It was touted as the most significant advance in computing since the abacus. Clonally Reproduced Authentic Personalities; these computers were built to mimic the neural networks of their creators, to use the strange connections of the human brain, which humans themselves still did not understand, to think more flexibly. CRAP computers could learn from experience, could think creatively, and could even mimic human emotions. Many CRAP computers were used as the heart of machines that benefited from independent action; CRAP computers were assigned to oversee machines in environments that were too hostile for humans to venture. Manufacturing robots on Mercury, mining robots on Io, and bouncers in Australian bars were all controlled by this new wave of computers. They found domestic use, as well, most notably in the 4000 and 5000 series of mechanoids from Divadroid.

It was a wave that did not last long. Whoever OKed this project was not someone who realized that computer programmers, as a group, do not tend to be the most well-adjusted of individuals. CRAP computers were moody and neurotic, and tended to sulk. Most of them were recalled in favor of new algorithms, which, although lacking in the flexibility of their predecessors, were significantly more reliable, and did not require users to have a staff psychologist on standby.

You might still, if you peek in at the latter half of the 23rd century, find a few of them still in use. The Space Corps test base on Mimas had a handful. The programmer who had been the basis for their flight control computers - yes, her head was altogether too easily turned by a handsome face, or an indifferent face, or even a somewhat ugly face. She had been more than a little boy-crazy. But she had also been brilliant at astronavigation, and as most of the test pilots tended to be single men, the personality quirks of that series had been seen as a plus.

Nobody could have predicted what would happen when an already giddy computer was assigned to that fine specimen of manhood, Commander Ace Rimmer. There was no denying that he was, indeed, a hell of a guy, however, so it bothered nobody when she developed a rather significant crush on him. Didn't everyone?


The Computer had no other name. She was merely The Computer, or, as she liked to think of herself, "Computer," in Ace's velvety tones. She had been reassured by the staff psychologists that she did not have emotions, merely simulations of them, but this was a metaphysical point far too subtle for her programming. She only knew that it sent a thrill of current through her higher-order-function processors when he stepped into the cockpit, and when he grasped her flight stick with those strong, lean hands, she sometimes had to do a soft boot to focus on her job. She was completely satisfied with her job. Her job was to keep Ace flying and to keep him safe, and what more could a besotted Computer ask for?

He had girlfriends by the score. What did that matter? They ran through his life like water. She was the constant presence in his life. She was there when he walked out of the base and started his missions in the mornings, and she flew him home safely at night. She was installed into the DJ ship for its virgin run, under Ace's expert hands. Did they trust any other computer? No, her, only her. She was installed by Spanners - the only other constant in Ace's life, and she resented it. But he would be out of their lives after this trip. She and Ace would be together, forever, one way or another; death in a blaze of glory, or life together, facing a multiverse of hostile dimensions. She almost blew a relay in excitement.

They arrived safely in another dimension, and the latter possibility is what came to pass. It was everything she could have hoped for - perhaps a little more. She tended to Ace, carrying him safely from adventure to adventure, protecting him as best she could as he righted wrongs and rescued beautiful damsels. And had sex with them, of course, but what did she care? They, too, flowed through his life without leaving a mark. She was the constant.

She was there the day he died.

He had been fighting in a war of liberation; the gentle and artistic Slevegardians asked for his help in their rebellion against the evil and flatulent Grodganders. Being Ace, he had accepted, of course, and had struggled shoulder-to-shoulder with them (the Slevegardians had a four-meter shoulder span, so this was no small matter) for three years. Computer had supported him, using her advanced electronics to monitor the enemy, who were prone to sneak attacks and diversionary tactics. Finally, the forces of good, beauty, and proper grammar had an opportunity to triumph, and all that was required was the theft of an important document from the Grodgandish headquarters. She had no idea what the purpose of the document was; all she knew was that he recovered it, delivered it to the Slevegardian leadership, and staggered back to the DJ ship, bleeding from any number of wounds, including a series of fractured ribs that protruded from his skin on one end and punctured a lung on the other. On seeing the state of him, she launched the ship, the retros taking out the suburbs of a small Slevegardian city. She did not care. Ace was dying, and she was prepared to launch both of them into the heart of a white-hot sun; a fitting end for a hero, and perhaps his loyal, loving computer, as well. She assured him all would be well. He, in turn, assured her that she would carry on after him, carry on his legacy. Pouring on yet more assurance, she soothingly assured him that she would, indeed, while a background process tweaked their trajectory for optimal impact. They would create a flare that would burn for centuries.

"Well," Ace gasped, one hand pressed to his bleeding side, "after all, there are all kinds of alternate dimensions, aren't there? Bound to be another Ace Rimmer. Better than me, I'll bet. You should find him, old girl. You have action in your circuits; no quiet retirement for you, eh?" He gasped again, coughed up a mouthful of blood, and slouched in his flight chair, his life signs faltering.

His words started a thought process in the computer that practically blew her motherboard. Other Aces. Other Aces. Other Aces! This was just a shell. The spirit of Ace lived on, in other dimensions! She would find them. She would bring each one, in turn, to his destiny as a hero. She would love every single last one of them! Yes. She fired her guidance rockets to swing them around the sun, and started the calculations necessary for a jump to another dimension. One that was close to their original dimension. She wondered, idly, how to dispose of the shell. Bloodstains were hell to get off of synthoplast.


Five million years had changed the Computer very little. She had received a number of upgrades, which had decreased her size to a tenth of the original, while incorporating memory upgrades that allowed her to store every detail of her millions of years of existence for immediate recall. Her processing power gave her an almost-prescient ability to extrapolate from known data.

But she was still in love with Ace. Every single one.

And she was still slightly jealous of Spanners. Every single one that she came across.

This odd, grotty, messy, Spanners-look-alike had relieved her, when she first saw him greet yet another dying Ace in Starbug's landing dock. He did not look a shadow of the crisp, alert, competent man she remembered. So why had this Ace returned to speak with him, after speaking with a near-duplicate of the Spanners she had eyed with suspicion, so long ago? And why did they both return? This Ace was more taciturn and introspective than (she ran a quick memory check) any previous Ace, and that bothered her. Heroes were not introspective. They were brave and charming and wonderful and superficial. She had spent rather a lot of time worrying about whether this one was a true Ace, and this strange development made her wish for teeth, so that she could chew on a pencil while pondering. It seemed to help humans so, and she had not encountered a quandary this challenging in (she ran a quick memory check) four million, six hundred thousand, and twenty-four years. Plus a few hours. She did not understand what the connection was between this Ace and this strange Spanners alternate. But when they exited (to her great relief) the dimension that housed the too-like-the-original Spanners, after only a few hours, and Ace unstrapped himself from the pilot's seat after takeoff and joined... Lister on the cot in the back, she began to have an all-too-good idea of what it might be.


