Original subtitles

Ooh... Ooh...

Ah. Aah...

Who the hell are you?

Welcome back on-line, sir.

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

- Where is this place? - You have amnesia.

That's common after prolonged periods in deep sleep.

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

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

I've just been preparing your breakfast tray.

These cornflakes have got grated raw onions sprinkled on them.

That's how you like them, sir.

Ugh! The orange juice is revolting!

That's your early morning pick-me-up, chilled vindaloo sauce.

I drink cold curry sauce for breakfast?

It depends. If you get up in the afternoon, you prefer a can of last night's flat lager.

That's why you keep a tea strainer by your bed - to sieve out cigar dimps.

I drink, smoke and 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 these will help. Your personal artefacts.

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

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

to win her back, then lie on 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?

Chuck out some power chords. See if anything comes back.

Yeah! The axe man is back!

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

When your personality is 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... You sometimes help me 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? - Mr Rimmer, sir. This is his light bee.

- He's a hologram. - Rimmer?

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

Maybe a 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.

Pass the Tabasco sauce. Needs a bit more pep.

Congratulations. You're on the way to full recall.

- You'll soon think you can play guitar. - I CAN play the guitar!

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

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

Maybe, but the deal stays the same.

I know. If I want to play guitar, I have do it in outer space.

- Peasants. - I suggest we start debriefing.

- Mr Rimmer? - Thank you, Kryten.

Now, gentlemen, as we know, we have lost Red Dwarf.

This is not the time for petty recrimination.

The time for that is when Lister is court-martialled.

- I didn't lose it. - You're the one who parked it

and can't remember where you left it.

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. It was stolen by persons or life-forms unknown.

Who'd steal a gigantic 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 the trail, we have them.

- What do you mean? - They had to make a detour

to circumnavigate this asteroid belt.

However, Starbug is small enough to go through the middle.

For the first time for two centuries, we can head them off at the pass and recover Holly.

You're forgetting about Space Corps Directive 1742.

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

Thank you for reminding me of that, sir, but how is it pertinent to our present situation?

- 1743, then. - Oh, I see.

"No vessel should transverse 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.

Worst of all, we're down to our last 2,000 poppadoms. We're in trouble.

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

One direct hit on that view-screen,

and our innards will turn inside out quicker than Lister's underpants.

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

Recommend the Cat pilots. His superior nasal intuition will give us our best chance.

For pity's sake! One breach and we're people p�t�.

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

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

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

and it's steaming straight towards us.

- Too vast to go around. - Reverse thrust!

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

- Kryten, you know what to do. - On my way, sir.

- What's he doing? - He's customised the waste disposal unit,

turned it into a high-impact garbage cannon.

You're going to shoot it with tins and banana peel?!

There's a surprise in there - 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!

Yes!

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

estimated time to interception, 12 hours, 7 minutes.

I'm getting something new, and it does not smell good.

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

Wait, there's another... and another.

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

It's like a giant spaceship graveyard.

Who else feels that we've been led here like lambs to a kebab shop?

We don't move till we know what happened here.

Recommend we stop and launch scouter.

Engines stopped. Scouter launched.

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-l-R-E-N-S.

Psirens.

The poor devil 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.

Why go to the trouble of using his kidney as a full stop?

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

Whoever he was, he was desperate to warn any wretches who wandered into the same 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, you don't want to love me. You want to suck out my brains with that straw.

Get away from me!

What have you done, you evil harlot!

You've squeezed the ketchup out of my burger!

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

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

This 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 the Turkish legend.

- The legend was Greek, sir. - Whatever.

Some country big on curly shoes and hoummos.

They use this power of illusi�n to lure you onto the asteroids.

Then they take whatever they can use... and suck out your brains.

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

We can't turn back. We'll lose Red Dwarf.

We'll be through the belt in four hours. Just stay on the case.

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

Incoming message.

It's pretty weak.

Please help us. Our settlement is almost extinct.

- There are only women left. - Barely 3,000 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 Psirens?

Even the brunette?

If you want me, I'll be taking a cold shower in liquid oxygen.

If that's the most sophisticated enticement they can throw at us, we're hardly in danger.

If I may postulate, that was merely the level of sophistication required to lure the Cat.

