Categories > TV > Red Dwarf > Lone
They no longer shared bunks.
Kryten was responsible for the distribution of their belongings. He had popped Lister into deep sleep and Rimmer into the icebox as soon as they noted that Red Dwarf was lost and set out to follow the vapor trail. When Rimmer was rebooted, he noticed with suspicion and vague alarm that the meagre belongings that he and Lister had brought with them, on what was only supposed to be a short jaunt away from Red Dwarf, were put in pointedly separate rooms.
Yes, technically the sleeping quarters on Starbug were all singles. But they had spare bunks for emergencies, and how much room did a hologram need, anyway? Rimmer wondered, in his moments of paranoia, if this spacing was an intentional move on Kryten's part. Rimmer had noted an insanely jealous streak in the mechanoid where Lister was concerned, although Dave called him a pervert when Rimmer tried to bring it up. Rimmer was not good enough for Lister in that oversized can opener's mind, Rimmer was sure, and he was petrified that, somehow, every memory, every thought, every fantasy that he has ever had was recorded on his bee for posterity, and that Kryten had perused them at his 200-year leisure.
In his moments of extreme paranoia, Rimmer wondered if Kryten consulted with Lister before rebooting him.
Starbug's quarters were cramped, and any hostility hung in the air in a dull cloud. Starbug did not have the room that Red Dwarf provided for it to dissipate - for one or the other of them to just go away for a week or two and not see the rest. They saw each other every day, and in that air poisoned by resentment, every word was an insult, if looked at from the right angle.
They all looked at that angle.
Rimmer knew he was getting snippier and nastier every day. He knew he was turning from a mere smeghead into a truly mean man, and he could do nothing about it. Nowhere to regroup, nowhere to calm himself, nowhere to center himself, not even to the very nominal level he used to. If he had blood, he thought, he would have popped an artery by now.
Cat practically lived in Lister's room. The smug, smeggy feline would aaaaaaw and yeah his way in there most evenings, slinking into Lister's spare bunk, where Rimmer knew Arnie J. was not welcome. In the mornings, Cat would have a dish of milk and a scratch on the tummy before he and Lister left for duty, and did anyone ask if Rimmer might want the same?
Skip the milk. He hates milk.
But he was more than happy to disrupt their little slumber party with emergency drills as often as he thought he could get away with it.
His own room had sod-all in it. Pretty much all he had from life had been in that camphorwood chest, and the chest itself was rotting away in Starbug's storage decks, where it had sat like an uncomfortable cough ever since their stint on that winter planetoid. Rimmer tried, after he became hard-light, to acquire bits and bobs to make his stark sleeping quarters a little more homey, but his computer-generated heart was not in it. He went to his quarters only for the welcome unconsciousness of holosleep. It was truly ironic, he told himself - the only place he had any privacy on the blasted, creaking, taped-together, gurgly-piped ship was the one place he did not want it. The only place he had ever really talked with Lister. He settled into a routine after a distressingly short time. Lie in the bunk, look up at the blank ceiling. Feel very keenly the absence of Lister above him. Wank. Fall asleep. Wake, and spend every waking moment outside of the sleeping quarters.
He wondered how long he could keep it up. One of them had to lose it, under conditions like that. He was a competitive man, and proud of it; the competitive part of him wanted the loser to be someone else, and so he fed the stinking air with his meanness and pettiness, hoping to make it unbreathable.
The rest of him was dying, more and more, every day.
Kryten was responsible for the distribution of their belongings. He had popped Lister into deep sleep and Rimmer into the icebox as soon as they noted that Red Dwarf was lost and set out to follow the vapor trail. When Rimmer was rebooted, he noticed with suspicion and vague alarm that the meagre belongings that he and Lister had brought with them, on what was only supposed to be a short jaunt away from Red Dwarf, were put in pointedly separate rooms.
Yes, technically the sleeping quarters on Starbug were all singles. But they had spare bunks for emergencies, and how much room did a hologram need, anyway? Rimmer wondered, in his moments of paranoia, if this spacing was an intentional move on Kryten's part. Rimmer had noted an insanely jealous streak in the mechanoid where Lister was concerned, although Dave called him a pervert when Rimmer tried to bring it up. Rimmer was not good enough for Lister in that oversized can opener's mind, Rimmer was sure, and he was petrified that, somehow, every memory, every thought, every fantasy that he has ever had was recorded on his bee for posterity, and that Kryten had perused them at his 200-year leisure.
In his moments of extreme paranoia, Rimmer wondered if Kryten consulted with Lister before rebooting him.
Starbug's quarters were cramped, and any hostility hung in the air in a dull cloud. Starbug did not have the room that Red Dwarf provided for it to dissipate - for one or the other of them to just go away for a week or two and not see the rest. They saw each other every day, and in that air poisoned by resentment, every word was an insult, if looked at from the right angle.
They all looked at that angle.
Rimmer knew he was getting snippier and nastier every day. He knew he was turning from a mere smeghead into a truly mean man, and he could do nothing about it. Nowhere to regroup, nowhere to calm himself, nowhere to center himself, not even to the very nominal level he used to. If he had blood, he thought, he would have popped an artery by now.
Cat practically lived in Lister's room. The smug, smeggy feline would aaaaaaw and yeah his way in there most evenings, slinking into Lister's spare bunk, where Rimmer knew Arnie J. was not welcome. In the mornings, Cat would have a dish of milk and a scratch on the tummy before he and Lister left for duty, and did anyone ask if Rimmer might want the same?
Skip the milk. He hates milk.
But he was more than happy to disrupt their little slumber party with emergency drills as often as he thought he could get away with it.
His own room had sod-all in it. Pretty much all he had from life had been in that camphorwood chest, and the chest itself was rotting away in Starbug's storage decks, where it had sat like an uncomfortable cough ever since their stint on that winter planetoid. Rimmer tried, after he became hard-light, to acquire bits and bobs to make his stark sleeping quarters a little more homey, but his computer-generated heart was not in it. He went to his quarters only for the welcome unconsciousness of holosleep. It was truly ironic, he told himself - the only place he had any privacy on the blasted, creaking, taped-together, gurgly-piped ship was the one place he did not want it. The only place he had ever really talked with Lister. He settled into a routine after a distressingly short time. Lie in the bunk, look up at the blank ceiling. Feel very keenly the absence of Lister above him. Wank. Fall asleep. Wake, and spend every waking moment outside of the sleeping quarters.
He wondered how long he could keep it up. One of them had to lose it, under conditions like that. He was a competitive man, and proud of it; the competitive part of him wanted the loser to be someone else, and so he fed the stinking air with his meanness and pettiness, hoping to make it unbreathable.
The rest of him was dying, more and more, every day.
Sign up to rate and review this story