Author: Roadstergal.
Title: Worlds.
Censor: R.
Pairing: Rimmer/Lister, implications of Rimmer/Lister, implications of Rimmer/Lister.
Commentary: Please. roadstergal@gmail.com
Disclaimer: They don’t belong to me, and I make no money off of them.
Note: This is after Stoke Me A Clipper.
As the last strains of Switched on Bach drifted through the cockpit, Rimmer sighed and felt himself relax for the first time in weeks. Being Ace was never a restful occupation, but this last month had just taken the cake. He had been rushing about nonstop from one crisis to another, and he was up to there with heroic rescues and dramatic battles. He was looking forward to a good solid half-hour of sleep for the first time in a month and a half. He did not need sleep physically, but Holly had impressed into him that downtime was necessary for the sanity of an electronic lifeform.
Holly. Thinking of him invariably brought Rimmer to thoughts of his former dimension. He stretched one hand out and let it rest on the Home button. A groove was worn in the top, one that fit his finger perfectly as he rubbed it gently back and forth over the button; not pushing it, just contemplating it. He studied the tracery of veins on the back of his hand as if it were a map - one that, if looked at properly, would show him the way out. The way out of his life into one where the pieces would fall into place and form a more pleasing picture. They had already fallen into place in this one, matching perfectly the picture on the side of the box; he on one side, Lister on the other, with planets, years, dimensions, every evil word that had escaped Rimmer's lips, and everything that shaped their worlds lying between.
"Ace, darling..."
Rimmer's lip curled. He wondered, once again, how much it would cost to have a personality transplant for the ship's computer. He could probably afford it - as much as he tried to duck out of payment for his acts of heroism, the recipients of said acts usually managed to toss a thing or two in his ship when he was not looking, and that thing or two had added up into quite a collection of things. No, he was more worried about what he might end up asking for to replace it.
"My name is Arnold, you batty machine." This conversational opener had settled into a dull routine a decade ago. Rimmer did not bother with the accent around the computer. He has contemplated dropping it altogether. His successor would probably appreciate it. "What is it?"
"We have received a plaintive distress call from War World."
"What, again?" He had rescued Beryl thirteen times. Even the sex was starting to get a bit repetitive.
"It's not Beryl. It's her sister, Carbuncle."
Rimmer frowned. "Were they thinking of the gem or of the growth when they named her?"
"Insufficient data to answer that question, Ace. But she has been kidnapped by GELFs, who are demanding a ransom that would beggar the kingdom."
Rimmer sighed. "Well, it looks like we're headed for GELF space. Do you have any leads on where the ship might be?"
"Yes, Ace. They're actually in a very distant orbit around War World. They're not hiding. They're counting on the hostage situation to dissuade any reasonably sized rescue attempt. I doubt they will be looking out for personal transports of this size."
Rimmer grunted. "They should be. Plot a course." At least that was one thing the computer was good at - when she was not mooning over him. He shifted in his seat. It was embarrassing. Who programmed this bloody thing?
He was afraid he knew the answer to that - one of his previous incarnations. It is the kind of thing he would have done himself, the he that he was before he died. What a git he was.
In so many ways, he thought, as they flew across the starlit wastes of space towards some girl who did not know him now, and would only know him as a dashing presence in a shiny flightsuit when he rescued her and dropped her off at home; a shiny flightsuit that could, and would, be filled by any number of Rimmers. It did not have to be him. He was a placeholder, a bookmark, filling a necessary function, but one that any random slip of paper could fill.
He looked at the well-worn Home button again, and thought about the dimension it was linked to. He wondered if some other Rimmer-substitute had filled his place there, too - such as it was. If he mattered to Lister beyond a pain-in-the-ass presence to maintain his sanity. It would have been better, he thought, if his life had not flashed before his eyes. Cliché though it is, it did; as the hull split and the time drive exploded into fragments of molten metal, tearing through his hard-light flesh and searing his light bee to slag, his life flashed in front of his eyes for the second time. Well, his life/death. It had been a rather horrifying experience the first time, when it had been just his life, seeing that pathetic and petty mess; it disgusted him vaguely that this second flashback was much more pleasing for everything that had happened after his death. Yet he did take this time, what he thought would be the last time he would ever have, to drift over it, and was startled by how heavily Lister featured in this sequel to his life. Rimmer part the second. Sniping with Lister, arguing with Lister, pranking and being pranked by Lister, being horribly angry at Lister, making Lister horribly angry at him. But also, Lister coming back for him, again and again, when he was lost or kidnapped. Lister not switching over to another disc, making him Petersen or Kochanski or any of the other people Lister actually liked. Lister being brave. Lister being kind. Lister, once in a while, being kind to him.
