un-Rimmerlike" is punished by death.

Is that why no one on the planet is brave, sexy, noble or charming?

- All crimes here. - Man, I must be public enemy number 1, 2 and 3.

But sir, don't they realise the only way any society can evolve through mutations in the gene pool.

When there is no richness or variety, congenital disorders and inherited lunacy are commonplace.

Who can forget the famously insane European monarchies of the 19th and 20th centuries?

- Oh, what have I created? - Your very own personal hell.

Well, fun though it's been hearing about your 500 years of total misery,

shouldn't we be making skedaddle plans?

I, for one, could not bear the prospect of being burned alive. Flames and peach? Ooh, I'd rather die!

Have you tried escaping, Rimmer?

The whole planet is populated with back-stabbing slimeballs.

The minute I got out, I'd be sold back immediately.

There's got to be a way out. There hasn't been a prison built that can hold Derek Custer.

Why don't we scrape away this mortar here, slide one of these bricks out,

then using rope weaved from strands of this hessian, rig up a kind of pulley system,

so then when the guard comes in here, he sets off a trip wire,

gets laid out, then we put Rimmer in the guard's uniform,

he leads us out. We steal some swords, and fight our way back to the 'Bug?

Or we could use the teleporter.

Or, at a pinch, we could use the teleporter.

I've done it again! Two anomalies in one day.

I must have accidentally tapped into the previous calibration.

Sorry, about this, it's just we're escaping from Rimmerworld...

Don't tell them that. They don't want to know the future.

Poor old Rimmer doesn't want to know he's about to get persecuted for six centuries by a load of his own clones.

Careful, bud. For a minute there, I thought you were going to let slip

that he spends the next 557 years locked in a dungeon.

- Rimmerworld? - I'm saying nothing, man.

- Don't want to spoil the surprise. - Rimmerworld was weeks ago.

We're far more concerned at the moment about the quite hideous thing that's happened to Lister.

- He's right bud, where are you? - Yeah, where am I? I wanna know!

# 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 #