("RED DWARF" THEME)
Ten o'clock changeover. Anything to report?
We're still lagging behind Red Dwarf, sir, almost 24 hours behind.
Otherwise, it's been a moderately quiet shift,
except for one small shock when we noticed an alien fleet off the starboard bow.
Thankfully, it turned out to be one of Mr Lister's sneezes on the radar screen.
- How are we fuel-wise? - Unchanged for today, sir.
However, the supply situation grows increasingly bleak.
We've recycled the water so often, it tastes like Dutch lager.
- We're OK for food, aren't we? - Confidentially, sir, no.
We've no meat, no pulse and little grain.
Worse still, the only Liquorice Allsorts left are the twisty ones that everybody hates.
What's more, space weevils ate the last of the corn.
So what's under the grill?
Space weevil.
You can't serve space weevil, Kryten.
Not even Lister with his single remaining taste bud will eat insectoid vermin.
Let's face it, it's practically cannibalism.
But it's incredibly nutritious, sir. After all, it is corn-fed.
- He'll never eat it. - Trust me. The first bite is with the eye.
It's all down to presentation.
Et voila!
- Changeover. Anything new? - Nothing much.
Electrical storm, alien war fleet - false alarm - the usual stuff.
Look at the state of this place! Why can't you clean up before we swap over?
What the hell is this down the back of my chair? Peanuts?
No, I've been trimming my verrucas.
You have personal habits that would make a monkey blush!
You really think I'm psychotically disgusting, don't you? They're peanuts, OK?
Real peanuts? Where'd you get them?
That derelict a couple of months back. I found them in the dead captain's jacket.
Don't look like that. You enjoyed that mint.
- Where d'you get that? - He was sucking that when he got shot.
I had to prise his jaws open.
You think I'll buy anything you say, don't you?
Well, wrong, buddy! Now get outta here.
I gotta keep my eyes skinned for the asteroid shaped like a moose you told me about.
- Hi, honey, I'm home. - Supper, sir, and tonight's movie.
I'm sorry, sir, it is another Doug McClure.
- What's this? - Sir?
Raw carrot?
Kryten, you know how I feel about fresh vegetables.
They're for health psychos, vitamin freaks, people...who exercise.
I'm sorry, sir.
- Is everything OK, sir? - No, it's not.
Some smegger's filled in this "Have you got a good memory?" quiz.
That was you, sir, last week.
- Was it? - Mmm. Look.
Nobody else spells "Thursday" with an "F".
I can't help it. I went to art college.
- How's supper, Listy? - Delicious. We had king prawn left?
I hate to go all technical, but swirly thing alert!
- Where? - It's not on the radar, but I smell it.
- Nothing here. - Nothing on long range.
Is it possible you could have made a mis-smelling?
Listen, butter pat head,
my nostril hairs are vibrating faster than the springs on a Spaniard's honeymoon bed!
- I'm telling you, something's out there! - No one's questioning your nasal integrity.
- Go to Blue Alert. - There's no one to alert. We're all here.
I would feel more comfortable if we're all on our toes in a Blue Alert situation.
- We all ARE on our toes. - What about Space Core Directive 34124?
34124 - "No officer with false teeth should attempt oral sex in zero gravity."
Damn you both! I want to go to Blue Alert!
OK, OK.
Thank you. A bit of professionalism.
Wait! I've got something.
Too small for a vessel. A missile?
Whatever it is, they clearly have technology way in advance of our own.
So do the Albanian State Washing Machine Company.
- Step up to Red Alert! - Are you sure?
It does mean changing the bulb.
There's always some excuse, isn't there?
Range 15,000 gigooks and closing.
- Collision course. Suggest evasive action. - Engaging re-heat.
It's still with us! It's some kind of heat-seeker!
That's it. We're deader than tank tops.
Suggestions?
Sir, I recommend I load myself into the reverse-thrust tubes
and you use me as decoy fodder.
This will leave me splattered across space and unable to complete today's laundry,
for which I apologise in advance.
Stop blathering and get in the tube.
Kryten, sit down.
I'm not doing me own smeggin' ironing.
Maybe we can reason with it. Open communication channels, Lister.
Broadcast on all known frequencies, and in all known languages, including Welsh.
This is acting senior officer Arnold J Rimmer
of the Jupiter Mining Corporation transport vehicle Starbug.