When he was reformed back on the paradoxically resurrected Starbug, his heart still felt slightly melted. They still sniped, but for him, the edge was gone, and Lister had seemed (to his biased view) to respond in kind. A respect, perhaps even an affection, developed. It was almost unsurprising that he began to lust after Lister, so rapidly and abruptly that it must have been building up for years or more within him, to emerge when he finally allowed it to. The thought of Lister still made him ache and burn, usually leading to a contemplative hour or so tracing the Home button with his forefinger, imagining how much softer the man's cheek would be.
Rimmer shook himself. No sense in moving his mind down that path. For all that they shared a common species and a common sun, they did not share anything else. Earth versus Io. Slob versus neatnik. Day versus night. Strength versus pettiness. Joy versus neuroses. He had made war and not love for decades, and he lived - er, died - with the consequences.
"Homing in on the GELF ship, Ace. I'm going to land next to a service hatch. Be quick - and stay safe. I love you."
Rimmer started to release a scathing reply, then bit his lip with a sigh. Who was he to mock the unrequited affection of an electronic lifeform? "Thanks, old girl. Smoke me a kipper; I'll be back for breakfast." At least he had learned to get through that much without giggling.
One good thing about being a hologram was not having to deal with a spacesuit or airlocks. He had replaced the spacesuit with his music collection before he had left Starbug. He now simply opened his own ship's hatch and crawled into the GELF's ship's hatch. Air whoomphed out; he had evacuated a mini-airlock. That was a relief; he would have been hard-pressed to close the thing if it had not been designed to be serviced from space. He hopped in, the ship's gravity field giving him a faint sensation of 'down' towards the center of the ship, and closed the outer hatch behind him.
The ship had a standard layout, and he had little trouble finding his way down to the brig, where he had correctly guessed he would find the princess. He quietly picked off the few GELFs he came across on the way down with his laser pistol, and took down the guard at her cell with an uppercut.
He walked into the cell with a dashing flip of his hair. "Princess Bonjella? I'm here to rescue you."
A surly teenager with an excess of makeup looked out from behind a fall of blue hair and shrieked, "It's about fucking time!" Rimmer's exhortations to be quiet did not go over well, and she was on her way to a full-fledged temper tantrum when he fished the roll of duct tape out of his pocket. It once again proved its usefulness as he trussed her up and put one piece over her mouth. He threw her squirming form over his shoulder and hauled her up to the escape pod bay, stuffing her into one with a nearest-planet program and breathing a sigh of relief as he hit the Launch button.
He turned around just in time to catch the business end of a GELF guard's spear in the chest.
Rimmer had become somewhat more cavalier about physical pain in his time as Ace, although he still enjoyed it not one bit and avoided it a bit more assiduously than most heroes. His hard-light body would communicate pain, as Legion had assured, and then knit up any injuries almost quickly enough to watch. The spear, however, hit something that sent an unusual electrical crackle through his body. Having a rather bad idea what it was, he pulled the spear out of himself and used it to impale the guard, then ran back to the hatch next to his ship as quickly as he could, shooting whatever moved with his laser pistol. He estimated later that he took out four GELFs, two hijacked skutters, a rat, and about six perfectly unoffending doors. At the time, though, all he cared about was getting back to his transport. He jumped in, pulled the hatch closed, and told the insipid computer to get them the smeg out of there.
She did so, and as soon as they were no longer touching the GELF ship, Rimmer's stomach turned inside-out and his eyes temporarily ceased to work. He caught a nonexistent breath. "Warn me when you're about to D-J!"