Rimmer sat on the cot in the back of the DJ ship, next to Lister. His mind was not settled. Spanners had not returned by the time Lister had awoken, but Rimmer had felt an urgent need to depart. He muttered some gobbledygook about dimensional inertia and particular fluctuation and entropy enhancement, but the truth was, he could not lie there with Lister atop him, looking down at him in adoration, and face... things. What they had done. What they might do. Dressed, wigged, Aced, and strapped into his pilot's seat, a short time later, he had reviewed the conversation and cringed. Words that had made perfect sense when gasped in the heat of a sexual moment became overblown and trite when viewed in the clear, cold light of a launch pad. He could deal with that, though, he was sure, if it weren't for the fact that he was smegging horny. They had just had sex an hour ago, and he was already as hard as his Aunt Agatha's fruitcake. There were now two joysticks in the cabin. What was wrong with him? He needed to invest in saltpeter, anesthetic, fecking sledgehammers, if nothing else did the trick - but with none of these on hand, he found himself seated in the back of the cabin on the cot, next to Lister, trying to find a way of saying, "Would you like to get naked and shag?" that did not sound like, "Would you like to get naked and shag?"

He licked his lips.

Lister had been trying to make conversation with Rimmer ever since they left, all too soon in his not-so-humble-opinion, that admittedly borrowed bed in Spanners's quarters. No, that was inaccurate. He'd been trying to get more than single-syllable words out of him. Body language, sign language; anything. It really was beyond frustrating. All right, so he'd had no illusions that any battles had been won. He was well aware that loving Arnold Judas Rimmer was a full-time job even without the added complications of him being Ace, and Lister had told himself he was more than willing to take it on. Sometimes, however, he just wished the smegheaded idiot would just get his goited head around the idea that Lister loved him! That was his goal for now. One thing at a time. He looked at the man seated next to him, all nervous uncertainty and virtually non-existent self-esteem wrapped in a hard-candy shell of neuroses. And this, he told himself, he loved? Smegging hell. What had he gotten himself into?

"Erm..." That was not a promising start, Rimmer thought. It lacked - well, comprehensible words. "Look, I..." he trailed off, his hands twitching. He had no decent sentences beginning with "I" on hand.

Perhaps, Lister thought, looking up abruptly at the voice, it would all be so much easier if the mere sight of Rimmer didn't make him insanely horny. He realized that his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was rather jittery. He didn't like to think about why; that would just make it worse.

Rimmer shifted on the cot. Maybe Lister would get the hint. Or maybe he would think that Rimmer's underwear was excessively itchy.

This was useless. He had no idea why, but Lister found himself unusually nervous at the thought of coming on to Rimmer. They'd just had sex, for smeg's sake, and here he was, unable to just reach out and grab the man? What was this? He tried to arrange his body-language to explain his position, but found that it was suffering from a speech impediment. And not just the one making his pants uncomfortably tight. Fine, so love made you blind; accepted. But love making you mute? Making your body mute?

Rimmer awkwardly raised his hand and touched Lister on the shoulder, but pulled his hand back nervously. He was not a... touch-person. He did not do casual touching well. He clasped his hands on his lap.

Lister looked at the hand when it touched his shoulder. The hand was good. That had to be Rimmer's idea of a come-on - although you could never know. The man was a neverending mental puzzle. Slowly, Lister moved his eyes upwards, reaching Rimmer's face, and edged a little closer. He licked his lips nervously. "You... Er..."

To er is human, to get to the point divine, Rimmer thought, pulling off his wig and fiddling with it. His hands needed to be doing something.

Wig is coming off, Lister thought; that's a good sign, too. Fecking hell, he was ready to jump him; and after what they'd just done? Lister looked at the wig, at the hands playing with the wig. Thought of what those hands could do. He looked up.

"Well." A complete word, and seen from some angles, a complete sentence. Well done, Arn. "Do you..." He stuttered to a halt as he saw that Lister was staring at him. And he had been doing so well. He found he could not look away.

Oh, to hell with it, Lister thought, lunging forward into a kiss. He was shivering all over, urged on by some force which had been, he realized, locked up inside him for far too long, and now demanded its fair share of time in the spotlight.

Rimmer accepted it eagerly, resignation and relief slowly giving way to even more acute horniness. He closed his eyes, but from that angle, he might not have noticed the little lights that blipped on the Computer's console even if they had been open. The Computer was... considering.

Oh, good - he liked it! Stupid thought, perhaps, but how should Lister know? Rimmer had said sod-all for the last hour beyond mumbled techno-jargon and subdued Ace-lines to passers-by, so how could Lister possibly... Oh, who cared! With something of a deep, satisfying inner thrill, he deepened the kiss, pulling Rimmer closer by the back of his neck.

The word 'horizontal' came to Rimmer's mind, for no good reason, and he pulled Lister in at the small of his back, while pushing him back onto the cot by leaning in. He found that he was muttering incomprehensible things, interspersed with a fair amount of moaning and the other odd noises people tend to make in the throes of sexual excitement. He found himself doing a dance he had not done since college, one he was sure was out of style by now, known as The Frottage.

Half-moaned, half-whimpering, entirely lost, Lister tried to wrap his legs around Rimmer, rather enjoying the sounds he was evoking. He tried to see how far he could get his tongue into Rimmer's mouth, a faint voice in his mind warning him to take it slow and easy. People sometimes had interesting reactions to his tongue.

Rimmer wondered, idly, just how long that tongue was. He tried to see how wide open he could get his mouth, to have some idea of its range.

More than impatient now, Lister pulled and prodded at the clasps on Rimmer's flightsuit, trying to remember how those smegging clasps worked. His brain was otherwise engaged, however, and he fumbled at them ineffectively.