Now hear this, 'cause it's only coming once.
We surrender, totally and without condition. Thank you for listening.
Oh, additional. Sorry to take up your valuable time. Thank you. Bye.
Bye. Sorry. Thank you. Bye.
Rimmer, you've got a longer yellow streak than a stampede of diuretic camels.
Know this about me - like General George S Patton, I believe in reincarnation.
It is my conviction that in all my previous lives I've been a soldier,
a bold warrior soul, who in this incarnation has been given the body of an abject coward.
So excuse me while I have a humiliating panic attack under the scanner table.
- Here it comes! - Five gigooks to impact.
Hang on to your wage packets!
The controls are down!
- What on lo was that? - A suction beam. We're being dragged down.
- Fire up the retros. - Dead.
- Auxiliary power? - Dead.
- Joystick? - Dead.
The entire panel's deader than flares with pockets in the knees!
I've located the beam's source.
- What have we got? - We were snared
by a malfunctioning guidance beam designed to help docking supply ships.
- We've shut it down and can leave. - Anyone around?
- No life signs. - The ident computer is stubborn.
All I could get was something about classified military research.
Wouldn't give details, but the physicists involved -
Heideger, Davro, Holder, Quayle - the most brilliant minds of the 23rd century.
Whatever they were cooking up must have been pretty special.
- Anything to salvage? - There must be something.
Well, gentlemen, our strategy is clear. Let's tool up and go shopping.
- What? Anything? - I'm not sure. Something.
It's almost off my nasal spectrum.
(WHOOSH)
- (RAPID BLEEPING) - Strange. A life reading.
Why didn't it register before?
(URBANE VOICE) Welcome, friends. It has been many centuries since I last had visitors.
You, of course, are Kryten.
And you are Rimmer, the hologram. May l?
Now then... Yes, of course.
Primitive.
So basic.
You'd better have a mighty damn fine explanation, m'laddio.
Forgive me. I converted your projection unit from soft light to hard light.
Hard light?
I've got a body? I can touch? Feel?
Puncture repair kit on standby, sir.
- But how? - I created the hard light drive years ago.
My mind is not all that it once was.
- You are Lister. - How come you know who we are?
- You are in pain. Here. - Just a bit of Bangalore belly.
No. It is something more serious. May l?
OK.
Your appendix.
As I thought, you were on the verge of peritonitis.
Cheers, man.
- And you are the Cat. - You come near me,
you'll be wearing them bowels as a bobble hat.
You're all tired and in need of nourishment. Come, let us dine.
- What is your name? - Call me...Legion.
- (CHAMBER MUSIC) - Please, make yourselves comfortable.
Legion, these statues, you sculpted them yourself?
Years ago. I was a different person.
According to my connoisseur chip, they fulfil all ten requirements for being masterpieces.
- You have a connoisseur chip? - Looking like Herman Munster's stunt man
doesn't mean I can't appreciate art.
- I shall return with the feast. - Can I eat? I mean, in this body?
Mr Rimmer, you can do anything a human can do,
plus you are practically indestructible.
- I can't be hurt?! - Your pain responses remain the same,
but you cannot come to harm.
Excuse me.
His cellular structure is unique - part living tissue, part mechanical.
He's got to come with us. He'd get us to Earth in weeks!
What a team we'd make. Legion, with his scientific genius, intellect and culture,
and us with...with...
With our Red Alert bulb.
Let's head for Real Street here. This Johnny won't come with us.
He'd never fit in. Can you see him playing "pin the pointy stick on the weather girl"?
True, but once he's signed up and we're off, it'll be too late.
We have to pretend we're not the uncouth morons you are.
Here is the feast. It is a traditional 24th-century Mamosian banquet.
How absolutely divine, Legion. Although I must say,
our souls are already gorged with the feast of art on your walls.
Are you interested in art, Mr Rimmer?
Many's the night we while away the wee hours contemplating a Caravaggio's themes and form.
The pointy-stick game doesn't get a look-in.
Marvellous! Now, this three-dimensional sculpture in particular is quite exquisite.
Its simplicity, its bold, stark lines.
- What do you call it? - The light switch.
- Yes.
- I couldn't buy it, then? - Not really.
I need it to turn the lights on and off.
It's a pity, because in many ways it could be considered a masterpiece.
