Who the hell are you?
Welcome back on-line, sir. How are you feeling?
Not good. I don't know who I am. What is this place?
Ah, you have a touch of amnesia.
That's quite common after such a long period in Deep Sleep.
You've been out for just over two hundred years.
Two hundred years?
Actually, I woke you last spring,
but you absolutely insisted on another three months.
Is there something good you can tell me about myself?
Something laudable?
Laudable... Well, you frequently help me with my laundry duties
by wearing your underpants inside out and extending their wear time by three weeks.
I'm an animal! I'm a tasteless, uncouth, tone-deaf,
mindless, revolting, randy, blokeish, semi-literate space bum.
Welcome back, Davey!
What's that?
Mr Rimmer, sir. He's a hologram, sir. This is his light bee.
Rimmer... He's my best mate, isn't he?
You are sick, sir. Maybe a little synaptic enhancer will do the trick.
Initiating boot-up sequence.
Download physical form.
Access personality banks.
Download characteristics. Load arrogance.
Load charisma.
Load neuroses.
Download memory.
Oh. "That" Rimmer.
Good cornflakes. Nice and oniony.
Pass me the Tabasco sauce. Just needs a bit more pep in it.
Congratulations, sir. You seem to be on your way to full recall.
Suggest we begin the debriefing. Mr Rimmer?
Thank you Kryten. Gentlemen, as we're all aware, we have lost Red Dwarf.
This is not the time for small-minded, petty recrimination.
The time for that is when LISTER is court-martialled after we get back to Earth.
I didn't lose it.
You're the one who parked it, Lister.
You're the one who couldn't remember which planetoid you'd left it around.
Yeah, but they all look 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. By persons... or life forms unknown.
Who would 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,
after two hundred years of following their vapour trail, we have them.
What d'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 directly through the middle.
For the first time in two centuries, we have the oppurtunity
to head them off at the pass, as it were, and recover Holly.
You know how unstable these belts are. Rogue asteroids... meteor storms.
One direct hit on that plexiglass viewscreen, 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 taking her in.
Recommend the Cat pilots.
His superior reflexes and nasal intuition will give us our best chance.
For pity's sake,
one breech in that hull, and we're people pate
There's on ald Cat proverb:
'It's better to live one hour as a tiger, than a whole lifetime as a worm'.
Nice stick work, 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 screaming straight towards us.
It's far 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.
Will you tell me what he's doing?
He souped up the waste disposal.
Filled the eject system with rocket fuel,
and turned it into a sort of high-impact garbage cannon.
You're going to try and shoot that out of the sky with tin cans and a banana peel?
There's a little surprise in the middle, a thermos of nitro-glycerine.
Waste disposal unit armed, and ready, Sir.
Kryten, will this work?
Lie Mode. Of course it will work, sir.
No worries. Hook, line, sinker, rod and copy of "Angling Times".
Here it comes!
Ready Kryten. Fire!
Relocating Red Dwarf's vapour trail.
Present speed and course, estimated time to interception, twelve hours, seven minutes.
Check your screens. I'm getting something new, and it does not smell good.
Got it. Some kind of ship.
Wait a minute. There's another one. And another.
I'm getting them too. Ten of them... twelve.
All derelict.
It looks like this is some kind of spaceship graveyard.
We are not moving another inch until we've found out what brought these ships down.
Recommend we stop engines and launch scouter.
Engines stopped. Launching scouter.
We're in.
What's that?
Human remains. Wait. Angle: five degrees right.
Ten degrees up. Stop. There: some kind of writing on the floor.
P S I 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.
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 that. It probably just plopped out.
Whoever he was, clearly he was desperate
to warn any poor wretches who wandered into the same deadly trap.
Scouter's located the black box. 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.
But I have to be strong. I know what you want.
No, you don't. You don't want to love me.
You want to suck out my brains with a straw, like you did the rest of them.
Get away from me.
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!
OK. Scouter's 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 Ulysees in the ancient Turkish legend.
I believe the legend was Greek, sir.
Whatever. Some country that's big on curly shoes and hoummos.
The point is, they use this power of illusion to lure you on to 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. We'll lose Red Dwarf.
Look, we'll be through the belt in three, maybe four hours.
We've just got to be on our toes.
