("RED DWARF" THEME)
Gentlemen, thank you for attending the meeting.
Now, it can't have escaped anyone's attention
that things have been getting rather strained here of late.
Morale is on the floor.
We've lost all trace of Red Dwarf, tempers are strained, supplies are low.
So, I've decided, if you approve, to appoint myself morale officer...
..and set myself the task of raising spirits and improving the atmosphere.
Now, to kick off, we should all meet once a week
to have a coffee or a beer, whatever's your poison,
and get any problems we may have off our chests.
- Any objections? - (ALL MUTTER IN APPROVAL)
Well, as it's week one, why don't I start?
You know what it is about Lister that makes me want to puke?
That makes me want to stab him in both eyes with an ice pick?
Everything, that's what.
Especially his godawful, chirpy, gerbil-faced optimism.
And as for the Cat, what an unbelievable git.
And Kryten, if he doesn't change pronto,
I'll attach jump leads to his nipple nuts and fry him like Cajun catfish.
Well, that's cleared the air.
I know I certainly feel better. Thank you, gentlemen.
See you at next week's morale meeting. Marvellous.
- Good meeting. - What's eating him?
Well, I'm no psychologist, but maybe the bleak emptiness
of our hopeless predicament is getting to him.
You can tell when he's tense. He scrunches up cups.
And we're not talking styrofoam. We're talking enamel.
- He attacked me with that fridge. - What happened?
He wrenched it off the wall and tried to insert it.
- What did you do to upset him? - Nothing. I was just sitting there,
plucking out my lengthier nostril hairs with tongs.
- Extraordinary. It's so unprovoked. - The guy's so touchy.
If I did that every time you're being gross, you'd have to go on a fridge-free diet.
The problem is, every day's the same old slog in deep space.
- Take Christmas Day. What did we do? - If you remember, we were attacked
by that pan-dimensional liquid beast from the Mogidon Cluster.
Maybe that wasn't a great example.
I'm saying our lives are dull, repetitive.
We never stop to smell the roses. We never celebrate anything.
- We got nothing to celebrate with. - Not true, sir.
There's a whole case of that wine I brewed out of urine recyc, practically untouched.
Call me pretentious, but, for me, good wine should not leave you
with a moustache that you can only remove with turps.
- (SIREN) - Autopilot alert.
- Storm front ahead. - Too late to go round! It's on us.
Stellar fog, tightly-packed particles from an exploded supernova.
Scanners can only penetrate a few metres.
- Slowing to minimum. - Absolute concentration till we're through.
- There could be anything out there. - Don't worry. We'll spot it.
- Anyone hurt? - My pride sure needs mouth-to-mouth.
Mr Lister! Sir!
- He's out cold! - All stop. Let's get him upstairs.
- (RIMMER) How is he? - Not good, sir. Better look away.
- I know you hate the sight of blood. - It's OK when it's Lister's.
- Impossible! - (CAT) What?
Look! Mr Lister is a droid!
- What?! - No doubt about it.
He's entirely mechanical. A 3000 series. Made in Taiwan.
Look, he has a 24-hour call-out number.
I'm sorry, I'm not buying this. Who'd create him and why?
What's his mission? To rid the universe of chicken vindaloo?
If he wasn't human, I'd know by his scent.
The X-rays confirm it.
This is so strange. Mr Lister's an icon of mine.
Now I find he's an earlier model. Technically, I outrank him.
How come he looks so much more sophisticated than you?
Sir, having a head shaped like a freak formation of mashed potato
doesn't make me unsophisticated.
Why does he look more human?
Humans have always found exact duplicates rather disturbing, sir.
The 3000 series was notoriously unpopular.
Most of them were recalled. A few slipped the net and made new lives.
- Do you think he knows? - Unlikely.
He probably reprogrammed himself to escape detection.
This'll crack him up, devastate him. Who's going to tell him?
I'll write you into my will if it's me.
I suggest you let me, sirs. I'll talk to him droid to droid.
OK. We'll try to get out of this damn fog.
(GROANS)
- What hit us? - Something in the stellar fog, sir.
It didn't show up on the scans. Sir, do you remember your parents?
I was found under a pool table in a box.
Hmm. Was anything written on that box?
Were the words "kit" or "paint before assembly" written on the side?
While you were under, we discovered something rather disturbing.
It's that tattoo, isn't it?
I don't really love Peterson. He just got me drunk.
It's not the tattoo, sir. There's no breaking this gently.