Had we not stopped him, he would be on an asteroid, with no 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 asteroid, killed most of the crew.

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.

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

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

I'm keeping three bullets, for me and the two kids.

- Kids?! - Your two sons, Dave.

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

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

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

Wait! I'm coming! Kryten, bazookoids. Rimmer, plot a course.

Tune into Sanity FM!

- You saying they were Psirens? - It's as plain as a Bulgarian pin-up.

- More trouble heading straight for us. - What?

What do you call giant meteorites covered in flames?

- Giant flaming meteorites. - That's it.

Should I load the garbage cannon?

- It wouldn't make a dent. - Course change.

- Engaging re-heat. - There's nothing on the radar.

- So? - I think it's another illusi�n.

- Psirens? - Cat? Are you getting any scent from it?

They got a duty-free shop?

- Can you smell anything? - No.

Suggest we maintain present course. That fireball does not exist.

- Say you're wrong? - I'll stake my reputation.

- You haven't got a reputation. - I will after this escapade.

It's closing. 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 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 very much.

We do not need help from a droid with a head like a genetically flawed lumpfish.

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

There's nothing on the radar. We do nothing.

Guys, what's happening? Cabin temperature's rising.

Psirens again. Another illusi�n. It's in hand.

What if the fireball's real and the radar read-out's the illusi�n?

Gentlemen, relax. We're quite safe.

- Any damage? - Not too bad. Two sensors are out,

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

- We're intact?! - Starbug was built to last, sir.

This baby's crashed more times than a ZX81.

It's what it's made of. Aerospace engineers discovered that, after a plane crash,

the one thing that survives is a cute doll, so they built this with the same stuff.

- Is that a fact? - You're so gullible.

Thanks!

- How long before we can take off? - Just... Oh, wait.

The front landing stanchion is embedded in rock. We have to blast it free.

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

and this place is crawling with Psirens.

You look after the engine. I'll go and be brave. Two minutes maximum.

- How's that? - 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. I know what you want.

It's in my head. 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 want 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 three million years. - I count it in ice ages.

Then it's only four. 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.

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"?

- Sir? Is everything OK? - What's the delay?

Two Psirens killed each other fighting over my brains.

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

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

You can't see what she's doing.

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

On me way.

It's me.

It's getting hairy out there. Let's vamoose.

Why the hell are you taking off? Let me in!

- Sir, you're already here. - He's a Psiren. Don't let him in.

For God's sake! He's the Psirenl Let me in!

- What do we do? - We've got to let him in.

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

There's a 50% chance we already have.

We can't risk killing Mr Lister.

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 profile.

- You're both identical. - No way!

I'm going to try some tests.

Both right-handed. Correct. Kryten?

Now, gentlemen. Trim your toenails.

Enough!

- Play the guitar. - What?

- Here? Inside? - Play it.

- How did you know? - That dude could play.

- He was no better than me. - That's how you believe you play.

The Psiren read your mind, sharing your delusi�n

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

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

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

Never play in front of a man with a gun.

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

Er... Where's it gone?

It's crawled down to the engine room.

Meteor storm off the starboard bow!

Suggest Mr Rimmer and I pursue the Psiren.

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

Excellent but for one detail. I think you know what it is. Bye!

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

I am unseduceable in that I have no desires,

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

Professor Mamet? My creator.

- Hello, Kryten. - What is the function of this illusi�n?

You cannot harm me. It's coded into you. You're totally defenceless against me.

True. However, the others are not so hampered.

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

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

- Climb inside. - No! No!

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

You are sick!

Die.

Kryten? You there?

The meteor storm was an illusi�n. The Psiren's not as badly injured as we thought.

Kryten?

- 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.

- We're clear of the belt. - What about Red Dwarf?

It's gone into that gas nebula.

Then that's where we're heading.

- Tea? - Cheers, man.

Don't put it on the console, sir. It leaves ugly rings. Use me as a table.

- I thought you were fixing yourself. - Not before I've finished my duties, sir.

I can't go engaging my self-repair unit,

not with a pile of laundry like the north face of the Eiger.

Besides, Cat has invited me to the crap game tonight.

He's gonna be the dice.

- Approaching nebula. - 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 #