Kryten, please join us. Mamosian cuisine is quite acceptable for mechanoids.
Indeed. It has long been a dream of mine to sample its unique flavours.
Let the meal begin.
I'm sorry. Of course. Not all of you can use Mamosian anti-matter chopsticks.
I'm fully versed, Legion.
I'm programmed to be proficient in all off-world eating techniques,
including Jovian boogle hoops, and the often-lethal Mercurian boomerang spoon.
- But the others... - Anti-matter chopsticks?
- We use 'em all the time. - Can't remember what a fork looks like.
Don't let custard stains down Lister's long johns
delude you into thinking we're not sophisticated.
The trick is, of course, to never, ever, under any circumstances,
to allow live sticks to touch.
But, of course, we all know that.
- Well, bon appetite. Tuck in, Listy. - No, no. After you, man.
Wouldn't hear of it.
Sir, keep the electron flow in the same direction.
How do you land the damn stuff?
Simply invert the ionic phase in the downpulse.
I was with you up to "simply".
Like so.
Sir, the glass is fixed. It's Mamosian telekinetic wine.
- How do you drink it? - Simply will it into your mouth,
then you telepathically decide on its flavour. Thusly...
Ah! Delicious.
Kryten, help me!
- Cat, that's mine! - I can't help it, bud!
- We've crossed wavelengths! - You're pulling my teeth out!
- Try swallowing it! - I have! Three times!
My friends, you are trying to impress me. There's no need.
Legion, may I be frank?
It's not often we meet an individual who could improve our already top-notch team.
But in you, we feel we have. In our travels, we've met precisely 31 individuals,
and we've never felt moved to invite one to join our crew.
True, most of them wanted to suck out our brains
or erase us from history altogether.
Nevertheless, they still weren't what we would consider the right stuff.
You are different. We feel that you, like us,
have the courage and the dignity to make it as a Dwarfer.
Sir! Don't cross the chopsticks!
Mr Rimmer, I am moved by the eloquence of your invitation,
but it is quite impossible for me to leave the institute.
- It was Lister, wasn't it? He put you off. - Nothing can change your mind?
- Absolutely. - Then we must bid you farewell.
- We have a long journey ahead. - Nonsense.
You have no journey, my friends.
I insist you stay with me as my honoured guests,
from now until the day you die.
Thirty-two.
- This will be your cell, Dave. - My cell.
You really are a nutter, aren't you?
Sugar Puff sandwiches, me favourite?
Nothing here isn't to your liking.
The entire room is stocked for your own unique personal requirements.
Two dozen eight-packs and a spare pair of sneakers in the icebox.
- Faultless. Not an inch wasted. - All your favourite music and movies.
Absolutely no Doug McClure.
- You will want for nothing. - Nothing? What about company? People?
There is a cyberpark here. You may go to any time period
and indulge any fantasy you wish with any persons you desire.
And that's in some way supposed to make me happy?
S-Sorry, run that by me one more time?
You will meet your companions in the morning.
(SLOWLY) Now, you must excuse me. They are falling asleep. I must go.
(FLAT CHORD)
Amazing. Doesn't even need tuning.
(CLASSICAL MUSIC)
- Good morning, sir. - What does he want?
Why is he obsessed with fulfilling our desires?
We're all baffled, sir. Was your room also perfect in every detail?
Impeccable. Right down to the overstarched pyjamas and nocturnal boxing gloves.
- What about you? - Filthy walls, muddy floors, mop...
I was in hog's heaven, sir!
When I write my "Good Psycho Guide", this place'll get raves.
Accommodation, excellent. Food, first-class.
Resident nutter, courteous and considerate.
Psycho rating's gotta be four and a half chainsaws.
Sirs, we must not be seduced.
However munificent our captor, we are still prisoners.
Every second, we lose more ground on Red Dwarf.
You're right, Kryt. Cat, caviar niblet.
Buck's Fizz. How do we get out of this hellhole?
Why is he so keen on keeping us happy?
- Could our well-being be linked to his own? - Like he's feeding off our emotions?
When we arrived, the scans recorded no life signs.
Could our very presence here have inadvertently awoken him?
Wait. I think I've got a way of getting out of here.
Who's seen "Revenge of the Surfboarding Killer Bikini Vampire Girls"?
That one slipped us by, sir.