I'm afraid, sir, you are not human. You're a droid.
- I'm a what? - You're a mechanical, 3000 series.
- Technically subordinate to me. - What does this all mean?
In broad terms, I get the front seat in the cockpit and you're in charge of the laundry!
And I want to see creases!
Kryten, have a heart, man. I'm in major stress-related shock here. Gobsmack overload.
You're a droid. You don't have real emotions. It's just synthi-shock.
Now go about your duties.
- Why are you being so heartless? - I'll tell you.
You encouraged me to break my programming and ape human behaviour.
But you're no better than l! But worst of all,
for four long years, I had to hand-scrub the gussets of your longjohns!
Now, unless you want to be damned to Silicon Hell,
bring refreshments up to the cockpit, pronto!
- What was the jolt? - It's a mystery. Nothing on the scanners.
It was like an energy pocket. We're out now.
I'll see if this phenomena is mentioned in our databases.
Tea up! Sorry I was so long.
Let me see that tray, please.
- Why? - That's, "Why, Mr Kryten, sir?"
You call those triangular sandwiches? Did you use a set square? I think not!
And the chocolate finger display is laughable.
Don't just pile them higgledy-piggledy.
Make them into an attractive log cabin structure or something.
This will not do. Return to the galley and start again.
OK...sir. This doesn't feel right. Not right at all.
What a charlatan. All these years...
- Any ideas yet? - Wait. Here's something.
Reports of artificial stellar fogs which contain reality minefields.
- Reality what? - Bubbles or pockets of unreality,
which when encountered create false realities designed to disorient and drive off looters.
- From what? - It's a defence device fitted to test ships,
which have prototype drives so awesome in power that they have to be safeguarded.
We crashed through an unreality pocket?
Which created a false reality, making us believe Mr Lister was... Oh, my.
- You mean he's not a...? - No.
- Tea up, sirs. - Sir, I, er...
What do you think of the picket fence?
- I'm not happy with it. I'll do it again. - Sir, may I see your arm?
Smeg! It looks normal, human!
Someone else tell him.
I've got gussets to scrub.
I wondered if you felt like a nice cold beer, sir?
Oh, sir, how many times can I apologise?
I have offered to mince myself. What more can I do?
Don't worry, I'll think of something, probably involving a poker,
a recharge socket and 4,000 volts of direct current.
This fog's getting worse. I say reverse out.
I hate to agree with Laundry-Chute Nostrils, but he has a point.
Scanners are out, and my smell range is practically zero.
Starbug is small. We can make it through without hitting any more unreality bubbles.
Someone's gone to big trouble to keep spacecraft out.
- Let's find out why. - But how can we guarantee...?
(BOTH) We hit one!
- That's what I said. - Where's the Cat?
- He's gone! - I'm not gone! I'm here!
- They erased him from existence. - Then how come we remember him?
- Who? - I don't remember.
Hey, buds, don't do this to me! You can't forget me!
I don't get this! An unreality pocket, and everything's normal!
What do you mean? I'm invisible!
It makes no sense. The three of us are here.
The four of us! There's four of us! Can't you hear me? Can't you feel me?
We're getting some buffeting!
Passing back into normal space.
What are you doing?!
- Can you see me? - Of course I can.
You all forgot who I was. It's weird here. Let's go.
We just have to keep our heads.
Boy! This is worse than triple-strength catnip!
The pockets are getting denser. We'll never...
make it.
- I can't take much more of this. - Just ignore it.
It's designed to make you feel disorientated.
He's right. Let's just keep going.
All ahead stop. We have to talk. Kryten, how far to the epicentre?
About another three days, sir.
- OK, you win. Let's get outta here. - Perhaps there is one possibility.
That's it. I've installed a temporary stasis seal on both deep sleep units.
In theory, time will be frozen, and neither reality nor unreality can penetrate.
See you in three days.
- Did we make it? - We successfully penetrated the minefield.
- We found the epicentre. - What was it protecting?
A derelict. According to the computer, it's from the 28th century
and capable of time travel?!
- Crew? - All dead. This was the maiden voyage.
They contracted an influenza virus on an excursion to the 20th century.
Before they died, they programmed the autopilot
and generated the minefield to protect the machine from the wrong hands.
Does this mean what I think it means? We strip out the drive and...
Bingo! We've got ourselves a time machine!
Let's see if the sucker works.
Sirs, choose a year.
Since we can't guarantee this will work,
I suggest we select a neutral time period.