For smeg's sake. The little winzed tailor had designed them to be easy-open claps. Even Lister should have figured them out by now! He slowed down his mouth-licking and put his hand over Lister's, demonstrating how they simply popped open, if tugged the right way. Lister broke the kiss and looked on, mouth open. Rimmer's annoyance slipped as a smug superiority nosed its way in. Ah, Lister didn't know everything about sex, did he? Rimmer flashed a snarky grin. But by then, Lister had already taken Rimmer's hand in his, leading it slowly to his mouth, and had started slowly sucking at his fingers, very, very gently. Rimmer's grin faded. Maybe he was wrong about that after all. The feel of Lister's mouth on his fingers was making little whimpery sounds fall out of his own mouth. He reached his unoccupied hand down to tug at Lister's belt.

Lister found that he was getting a little too into what he was doing, and began to worry. He tended to lose himself in sex, unable to recall much about it other than a vague perception of how it had been, but this was different. In a very, very good, but frightening, way. He tried to help with the belt. Licking Rimmer's fingers got in the way, and he had to stop, tearing off the belt in annoyance.

Rimmer was not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that Lister had stopped. Instead of contemplating that line of thought, he pushed at Lister's jacket and jumpsuit, trying to get it all off. It was a mess of patches and laces, and Rimmer was still not sure what fastened and what served a structural function.

The last thing on Lister's mind was whether or not his clothes survived this intact. He tried to shrug out of them, rising a little off of the bed, but this mainly resulted in him thrashing aimlessly about.

While it was somewhat exciting to watch Lister thrash about, Rimmer could not help but think that the effect was somewhat blunted by Lister being fully clothed. He stood, pulling at Lister's clothes from a position of leverage next to the cot. Lister hurriedly tried to help. He managed to remove his jacket with some difficulty, and small surge of triumph passed through him at this.

Leaving the more esoteric of Lister's clothes to Lister, Rimmer settled for pulling at his boots. Lister slithered towards him. Rimmer stopped, and started picking at the knots in the laces with annoyance. Lister let Rimmer deal with the boots. He tried to remove the overalls from his upper body, using teeth, arms, elbows, anything, which only resulted in him getting tangled up in himself.

Rimmer finally pulled Lister's boots off and tossed the dratted interfering things off to the side. He made a mental note to throw them away. Maybe Lister would get boots with zippers. Or just go barefoot.

With Rimmer no longer yanking at his feet, Lister managed to work his way free of the upper half of his jumpsuit. Rimmer grabbed the cuffs at Lister's ankles, pulling and shaking, trying to work the jumpsuit off. His jumpsuit had gone on and off much more easily than this, he thought with irritation. Some part of him reminded him that it was never worked off by another person in a sexual frenzy; he ignored it. He tossed the jumpsuit away, grabbed the long johns, which had been pulled halfway off with the jumpsuit, yanked them off completely, and tossed them away, as well. Good. Lister was naked. He looked down at himself. He was not.

Finally! Lister observed his naked body with some relief. He sat back, panting, looking at Rimmer. Maybe he would strip? A faint, unlikely hope, but a man could dream, couldn't he?

Rimmer pulled off his jacket, tossing it over the back of the flight chair. He did a little dance to try to get out of his boots, which seemed to evoke an odd sort of giggle from Lister. Yet again, he cursed his decision to wear real clothes. The women could have just dealt with the holo-clothes, couldn't they have? His attempt to toe out of his boots was hampered by Lister reaching out and grabbing his shirt, pulling it over his head. He bowed to help it slide off.

At this point, Lister found himself in the advantageous position of being on the inside of Rimmer's half-off shirt and quite close to Rimmer's neck. What could he do but lick it?

Rimmer yelped. No, he did not need more stimulation, he fumed; he had quite enough at the moment, and needed this bacofoil out of the way, thank you. He feverishly tore at his pants, getting them and the boots off, finally.

Lister worked Rimmer's shirt off as best he could, while licking skin as it became available. It tasted better than any food; high praise, coming from him. But it was true; being with Rimmer seemed to escalate his senses, enhance them. The sheer sensory input was almost too much. He idly wondered what would happen if he combined the two; imagining Rimmer drenched in Madras sauce. The thought alone almost made him come.

Rimmer pulled back to get the shirt all of the way off, staggering back into the pilot's chair, stepping on one of his boots and Lister's jumpsuit. Lister tossed the shirt away as it came off; he turned to Rimmer with a jubilant grin, pulling him close.

Rimmer practically jumped on top of Lister, pushing him back down onto the cot. Naked. Check. On cot. Check. Sex. In process. He licked anything near his mouth, bumping his nose against Lister's face. Lister laughed, happily, planting kisses wherever possible, concentrating on Rimmer's face.

The Computer sat, patiently, watching and listening. The noises were not unlike the ones Ace - and every Ace before - had made after bringing a nubile young thing aboard. The undulations, too, were fairly standard. She knew that sex was the one thing she could not provide for Ace, after all; as long as he took his pleasure with nubile young things and dropped them afterwards, she accepted the situation. The fact that this was not some nubile young thing, however, nagged at her higher processing functions, and forced her to take a closer analytical view at the situation.

She therefore ran an analysis on the noises she heard. Yes, the moans and sighs were standard, as she ran a comparison of them against the ones recorded in her database. However, the act currently ongoing involved 34% more giggling and an astounding 78% more laughing than any previous. The breathy, moany whine of Ace's climax, too, was 26% longer in duration than any a previous Ace had experienced in the cockpit.

So to speak.

The Computer started to experience something that the staff psychologists have assured her were only facsimiles of worry and dread. They took over an additional 46% of her run-time when she observed the followup to the act. She had been waiting for Ace to dress and sit in the flight seat, as usual. Instead, he and Lister engaged in an activity that could be best described as... reclining. Cuddling. Snuggling. Resting. The definitions were rather esoteric, and she could not distinguish the difference. Some form of not-getting-up-and-getting-dressed.

She put herself on an internal blue alert. But she knew the importance of data-gathering. She waited, watched, and listened.

Rimmer looked at the ceiling, a somewhat distant expression on his face, stroking Lister's arm. The acute need now passed, he did one of the things that he was rather good at. He worried.

Lister lay close to Rimmer, his eyes closed, a grin permanently etched into face. Would it be this amazing every time? He listened to Rimmer's non-existent heartbeat, the low electric hum he produced. It was not as eerie as he would have thought.