They'll try and tempt us, scare us, break our morale,
anything to force us down on to the rocks.
Incoming message. It's pretty weak.
Please help us. Our settlement is almost extinct.
There are only women left.
Barely three thousand 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...?
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 being here to stop him,
he would now be on one of those asteroids,
crawling around without his brain, trying to write
'Oh boy, was I suckered' with his own intestinal tract.
Incoming message. Here they go again.
Should I load the garbage cannon, Sir?
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.
Psirens?
Cat? Are you getting any scent from that meteorite?
I didn't even know they have a duty-free shop
Can you "smell" anything?
No.
Suggest we maintain present course.
That fire-ball 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'm hoping to acquire one from this escapade.
It's closing. Too late to run.
Relax, gentlemen, we're quite safe.
Smeg mode. Well, I can't hang around saving your necks all day.
Guess I'd better 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 services 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. Another illusion. It's all in hand.
What if this time it's a real fireball and the radar read-out that's the illusion?
Relax, gentlemen. We're quite safe.
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 anymore.
We came through that intact?
Starbug was built to last, sir.
This old baby's crashed more times than a ZX81.
How long before we can take off again?
Oh, just a matter of... Wait.
The front landing stanchion is embedded in rock up to the joint.
We're going to have to go out there and blast it free.
I'll go.
Sir, the atmosphere is thin,
and this place is likely to be crawling with Psirens.
Kryten, you look out the engines. I'll be out there, two minutes, maximum.
How's that?
Looking good. We'll clear the rest on take-off.
On my way back.
Hi, Dave.
Smegging heck. It's 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 inside 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 drown in my own drool.
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 just four.
And if you count it in "leap" Ice Ages, it's hardly even one.
That's a long time, Dave, for a man of your drives.
That's a long time for a Welsh 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?
Sir? Is everything OK out there?
What's the delay?
A couple of Psirens wiped each other out fighting over my brains...
Oh, smeg. It's the TV weather girl from channel 27.
Sir. Fight it! Don't look at her.
It's not that easy, Kryten,
you can't see what she's doing with her pointy stick.
I'm starting up the engines.
Get back in here.
On my way.
It's me.
It's getting pretty hairy out there. Come on. 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. Don't let him in.
For god's sake, he's a psiren. I can't hang on any longer. Let me in!
What do we do?
We can't tell which is which. We have to let him in.
Then we'll definitely have one Psiren on board.
A brain sucking psychotic temporal lobe slurper.
There's a fifty per cent chance we have one on board already.
We can't risk killing the real Lister. I'm letting him in.
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.
Sir, you both look identical.
No way.
We're going to try some tests.
Both right-handed. Correct.
Now, gentlemen: trim your toe nails.
Enough.
Play the guitar.
Here? Inside?
Play it.
How did you know that wasn't me?
'Cause that dude could play.
He wasn't any better than me.
That's the way you believe 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.
Are you seriously saying you think he was better than me?
What's the difference?
A 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.
Where's it gone?
It's crawled down to the engine room.
Meteor storm! Off the port bow. It's a biggie.
Recommend you two stay here and man the cockpit.
Mr Rimmer and I will pursue the Psiren.
Um, that's quite a good plan, Kryten. Excellent in all but one detail.
I think you know what it is. Bye.
Please, there's no logic in trying to engage me in combat.
I am unseducible, 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 are also programmed to obey my every command. Drop the radio.
Open the waste compactor.
What are you doing?
Climb inside.
No!
This serves no...
Engage the mechanism.
You're sick!
Die!
Kryten? You here? The meteor storm was another illusion.
The Psiren's not as badly wounded as we thought.
Kryten?
It's got him.
Kryten?
My battery's going. Only a few seconds left. 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?
That's it, we're clear of the belt.
What about Red Dwarf?
According to the navicomp, it's gone into that gas nebula.
Then that's where we're heading.
Tea, anyone?
Cheers, man.
Suggest you don't put your cups on the console, sir.
It leaves those ugly little ring marks.
Why not use me as a table?
I thought you were going to fix yourself.
Not before I finish all my duties, sir.
I can't go gallivanting off engaging 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, Cat has invited me to the weekly crap game tonight.
He's gonna be the dice.
Approaching nebula.
Let's see what's in there.