He's got a point. Let's go for somewhere nice and safe and dull. How about 1422?
- How about 1421? - What's the difference?
No difference. I just wanted it to look like I was paying attention.
Load 1421, Kryten.
1421 loaded, sir. August 17th. Engaging the time drive.
- Hey, we did it! - Indeed we did.
All chronometers indicate this is August 16th in the year 1421 - just one day out.
- Give us visual. - OK, punching it up.
I don't get it. We're still where we were.
Of course. We're still in deep space, sir, only now it's deep space in the 15th century.
Isn't it wonderful?
So we're still three million years from Earth?
Well, yes.
- Taking her back to the present. - Keyed in. Engaged.
Forgive me if I'm being thicker
than the offspring of a village idiot and a TV weathergirl,
but what exactly was the point of that exercise?
Fun though it was drinking in the heady medieval atmosphere of pre-Renaissance space,
the drive is useless, yes?
For the moment, but should we ever acquire a faster-than-light drive,
we will have the combination to travel anywhere, anywhen.
- Picking up a craft. - He's right. Here it comes.
It's a Jupiter Mining Corporation call sign.
Some kind of transport vehicle. Colour green, life-forms four...craft name "Starbug"?
Call me crazy, but that sounds weirdly familiar.
It's us, man. Us from the future. Hey, incoming SOS message!
- Don't punch it up! Close comms! - Why?
That vessel almost certainly contains our future selves.
Contact could be devastating. The human brain cannot cope with knowing its own future.
Yeah, but obviously we're in major trouble, otherwise we wouldn't show up.
No, Kryten's right. It's too dangerous. What if one of us is dead?
- Who could handle that? - We all could if it was you.
They're trying again. We can't just hang them out to dry!
Then suggest that I alone make contact.
I can give them assistance, then erase my memory.
Opening comms. Present Starbug calling future Starbug. We are ready to communicate.
Well, how did it go? Everything OK?
Mr Lister, sir...
I love you!
You know that, don't you? I'd hate you to...go anywhere not knowing that, sir.
So what's the SP? Can you tell us anything?
A little, sir. They are our future selves from 15 years hence.
(SOBS) What a senseless waste!
Does something happen to me?
All I can say is that their time drive is faulty. They can only travel forwards.
They jumped to this period to copy some components from ours.
So will I actually get to meet me? My knees are jelly!
Nobody will be meeting anybody. You must be sealed in the upper deck.
- So when are they coming? - Immediately.
I'll serve your supper in the ops room.
I thought I'd whip up a curry with jam roly-poly
and a jug of chilled margarita.
- They're all my favourites! - (SOBS) I know!
I thought we were out of tequila?
I put a miniature bottle aside, sir, for... no particular reason.
And I thought since today had...no special significance, it would be appropriate to...
- Just go, Kryten! - Thank you, sir.
(KRYTEN SOBS)
His favourite bowl.
His little cup.
The tin opener he used to pick his ears clean with.
- Everything OK? - Oh, yep, yep.
Those darn onions get you every time!
- What onions? - Er, the onions I'm about to peel.
I get emotional about depriving onions of their skin.
Don't Nixon me, man! Tell me the truth.
I die, don't l? I don't make it.
I can only disclose that all four members of the crew will be boarding this vessel.
- But I'm not amongst them, right? - One of them is Dave Lister.
Now, excuse me. I've already said too much.
I'm really confused now. So I survive?
I can say no more. Please, let us not squabble on this of all days.
Careful with them chillies. There'll be none left for tomorrow.
Look, there's nothing you can do. It's fate.
Am I dead or alive? lf I'm dead, how can I come on-board?
- What are you doing? - Hacking into the security cameras.
I'm rigging it up to the mediscan.
When they board, I wanna see 'em.
Docking complete. Opening airlock 4. Gentlemen, welcome aboard.
Ah, Mr Rimmer, sir. Come in, come in.
Did we actually used to live like this? What a godawful, depressing little hole.
We're used to the good things in life now, bud.
- Are you really me?! - Will you look at him?
Did I really look that goofy?
What's on your head? I hope you have a quarantine license.
We're time travellers now, and our business involves going back in history.
I have to look incognito. I can't go around looking like I've swapped heads
with a damaged crash dummy.
I think we're overstepping the bounds of agreed conversation.
Is, um...? Mr Lister, did you bring him?
Sir, you look terrific. I was expecting something much worse.
Don't worry about me, Kryts, I'm fine. Absolutely dandy.