"So now..." Rimmer sucked in his lips, thinking, running over scenarios in his mind. He liked none of them.

Lister sighed contentedly. He wouldn't have minded lying there for the better part of the rest of his natural life.

Rimmer spit out his lips. "...back to Starbug."

Lister sighed again. "Yeah. I suppose."

Rimmer raised himself onto his elbow, facing Lister. Lister felt him shift and opened his eyes, looking on curiously. "So what is Ace doing?" Rimmer asked. He dropped back into the Ace voice. "Hullo, fellahs, I'll just be dropping back in every few weeks? Diddling Davey-boy, you know."

The voice was perfect now; not the confused rise and fall in pitch Lister remembered from before he left. He shifted to face Rimmer, shaking his head and grinning.

"Or..." Rimmer hopped into his own voice as he dropped onto his back, looking at the ceiling. "April fool!"

As he noticed the latent worry in Rimmer's voice, Lister grew serious. It was hard to know what to say; he could never tell what Rimmer would react wrongly to. And this... this thing they had here... Well, it was too precious to risk losing. He took his time.

Nothing. Thanks for the input, Rimmer thought. He looked over at Lister and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not leaving you. I did say." That, at least, could not be misinterpreted.

"Yes," Rimmer growled. "That's all very sweet, but what do I do." He found that his voice would not raise this into the lilt of a question.

Lister looked down at the cot, picking at it with a free hand. He did not want to meet Rimmer's eyes, afraid of what the other man might think he saw in them. "That's for you to decide," he said, very hesitantly. Of course, Lister knew what he wanted. He wanted Rimmer to himself, back safely on Starbug, with their adopted family. He wanted to share a bed, not just quarters, with him; bicker amicably through the day, eat meals together, dodge whatever dangers might come, and spend the nights slowly making love. That's what he wanted. But it might not be what Rimmer needed.

"Me." Rimmer turned so he was lying on his side again, facing Lister. His decision? Lister had no involvement or stake in this? "What if I told you to leave the Bug?"

Lister looked up, his head somewhat tilted. "Well..." This needed careful phrasing. He gave it the time it needed. "I'm not sure. I'd have to think about it." He tried to look sincere. "But I'd want to be with you. Been without you for too long."

Him and Lister. In this little ship, a space even smaller than their old technicians' quarters. No privacy. They'd go spare. "Or told you to sneak me in once in... whenever." That, certainly, was pointlessly adolescent.

There was something very defiant and alluring about that idea. Lister grinned, imagining those potential nights. "I can't say that doesn't appeal to me!"

Yes. Right. Tagging along behind Starbug like a sad puppy. Rimmer turned to lie on his back again, feeling jumpy. Those two were out. That left only one possibility. "You want me to give up being Ace."

"Eh?" Lister asked, somewhat concerned. Well, it was the truth, wasn't it? But he couldn't tell Rimmer that; he'd automatically assume Lister would resent him for doing anything else. How could Lister make him understand?

"I don't know," Rimmer muttered. Being Ace was a death sentence, that much was certain. He had come close uncountable times already; it was only a matter of time, and not much time, at that. On the other hand, there were perks. The DJ ship. The freedom. The glamour. The swooning women. Give that up to go back to the stinking, greasy Habitrail that was Starbug? He felt claustrophobic just thinking about it.

Oh no, he was slipping; Lister could feel it. Did he have to say it straight out? Would that work? He leaned over to look into Rimmer's eyes. Rimmer looked back, blankly. "I just want you to be happy. That's all I ever wanted."

Lay off the hyperbole, Rimmer thought. All you've ever wanted? We've done nothing but fight in most of the time we knew each other, and went to rather a lot of trouble to make each other miserable, back when I was alive. I know when that changed for me. When did it change for you? Last week? Rimmer raised his eyebrows, staring at Lister. Not seeing any kind of answer written on Lister's face, he closed his eyes, feeling very tired. "We have to tell them... something."

Maybe something had gotten through. Maybe not. Oh well, it was enough. Lister kissed Rimmer's forehead. "We should, yeah."

"What?" Ace never stayed longer than was necessary. Would that be all?

Lister gave a quick smile. "Whatever makes you comfortable. You don't even have to come back with me if you don't want." Please say no, he pleaded, desperately. If Rimmer left now, he realized, suddenly, he didn't think he could handle it.

"What, buzz the Bug and toss you at it?" Rimmer opened his eyes and flopped his head over. All he got in return was a blank, neutral stare. He still didn't get it, did he, Rimmer thought with exasperation. The quandary inherent in all of this. He licked his lips, and punctuated his question a little excessively. "Should I tell them I'm Rimmer?"

"You could." In fact, Lister wasn't sure they didn't already know, but he wasn't about to mention this now. But how could he possibly answer such a question? What did Rimmer want him to do; reassure him that everything would be all right? He couldn't do that. There were no guarantees in life, you just did your best and tried to stay positive. "You want me to tell you how they'd react to that?"

Rimmer's brow furrowed. "I'd have to kill the Cat." The infatuated feline would change his tune as soon as Ace was gone and goalpost head was back.

"Hah! He'd stove away on top of one of the lockers for days, man. Just sulking."

"Go back to that..." Rimmer muttered to himself, thinking about ill-lit corridors, mean sniping, urine re-cyc.

For a moment, looking into those multi-colored eyes, Lister saw what being Rimmer in that situation must have been like. Who could blame him, after all, for not wanting to go back to that? But it wouldn't be like that now. That had to be obvious. "It wouldn't be the same, you know. You're not the same."

Probably true. But tangential. "As far as they're concerned..."

"At first, maybe. But they're not daft, any of 'em. All right, so Cat will never warm to ya, that we both know. But Kris..." Lister stopped abruptly at the mention of her name. He tried to reel himself in. "Erm, well, Kris you'd get along with fine. Big on reading, thinking, that kind of stuff..."

Rimmer frowned. Kris, Kris, bloody Kochanski. She'll be understanding, because she's just so smegging intelligent and intuitive. A thought occurred to him, a rather mean-spirited thought. "I could take her back." Yes, deal with that. Do you really want me and not her, Listy?

"Wha?"

"To her own dimension. If she wants, of course."