"I'm sorry, Ace, but your light bee is damaged. We need to recruit your successor." Her warm, loving voice seemed to take on a sinister tone when what it spoke amounted to, "You're done. Next!" She continued. "This is Dimension seven times ten to the three-hundred fifty-six. It had vastly different origins to your own, but ended up at a very similar spot, even to your alternate being a hard-light hologram. We'll arrive at Starbug in one hour and twenty-six minutes"
Rimmer pulled at his flightsuit. The gash had not started to heal, which was worrying. Blue light danced at the edges of the gape, dribbling out like blood. "How long do you think I have?"
"Forty-eight hours. Maybe less."
Rimmer sighed and looked out at the dull starscape. "Have I been there before? You know, another me?"
"Yes, thirteen incarnations ago. About twelve years, their time."
Rimmer nodded. The blue light danced annoyingly in the cabin, so he used a bandage from the medi-pack to cover it, and changed to a clean shirt.
The computer woke him from a fevered doze. "Ten minutes from Starbug, Ace. Time to make contact." Rimmer did not trust his appearance, and so signed on with radio only.
"Told you I'd be back for breakfast. How are those kippers coming?"
Cat, Kryten, and Lister met Rimmer as he landed at the docking bay. Lister apologized for the absence of their own Rimmer - "He's off sulking in the cockpit" - which made this Rimmer breathe a sigh of relief. He did not have much time, and it would have been shaving things a mite bit close to have had to find another dimension if the Rimmer in this one were... not available.
Kryten and Cat were effusive in their greetings, and Rimmer was careful to give each one an enthusiastic hug and to pass a few words before turning back to Lister. This dimension's Lister was a little bit shorter than his Lister (he snorted internally - his Lister?); he was also slenderer, almost painfully thin, and danced a little back and forth as he waited, his braids twitching. As soon as he saw a space in the conversation, he rejoined the small group and tugged Rimmer on the sleeve. "Come on, Ace; let me show you to your quarters." Rimmer was not sure whether or not he saw a knowing glance pass between Cat and Kryten.
He had a fair idea that he had not been imagining it when Lister took him to the guest quarters, shut the door behind, and grabbed Rimmer's cheeks in both hands. He pulled Rimmer's face down and planted his lips forcefully on Rimmer's. He pulled back, very slightly, eyes closed, and breathed, "I missed you so much..." He leaned forward again, moving his lips on Rimmer's and licking them almost desperately.
Rimmer's stomach sank into his legs. He put his hands on Lister's and gently pulled them off of his cheeks, breaking contact with Lister's lips by standing upright. The hurt laid bare on Lister's face, the face so similar to his (his?) Lister's, was almost more than Rimmer could take, but he felt he owed it to this man, for the indiscretion of his former self, to look him in the eyes.
"I'm not the Ace you met, Dave."
And he told this Dave the story of Ace.
Rimmer sat on the spare bunk almost an hour later, clutching at his aching light bee. The door opened, and another Rimmer walked in. Rimmer looked at his alternate with some curiosity. This other Rimmer was as skinny and weedy as he himself had been just before his death. His blue hard-light uniform was thinner, as well, giving the man an appearance of being as insubstantial as the soft-light hologram that he had been. His face conveyed the same annoyance and disgust that Rimmer himself had felt when he had met the Ace he had taken over from.
This was getting entirely too confusing.
"Well, you poncy git," the other Rimmer snapped, "Lister told me you had something terribly important to convey. Details of you two's latest sexual escapade?"
This was not going to be easy. The computer had assured him that it never was.
"I'm a different Ace, Arnie. The one you met died thirteen... 'me's ago."
This other Rimmer crossed his arms and glared. "And now you're taking pages out of his little black book? No answers to your men seeking men personals ads these days?"
Rimmer plowed on relentlessly. "Every Ace recruits a successor from the myriad Arnolds that exist across dimensions. I was recruited almost twenty years ago. I'm dying, Arnold." To emphasize this point, he pulled off his jacket and shirt and peeled back the bandage, showing his other self the gash of dribbling blue light. His other self's eyes widened. "I need you to take over, miladdo."
The edge of other Rimmer's lip twisted upwards in a sneering smile. "I'd sooner get a job as male stripper at a mining bar. What, do you really think I'd jump at the chance to be a flaming, smug, self-satisfied gimboid?"
Rimmer groaned internally. He just did not have time for this. While, at the same time, he understood this other Rimmer perfectly. They were more alike than Rimmer and his own predecessor. Rimmer dropped his Ace accent.