Blow me! You've hardly changed at all.
Had I not known about the accident, I'd never have noticed.
Yo! We're in.
Oh, my God! Look at Rimmer!
- I can't have changed. I'm a hologram. - Wrong.
You're two meals from being a sumo wrestler.
- Let me see! - Am I there?
- Oh, yes. - What do I look like?
I can't actually see. The light is reflecting off the top of your head.
What are you talking about?
(LAUGHS) You're as bald as a plucked chicken!
- Let me see! - Wait! I want to see if I'm there.
I don't seem to be there. It's just you two, Kryten...
- Oh, my God... - What? What is it?
Ooooh, dear!
What? Is he fat?
Far from it.
He's lost a bit of weight, actually.
Actually, he's lost a bit of everything.
- What do I do to end up like that? - That is tragic.
That is the saddest thing I've ever seen in my life.
What happened to my butt? Buddy, you could park a plane in that crease.
So you're fat and bald. That's what happens when you get older. I'm a brain in a jar!
Self, self, self, self, self!
- What's going on? - (KRYTEN) This is our only bottle of wine.
We saved it for a special occasion.
And what could be more special than this?
- To the future. - To the past.
- This is poison, bud! - Haven't you anything better?
- We're used to the best! - We're epicures.
We travel through history enjoying the best time can offer.
Dolphin sweetmeats, roast suckling elephant,
baby seal hearts stuffed with dove pâté. Food fit for emperors!
(LISTER'S BRAIN) We know the greatest figures in history - the Habsburgs, the Borgias...
Only last week, Louis XVI threw a banquet in our honour.
The man is a complete delight - urbane, witty, charming...
He was a despot who lived in obscene luxury while the working classes starved.
- We didn't see any of that. - And his wife's an absolute cutie.
They're our favourite hosts. If you don't count the Hitlers.
- The who?! - If you avoid politics, they're a hoot.
- You're friends with the Hitlers?! - It's just a social thing.
We don't talk about his work. We just have a few laughs
and play mixed doubles with the Goerings.
- I don't believe what I'm hearing! - You have to understand,
we travel throughout history. Naturally, we want to sample the best of everything.
Unfortunately, the finest things tend to belong to people judged to be a bit dodgy.
Hermann Goering is "a bit dodgy"?!
What has become of you? You've abandoned your morals, been seduced by power and wealth.
All you're interested in is indulging your carnal desires.
And have we got some stories about that!
I don't recognise any of you. You're just amoral self-serving scum,
freeloading your way through history!
Good grief! I can't believe I was such a pompous prig.
(EXPLOSION)
OK. That's it. You've got two minutes to get off this ship.
I don't know how we became you, but I sure won't help you.
But we need to examine your time drive's mass compactor.
- That's one minute forty. - He'd be killing himself. He won't do it.
- What have I got to lose? I'm in a jar. - Gentlemen, let's go.
But without the calibration data, we'll be stranded.
- Fifty seconds. - Let's go!
You'll change your mind when you've thought it through. You're destined to become us.
In the end, you'll help us.
Twenty seconds. Into the airlock.
It was a mistake to see the future. Our lives will be coloured
by the fact that we end up becoming people we despise.
Threat warning. They've got a missile lock on us.
- Our future selves are attacking us! - They're nuts!
- The gyroscope's out! - They're trying to disable us!
- Another lock! - Incoming message!
Gentlemen, we have no intention of being deprived
of the luxury the time drive provides.
Either give us access to the data we require or be blasted out of the sky.
- But then you'll cease to exist. - Better that than live like you,
like rats trapped together, marooned in deep space. Your answer, 30 seconds.
- What do we do? - Have we any chance?
Their craft is greatly upgraded. We have no chance.
- Then I say fight! - Mr Rimmer?!
- Better dead than smeg! - Yes! Cat?
Better dead than sofa-size butt.
- Kryten? - Better anything than that toupee!
- Shields up. Arming lasers. - Bringing her around.
- Target acquired. - Locking on... Firing!
- Direct hit! - Starbug thrusters! Nice shooting, sir!
- Bringing her round for desserts. - They've got a lock!
I'm going for the fuel tanks. Locked on... Fire!
- Mr Lister! - Is he OK?
- He's dead, sir! - The hull's going. We'll all be dead.
(RIMMER) Cat!
Dead. But there may be...
Kryten? Kryten?
There may be a what? A way out of this?
Speak, Kryten! How can we change what's happening?
# 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 #