Lister's face, despite his best efforts, fell. "Oh. Right. Of course." He'd forgotten. How could he have forgotten? He felt a hint of unease as he tried to cover his surprise, no longer certain which one of them he was trying to convince. "She'll jump at the chance, she will. You should hear her; it's nothing but 'her Dave' this and 'her Dave' that." But she didn't harp on about that anymore, did she? She hadn't mentioned 'her' Dave for more than a year...

Her Dave. His Dave. Too many Daves, and too few. Rimmer found himself losing his grasp of words. "Yes, we'll see. Maybe I can... do that. While I... think things. Over. It'd give me," he paused, "a reason to come back, after."

This was too hard. Neither of them knew what the other person was thinking, and right at that moment, Lister would really like to have known what was on Rimmer's mind. It was hard to reassure someone when you didn't know what that someone needed reassuring about. "You need one?" he asked, hesitantly.

Lister looked like he was trying to bend spoons with his mind. What, can't read my thoughts, Listy? Then we're even. "If I'm going to stay Ace," Rimmer swallowed, "I should probably have one."

Lister smiled weakly. "Well, you're Ace; you know these things best." Rimmer snorted. Lister looked at him teasingly. Yes, he was Ace, but he wasn't like any Ace ever before. Like he'd said himself, he wasn't quite Ace. But he wasn't quite Arnold Judas Rimmer, smeghead extraordinaire, anymore, either. Being Ace had done something to him. He looked stronger, he felt calmer; he was clearly more confident. Something shone within him. Because it really did invite touch, Lister began stroking Rimmer's arm tenderly. "Ace..." he repeated, with a flirtatious smile. Arn. Ace. And for the moment, should he manage to hold on to him, he was his. His! He gave a huge, contented sigh, deciding, for the moment, to let communication problems be communication problems.

The flirtatious smile was... hypnotic. Rimmer moved like he was being pulled by strings to kiss Lister on the lips.

This had gone far enough. The Computer had all of the data she needed, for now - and far more than she wanted. She activated her voice circuits, increasing the standard sultry level by 20%. Her voice dripped out of the speakers like airborne honey. "Ace?"

Rimmer and Lister both leapt a little at the sound. "Wha? Who?" Lister asked, half-expecting roaring klaxons and bug-eyed monsters breaking down the airlock door.

"Yes, Com..." Rimmer's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, putting on Ace. "Yes, Computer?"

Oh. Ship's computer. Lister felt exceedingly silly, and tried to pretend like he hadn't just squealed like a teenage girl.

"We're about to arrive at Starbug," the Computer purred. "I thought you might want to be..." her visual feed took in his nudity, "presentable."

There was just something inherently funny about the naked male body, even when it took the magnificent shape of Arnold Rimmer, and Lister couldn't help but giggle. Rimmer's mouth twisted as he looked back at Lister. Shit, Lister thought, he was naked, too! And his clothes would be torn, and were scattered all over the place. He looked at himself, eyes wide, panic rising.

Rimmer gave Lister a hearty slap on the shoulder. "You look better than ever, Davey-boy," he declared.

The combination of Ace's tones, words and gestures with a touch which he knew was Rimmer's, and the memory and smell of what they'd just done, mixed in Lister's mind, trying to make sense of one another. "Yeah, thanks!" he muttered, sarcastically. That helped somewhat.

Rimmer got off of the cot and started trying to pull his clothes together. He tossed Lister's back onto the cot as he came across them.

Once he actually found them, Lister tried to put his clothes on as well he could. He got some garments mixed up - no, he reminded himself, socks do not go there - but managed to dress as well as he usually did.

Rimmer was used to getting dressed in this cramped space, but not in the company of a flailing Lister. They kept bumping, and Rimmer's re-dressing was punctuated by mutterings of "sorry... ugh... sorry..."

Something bubbled up in Lister as he watched Rimmer bent to fasten his boots. There was that irresistible, perfectly shaped arse, sticking way up into the air, taunting him, tempting him. And Lister, joyously, gave in, slapping it heartily. Rimmer yelped and bit Lister's neck, which made Lister yelp in return, and laugh; laugh long and happily; laugh like he hadn't done for far, far too long. The Computer recorded all of these events, linking them to the feeling of alarm that she had shunted off as a sub-process in order to prevent it interfering with her regular functions. While Ace was still doing up his fly, she announced, sexily, "Opening communications channels..."

Rimmer finished dressing in a flurry of activity, slapping the wig on his head.

Still rather euphoric, Lister checked himself, finding said self quite lovely, thank you very much. He felt smug.

Rimmer sat in the pilot's chair. He was too flustered to find anything lovely. "Hey, fellahs! Got a passenger to bring back - how about a spot to land?"

It was entirely pointless, as no one would be able to see him, but Lister nevertheless sat on the cot with his back straight, as though he were the best student in Sunday school. He tried not to move, not to breathe in the smell of what had just happened on that now-no-longer-neatly-made cot. It was just a shame that the act of trying not to think about it made you think about it. Intently.

Kryten's voice came through the comm. "You're bringing Mister Lister back?" He sounded almost relieved.

Lister shouted, "Hiya, Krytes!" while trying to see over Rimmer's shoulder.

"Ah, wonderful! Yes, just proceed to the erm... er... eh..." Tapping noises came through the connection. "Oh, yes, the only landing bay Starbug has."

"Righto, Kryters!" Rimmer replied, heartily. His head was full of Lister, Kochanski, Ace, and that smegging sultry Computer. He hoped there was room in there to shoehorn the landing he was about to make.

Lister tried to give Rimmer a meaningful glance, but was seated behind him, so he could not. There was something very wrong with that computer.

Rimmer grabbed the joystick. The Computer purred, "Transferring to manual." There was no reason for her voice to be dripping sex like that, Rimmer thought desperately, feeling himself aroused by... his bloody Computer?

Stick, Lister thought. Hands. Hands on stick. Stick. He tried to shake it off, but being as it was in his line of sight, that was pretty much impossible unless he closed his eyes, which was a lot harder than it should have been.

The Computer knew what effect her voice was having. She knew Ace, and had tweaked the timbre of her voice over the last three million years for optimal effect on his auditory system. She noted the dilation of his pupils (did he know how fortunate he was? many hard-light drives were only able to project pale copies of actual humanity) and felt rather pleased. "Time to show them your... stick work..." she added, emphasizing the innuendo.

Stuck as his mind was on that very same object, Lister raised his eyebrow at the computer's words. Definitely loony, that thing was. Probably going computer-senile. He tapped his feet impatiently.