Well, in one scene, the female journalist who wore glasses and a tight sweater
was trapped in the surfboarding killer bikini vampire girls' lair
and came up with this truly award-winning escape plan.
Ah, Legion. We have considered our position
and decided to make a new life here with you.
You believed I'd be deceived by that schlock plan
from "Revenge of the Surfboarding Killer Bikini Vampire Girls"?!
(GUTTURAL ROAR)
I just want you to be happy.
(ROARS) Now look what you made me do.
- What the hell are you, buddy? - Kryten knows.
- I do? - You suspect the truth.
You are a gestalt entity, a combination of individuals melded together to form one?
My name is Legion, for we are many.
What? You're us? All four of us?
Our combined minds and personalities, blended together?
Oh, much more than that, exponentially more.
The whole becomes far greater than the sum of its parts.
So we can't leave because you're us? lf we leave, you cease to be.
Without you, my friends, I am quite literally nothing.
So if he's us, he can't hurt us, right?
- Wrong. - But this is insane. Our pain is your pain.
Kryten, you forget. Not only do I possess your combined intellects,
I also share the sum of your malice and rage and anger, magnified many times.
I'm capable of quite insanely irrational behaviour. Watch.
(ALL WAIL IN PAIN)
The next hint of insurrection, and the scalpel ends up...here.
That kind of tough talk doesn't scare us.
(OTHERS) Yes, it does!
But what about the sculptures and the technology?
- Where does that come from? - My first incarnation.
I was host to Earth's five most brilliant minds.
They were studying collective intelligence. I was the product of that research.
Heideger, Quayle and the others? Your mind must have been extraordinary!
But all too soon, old age began to kill them, and as each one died, I became less,
until I was nothing, just a mindless essence,
swirling around the remnants of my achievements, waiting to exist again.
- One thing still baffles me. - What's that?
- Everything. - Sir, permission to test a supposition..
- Granted. - Trust me, sir.
- What's going down here? - The gestalt requires our consciousness.
As each of us becomes unconscious, his power diminishes. Permission to lay you out?
- Just don't mess up my hair. - Thank you.
Kryten, there has to be a more effective plan.
- Sir, come back. - I'm allergic to being hit.
You won't feel a thing. I'll render you unconscious using the lonian nerve grip.
That's smashing me over the head with a vase!
There's no such thing as an lonian nerve grip. Now stand still!
Your hard light drive's tougher than vindalooed mutton!
- This'll do the trick. - You can't be serious?!
Harder! Harder! Harder!
Stop! Stop! For God's sake! lf you want a job doing properly, do it yourself!
Stop!
Stop, Kryten! Clearly, I'm a hard light hologram and as such un-knockoutable.
- I think you're right, sir. - Kryten!
- I thought that if I took you unawares... - Kryten!
I'm trying to think, you rubber-headed eunuch!
- Right, got it. Turn off my light bee. - I can't penetrate hard light.
You'll have to extract it yourself.
- Now we are even. - I am merely you. Stalemate.
Not so. Since your psyche is all mine, you are now incapable of malice.
And because a human life takes precedence,
you are compelled to assist our safe passage to Starbug.
While the others remain unconscious, your logic is impeccable.
(GROANS)
(CLUNK)
- You take Cat, I'll take Mr Lister. - In many ways, I'm relieved.
To have shared their psyches, neuroses and strange drives,
returning to a state of non-existence seems like promotion.
One last thing, in your original incarnation, composed of those great minds,
did you develop anything which might help us pursue Red Dwarf?
Here we go. Initiating ignition sequence.
- Is this gonna work? - I don't see why not.
It is indeed a fully functional stardrive.
If we've linked it correctly to the engines, we'll catch up with Red Dwarf in nanoseconds!
- But it's bound to go wrong. - Sir?
- It always does, every time. - He's right!
There isn't a dog in hell's chance this will work.
Sirs, haven't we learned that if we all pull together,
we are greater than the sum of our parts,
that there are no boundaries to what we can achieve?
This stardrive is going work. Do we believe?
- (THEY MUMBLE) We believe. - (FIRMLY) Do we believe?
We believe!
(HISSING)
- Well, we know one thing, sir! - What's that?
It does work!
# 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 mangojuice
# Goldfish shoals, nibbling at my toes
# Fun, fun, fun
# In the sun, sun, sun
# Fun, fun, fun
# In the sun, sun, sun #