"We're all different, Arnie. Dimension variation makes for all kinds of Rimmers. Yes, some of them have been far too full of themselves. From what I've learned from the ship's computer, it's mostly the ones who were never soft-light holograms." He grimaced. "The Ace two Aces before me was an insufferable bastard. And the one you met," Rimmer swallowed, "he had no right to do what he did, really."
"Oh, far be it from me to get in the way of two consenting adults in the mood for a little salami-dip."
"What I'm trying to say," Rimmer grated, "is that you can be whatever kind of Ace you want. If you don't like the way the other Aces acted, or the way I do - do it differently, Arn. It's up to you."
"Yes," the other Rimmer sneered, "it is. And I choose to not get dolled up in lamè and dance around pretending I'm Mister Hot Bod of Jupiter Five." He spun on his heel and left.
Rimmer sighed and leaned forward, putting his head on his knees. He felt very, very tired. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, not just the necessary half-hour, but a full night's sleep - a luxury he had too rarely indulged in since becoming Ace. But his fingers felt the dribbling blue gash, and he knew that his next sleep would be his last. He pulled his jacket on, wrapping it around his torso, and walked out in search of the other Rimmer.
He heard voices as he walked along the gantry above the cargo deck. He did not dare risk the swap to soft-light with his damaged light bee, and so slowed to a painstaking, sneaky crawl, placing his feet very carefully on the metal grating to avoid noise.
This dimension's Rimmer was sitting at the grimy porthole where he himself had spent far too many hours, looking out at space and wishing he were somewhere, anywhere else. This dimension's Lister stood behind him, speaking in low tones with urgency. This was very different from the sarcastic prodding his own Lister had given him.
"...ted before. Tons of times before. You'd just be br..." Lister's voice was difficult to discern. His alternate self's nasal reply was slightly easier to make out.
"I don't want to. You still haven't given me a good reason why I should go nancing around space, risking both my life and my reputation as a heterosexual."
This Lister's voice became louder as he became frustrated. "Because it's good and it's noble and it's right, you smegging bastard! I know these are all strange concepts to you, man..." His voice drifted back into inaudible.
Feeling like a voyeur, Rimmer left as quickly as he could while still trodding quietly on the metal grating. Why did he think he would be able to convince himself? This was not him, after all; it was a similar man, but one who this Lister knew better than he did.
No matter what dimension he landed in, he thought sourly, whether it was planet-pool or garbage cannons, it did often come down to trusting Lister. He clutched at his jacket; the ache in his bee had spread, and was now a slow burn in his whole torso, making his extremities tingle. He re-entered the guest suite and made an undignified flop on the bed. He pulled off his wig and dropped it on the ground, then lay back on the blocky foam pillow with a sigh. Against his will, his mind drifted.
It snapped back to reality as the door to his quarters opened. The other Rimmer walked in, glaring balefully at him.
"All right, you tosser. What do I have to do?"
It took far too much effort for Rimmer to raise his eyes and focus. "I'm too weak to train you, Arnie." He swallowed. "You'll have to trust in the ship's computer; she'll have some programs you can plug into the AR to get you up to snuff."
The other Rimmer's expression had softened somewhat. Arn attributed that to the fact that he was, quite clearly, dying. "So I train up, get kitted up in this gold crap, put on this Flock of Seagulls wig, and sashay around dimensions?"
Rimmer had to smile, weakly. "That's about the size of it."
"And are you glad you did?"
Rimmer started to answer, and then frowned. "It turned me from a git into a hero, Arnie." He thought more. "And I can't decide if it was the best thing I ever did or the biggest mistake I ever made." He sighed, and reached a shaking hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small chunk of electronics. He held it out to his other self. "This will take my coffin to its resting place, Arn. The computer has more." His other self reached over to take the guidance module, and on impulse, Rimmer took his hand. "You can be whatever kind of Ace you want, Arn. You don't have to leave everything behind, just because we did. You have to live with your own mistakes, but you don't have to live with ours." The burning was spreading, now, filling his body, and his fingers went numb. His hand did not fall; the other Rimmer must be holding it. "We shouldn't all die alone, like this," he whispered, the numbness spreading to the rest of his body. And he hoped, how he hoped, that the last thing he saw in the eyes of his alternate was understanding.
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