"Erm..." Rimmer's voice cracked again, and he tried to focus on the landing. He looked very intently at the console, joystick, the view of Starbug filling the screen, anything related to landing - and only the landing. "Bringing her.. it... ship... in." Rimmer did so with a little more speed then was generally called for. Lister looked on with a nagging sense of worry. Rimmer seemed to be rather shook-up. What was eating him?

The landing was, at least, safe, if not gentle, and Rimmer let himself be satisfied at that, as he set the ship down with a bit of a plop. As soon as they landing gear touched the deck, Lister jumped to his feet. He felt oddly younger, full of energy. Like there had been a part of him missing for ages, and now it was back. And he was raring to get to use it!

Rimmer got to his feet, as well. He hissed at Lister, "Is it on straight?"

"Yeah, yeah, yer fine!" Lister patted him on the shoulder with a reassuring smile. He looked like a git, but it was, indeed, fine. As soon as he got his persona on, that hair would stop looking like someone's dead pet hamster, and start attracting women, men and non-gendered entities to the point where they would need to be kept in check with gigantic fly-swatters.

Rimmer swallowed and popped the cockpit. He told himself he was prepared for anything. He was not. Fortunately, all that waited in the landing bay was Kryten. "Ah, welcome back, sirs!"

Acting normal was a bit of a contradiction in terms, Lister had always felt. If you were being your normal self, that wasn't acting, was it? And if you wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong, that was what you did; pretend nothing was wrong, not 'act normal.' Nevertheless, this time, something made him put on a bit of a show of just being - well - extraordinarily like himself.

Rimmer swaggered out of the ship and clapped Kryten on the shoulder. "How could we stay away, eh, old boy?"

"Kryten, man, how are ya?" Lister chimed in.

Kryten shook both of their hands at once, happily. "Ah, good to have you back, Mister Lister! I have a breakfast tray in the refrigerator..." He would have continued to make a fresh one every morning if Mister Lister had not come back, but he had, hadn't he? Yes. Kryten's fears that Mister Lister might leave with Mister Ace and never come back were unfounded. Silly. Very silly. Yes.

Lister grinned, and could not help but wrap an arm around Ace's shoulders in a manner which succinctly communicated that they were the best of good friends, and nothing, absolutely nothing more.

Rimmer flinched slightly. God, Lister, we haven't decided anything yet! He felt a certain amount of dread as he watched Krtyen's eyes widen. "I'm sure you must be hungry..." Kryten added, weakly.

Food! God, yes, food! The only thing that could possibly make him feel any better than he already did. Well, that, and a lager. "Sounds grand! I could murder a bit of breakfast. I'm really hungry, for some reason." It slipped out, unasked for, but not entirely unwelcome either. It was unfair on Rimmer, he knew, but he felt to good to be able to stop himself. He rubbed his hands together.

Rimmer tried not to pull away from Lister. That would look even odder. "Sounds like a helluva plan. I do have something to say to that lovely lady, though, if she is still around..." He winced at that. Still around? Where the hell would she go?

"Hey, yeah, where's Kris?" And Cat, for that matter, Lister noted to himself.

"Ah, you dropped in so unexpectedly!" Kryten replied, nervously. He hadn't wanted to bring Miss Kochanski down to complicate matters even more. He had trotted right past her. "I didn't have time to tell the others."

"What time is it?" This might not be obvious, Lister suddenly realized. He didn't know how this dimension jumping worked.

"Tea-time," Kryten replied. "Miss Kochanski is having hers in the midsection."

Grinning like an idiot, Lister flailed his arms around in extravagant gestures that tried to indicate every aspect of what he was feeling. "Well, what are we standing around here for, then?"

"Yes, let's head on up and get a spot of breakfast in good old Skipper here..." Rimmer said, pointedly.

Lister started walking that way, laughing heartily. "Right on, Ace my man." He winked.

Kryten hurried his high-kneed way up to overtake Lister "Wonderful!"

Rimmer walked behind, a little more slowly, watching them. Lister was almost skipping. He was delighted to be back on this scow.

Lister threw his arm around Kryten. "How was life without me, then? Miss me much?" He was in an extraordinarily good mood.

"Oh, quite dull," Kryten replied, feeling a thrill of satisfaction in his circuits as Mister Lister - hugged? Yes, by Tesla, hugged! - him. "The only moment of interest was when Cat used one of Miss Kochanski's thongs for his exfoliant. She was a little upset when she found it, and there was a bit of unpleasantness - nothing to speak of, of course!"

Those were some interesting mental images. Lister coughed at them, as though that would make them go away. "Right, well, sounds like the usual then."

"I mended the underwear and reset the Cat's shoulder," Kryten said, proudly.

Rimmer was not listening. He was walking behind and watching them, watching Lister's obvious joy, Kryten's oddly affectionate closeness. Two days Lister was away, not even, and he was happy as a pig in smeg to be back.

Lister shook his head, smiling. "That's our Kris for ya." Our. Well. His smile faded. She wasn't, was she? He didn't quite know why this bothered him to the extent it did. Well, of course, there weren't that many of them. And Kris, his or not, was someone he had feelings for; a friend. A good friend.

That name, in Lister's voice, did penetrate Rimmer's reverie, and he winced.

As they entered the midsection, Kryten called in greeting, "Ah, Miss Kochanski, mum!"

Kris looked up, holding a mug of tea in both hands. She realized who was coming just by the sounds of their feet in the corridor. When Kryten came into view, Lister sauntering along beside him, she beamed a smile. Life was always dull on the 'Bug without Dave.

"Mister Lister and Mister Ace are back," Kryten continued, unnecessarily. He bustled into the kitchen. Dishes had been dirtied while he had been down in the landing bay! He filled the sink with soapy water.

Well, yes, Kris could see that. All too well. Ace gave her a sultry look, and she found she did not know what to do with herself. The look turned into a smile, then a nod, and she tried to disguise herself behind her cup, frowning at the silliness of this.

Time to put the cards on the table. Rimmer walked over to the chair opposite from her, turned it around, and sat on it backwards, hands laced over the back, sitting straight. Oh, God, Kris thought; does he even know what that does to me? "Hello again..." she said, shyly, slightly annoyed at being shy.

Kryten bustled back in with Lister's breakfast tray. "Here you are!" He put it on the table, next to where Ace was sitting.

Rimmer looked at it, allowing vague disgust to cross his face. How Lister could stand to eat that slop, he could not understand. It certainly explained his breath, however.

Lister glanced at the tray. It was certainly inviting, but he sensed there was something going on in the room which he wasn't quite catching. It made him uneasy, and he sat down, his eyes darting from person to person, stealing longing glances at his tray from time to time.

Kryten folded a napkin neatly next to the tray, then bustled back into the kitchen. Rimmer watched Kryten do all of this, then looked back to Kris. This was a Moment, and he was damned if he was going to be upstaged by Lister's breakfast. "I have a proposition for you," he said to Kris, raising two fingers for emphasis.

Someone really ought to give the man a quick lecture on innuendo, Kris mused. Perhaps someone already had. Perhaps that was the problem. Kris coughed politely, then choked as the words made it through. "What?"

"Now, this is one you'll want to take some time to think over," Rimmer continued, doggedly being as Aceish as he could.

Kris was very, very nervous now. She was staring at Ace, cheeks flushed. Lister stared at them both. Kryten bustled back in with two cups of tea, pretending not to listen very intently.

"Now, you know that's a Dimension Jump ship," Rimmer continued, somewhat flustered by Kris's reaction and Kryten's hovering.

Lister kept his eyes on both of them, shifting in his seat. What the hell was going on?

Compliments were terribly useful, and Rimmer had, with practice, learned to spit them out without choking on them. "Top-flight astronavigationist like you should have no problem locating your dimension."

"Oh..." Kris replied, slowly, digesting the implications of this. They weren't high in fiber.

"I can take you back there..." This was a good time for a dramatic pause, wasn't it? Yes, he decided, it was. "...if you want to go."

Kryten smiled. Mister Ace and Miss Kochanski both gone at once! To better places, of course, better for both of them. And far better for him. Insofar as a geodesic dome could beam, he beamed. "Why, what a wonderful offer!" He put tea down for Ace and Lister.

Kris's hand flew to her chest. "I'm... I'm... I don't know what to say." She hardly knew what to think. Lister's eyes were stuck on her, which made her a little uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable than she already was.

"Say nothing. Just think it over." Rimmer gave his genial smile a try. It came out.

"I could find him again?" She stared into space. "See him again? Dave; my Dave?" She turned to Ace, suddenly intent.

Kryten was looking with great interest at all three in turn.

"Yes, if he's still there," Rimmer replied. Listers had a way of slipping from your fingers, after all. He noted Lister's intent stare, and Kris, making a sound somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

Kryten, still looking at each in turn, started stirring Ace's tea with his groinal attachment. Rimmer looked down, eyebrow raised. Hell. He had been looking forward to some tea.

Lister heard the whirring noise and looked at the cup. He slowly looked up to Rimmer. Kris mirrored his movements. Kryten saw them stare and shook himself. He was never supposed to use his groinal attachment for food service! Mister Lister had made that clear! What had come over him? He pulled out the whisk and tapped the tea off on the edge. He stepped back, shame mode kicking in.

"Hey, man... You OK?" Lister asked.

"Oh, yes, just fine! Very good. Fine! Lovely. Er... happy for... Miss Kochanski!" He made a show of bustling back to the kitchen and exaggeratedly doing dishes. Yes. Cleaning dishes was a most appropriate thing for him to do.

Kris's brow furrowed. "Kryten," she called after him, "how long has it been since I gave you a full systems check?"

"Oh, not long ago..."

Lister glanced at Rimmer, eyebrows skyward.

Rimmer frowned. That pile of spare parts had been nutty enough before. "Might not be a bad idea to do it again," he muttered at Kris, pushing his tea away with regret.

Kris nodded discreetly towards Ace. "Well, come round to my quarters later, and I'll give you a quick check up, all right?"

Rimmer raised his eyebrows. She hadn't addressed that comment to the mechanoid. "What about Kryten?"

Lister, having finally decided he needed some form of nourishment, promptly choked on a mouthful of piping hot tea.

Kryten continued to blissfully do dishes off in the kitchen, missing this exchange entirely.

Kris shot up out of her seat, blushing, fidgeting for a place to set her mug down. Shit, she thought; shit! "Er... I should. Yes. Well... awfully nice..." She shot Ace a glance. "Seeing you again."

Rimmer nodded, bemused. "The same. And I might impose on," he waved his hand to indicate everyone, "your hospitality while you think it over."

Not having time to reply, Kris merely sighed in lieu of a farewell, and rushed off, her heart having its own private rave-party in her chest.

Kryten walked back in, sudsy to the elbows, looking for something else to clean. Mister Lister hadn't even started on his breakfast. It was terribly frustrating when he didn't eat at all, as had happened all too frequently lately; it was not healthy, and it meant Kryten did not have the opportunity to clean the table of splatters. Maybe he could wash Mister Ace's mug. "So, is it decided? You will take her back to her own dimension? Very kind of you, Mister Ace, sir!"

Trying to wipe the tea he'd spilled on the table into his cup, Lister looked up for a moment, about to make some comment. The liquid was hot, however, and the burning sensation made him change his mind and concentrate waving his hand around like a manic conductor.

"It's her call, Kryters. If she wants to go back, it'd be ungentlemanly of me not to take her. If she wants to stay, she'll stay. Either way," Rimmer nodded in the direction she left, "I think she wants to see you later."

Kryten felt a little less excited. This sounded less certain than it had at first. "Well, I'm sure she'll want to go back. It's her home, after all."

With most of the tea rescued, Lister swished it absent-mindedly around in his cup, considering whether or not he should drink it. He swallowed, thinking of Kris, of all of them. Of her Dave, waiting for her, thinking she might be dead. He glanced at Rimmer, looking nothing but suave, well-adjusted and confident.

Rimmer nodded. "It's all up to her." He stared at Lister. It wasn't, actually. Lister met his eyes and smiled, somewhat apologetically. Rimmer looked at his hands, playing with them. He felt exhausted. It was smegging hard, keeping Ace up. It was fine with people he did not know. But Kryten and Lister, and that smegging woman Lister could still not take his eyes off of, when she was in the room? No insults, all polite gentlemanliness? He was ready to scream. Scream some very rude things.

There were those hands again. Lister had hardly noticed them, before, but once they'd been on your body, caressing you, exploring every inch of you, they were positively hypnotic.

"Got some place to put me up while I'm here, Krytes?" Rimmer sighed.

This was his cue, Lister thought, getting jittery. He had to take it; Kryten would never suggest it on his own. Still, he couldn't look too eager. It was important to time this right.

Kryten looked nervous. "Oh, dear me... we only have three sets of quarters. Miss Kochanski took Mister Rimmer's old space." This sentence disgusted the mechanoid. The two people who wanted to take Mister Lister away from him. He paused. "I'm sure the Cat wouldn't mind..."

"Hey, you know, I wouldn't mind it if Ace bunked with me for a while..." Lister blurted out, before Kryten had even finished. Shite. Too obvious!

Rimmer watched Kryten watch Lister. He had always dismissed the mechanoid as hopelessly nutters, but his behavior today was just offscale. Or maybe Rimmer had been away too long. Out of sight, out of mind. Kryten certainly was the latter.

"I mean," Lister started to ramble, speaking far too quickly, "Us being mates and all, and you know..." he coughed, then tried to smile ingratiatingly.

Kryten frowned. "I, er.." He was conflicted. On the one hand, he enjoyed making Mister Lister happy. On the other, he was not terribly fond of the idea of doing something that allowed Mister Ace to make Mister Lister happy. Perhaps far too happy.

Rimmer still watched. "No great shakes, Kryten..."

Lister jumped in. "Fine, then!" Usually, Lister had learned, if you just took charge and pretended something was all settled, people went along with it. If Kryten wasn't in that category of people, he'd eat his hat. This was a pretty safe bet, as he'd lost his most recent hat not long ago, so either way, he was good.

Rimmer chewed his lip. He could sense conflict. It was an instinct that he had bred from the days of his life back on Red Dwarf; exploiting it had been his only real skill. Kryten reeked of conflict. "If you're sure..." the mechanoid asked, unhappily.

"Oh, very sure." Lister could not help grinning at this. "You need anything brought from the ship, Ace?"

"Oh, just a few things, perhaps. I might be here a week..." He swallowed and added, lamely, "Women..."

A week. A whole week, with Rimmer in his quarters! A week in bed. Exciting, in more ways than one... "Right, right!" He jumped up, starting to dart to and fro, not knowing which way to turn. "You need any help getting yer stuff, then?" He sucked his bottom lip in, not too discreetly.

"No, it's not much," Rimmer said, still watching Kryten. The mechanoid rubbed his hands together, then abruptly turned and stalked into the cockpit. Lister glanced after him.

"Er... right. Right," said Lister, suddenly remembering the breakfast tray. He realized he had not eaten anything in... quite a while. And while Kryten had, perhaps, grown a little bit eccentric, he was an excellent cook. The smell wafted into Lister's waiting nostrils, and he felt a near-sexual thrill. Food. Actual food. He resisted an urge to moan.

Rimmer stood. "I'll... er... get my..." he waved in the direction of the landing bay, trailing off as he noticed that Lister was paying no more attention to him.

"Yeah, you do that," Lister muttered to his plate, lost in gastronomical exploration.

Rimmer shook his head as he walked out. At least there were some points of stability in the universe. Lister would always, always, have horrid table manners.


The Computer was patient. She had been reasonably patient to start with, and the millennia she had spent serving with Ace had only enhanced that. He would often be gone for days, weeks, or in some cases, a year or two on a mission. She knew when there was nothing to gain from rash action. She knew when to wait. Now was such a time.

She reserved the right to not do it with good grace, however.

She noted Ace's return to the landing bay with something that the staff psychologists had assured her was only a facsimile of irritation. It did not show in her voice. As Ace popped the hatch and climbed in, she asked, smoothly, "Time to lift off, Ace love?"

"No," he replied in that nasal voice that grated on her circuits, "I'm staying here a while."

"Why?" she asked, sweetly.

"I might be taking that dratted Kochanski woman back to her own dimension."

The Computer ran his voice pattern through a quick analysis. He was holding something back. "That's all?"

"Yes," he muttered, pulling a few music discs and books out of the back.

She calculated, to the nanosecond, the precise duration of pause that would make the next question appear casual. "You're thinking of staying here for good?"

Ace sighed and sat in the pilot's chair, the look on his face indicating the introspection she found so inappropriate was coming into play. "I don't know."

"You do like the adventuring, don't you? Doing good, being handsome, brave, and magnificent?" What the staff psychologists had assured her was only a facsimile of nervousness did not appear in her voice. She knew better than to tie her vocal areas into her emo-chip.

"Yes, I do." Her quick voice-pattern analysis assured her that he did, indeed, believe this.

"And the suit? And the girls?"

"I could skip the suit." This Ace really had no fashion sense, she despaired. She noted that he did not mention the girls, and filed that datum into the feeling-of-alarm sub-process she had begun earlier.

"So what's the problem?" she purred. She knew he liked the purr.

"Nothing, nothing," he muttered, shifting in the seat.

She put a great deal of fine tweaking into her voice-synth to make sure that the next question emerged as being very, very casual. "You do still love me, don't you?"

"Oh, yes." She ran this through her voice-pattern analysis, and it came back as patently false.

"And you used to complain so much about your old shipmates..."

"Yes, I know. Still can't stand them." This, too, came back as patently false.

"Well, when you get tired of them, I'm always here for you, Ace, love," she murmured gently.

He smiled and patted her console. "I know you are, old girl. Thanks." Ace's nickname for her sounded off when said in those whiny, nasal tones. She watched him leave the cockpit and walk out of the landing bay. She began, furiously, to analyze the situation. She pulled up details of missions, ran voice-pattern analyses of his comments during all of them, extracted emotional states, and began to do the same for what situations previous Aces had encountered that she determined to be within a narrow error margin of the same degree of danger as those. She started to run voice pattern analyses on all of those Aces, too, to compare to this one...

If her runtime had been a wheeled vehicle, it would have come to the kind of screeching halt that throws plumes of evil-smelling rubber smoke all over the vicinity.

It really was far simpler than that. A few simple precepts determined Ace. Handsome, brave, charming, irresistible. And in love with her. Ace was absolutely, definitely, in love with her.

This one wasn't in love with her.

So this one wasn't Ace.

She began to run the data she had acquired up to this moment through her predictive algorithms.