Disclaimer: None of the characters/places etc. in this fic belong to me. I am making no profit with this story.

A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first Red Dwarf fanfiction, and I hope you enjoy it! I've always been a big fan of Red Dwarf, and I thought I'd write a little something based on it. :D It's set in series 3, and is basically an extra "episode" from that series, hence the episode-esque title. Series 3 has to be my favourite series, so I chose to set it then. ;) This is based on the TV series rather than the books, as I haven't read the books (though I really do want to!) So some facts and figures may be a bit off. I also may have changed a few of the workings to make them fit with the plot of this story. But I hope you enjoy reading it!

I'll probably post this in two chapters to divide the story into two half-episode sections. So without further ado, here is the first half!

Please RR! All reviews are appreciated!

-Visions-

A Red Dwarf Fan Fiction

Arnold Rimmer had been up for hours. Sat at the table in his bunkroom, he had already run out of things to do. He had completed his morning exercises, inspected the supplies (including totalling the number of irradiated haggis), and checked on the skutters. He gazed blankly at his hat, which rested in front of him. Embellished on it was a large, silver "H". His lips arched into a frown.

Had he ever thought, standing there watching George MacIntyre giving his speech…had he ever thought it would one day happen to him? No – of course not, he thought to himself, narrowing his eyes. People don't think about those sorts of things. Perhaps he had even been glad, almost happy for him. He gritted his teeth. A second chance at life, the chance to live on, to perhaps rectify some of the wrongs and misdoings that every person wishes they had a chance to change. But now, he thought, his spirit sinking, I don't have that opportunity. My death is just as my life once was – worthless. Once again, he knew had been given the short end of the stick. What would have been a wondrous opportunity for others was, for him, merely a way to waste his time, to while away his existence in the constant delusion that he could have made better of his life.

Sat beside Rimmer was his crewmate, Dave Lister, the last human being in the universe, and hardly the pinnacle of personal hygiene. His boots were propped up on the table, and he was enjoying a ship-issue curry. His fork delved into the container in search of another chunk of meat. Rimmer eyed the food. He longed to be able to touch. But even the drive of the possibility of aliens, aliens who could give him a new body, restore his senses to their original heights – even that had now grown stale. He had been to the Observation Dome enough to know what he would see; countless stars, pinpricks of light penetrating the eternal blackness of space, and nothing more. No alien craft, no planets inhabited by a race of advanced and superior creatures, nothing. And this made him feel enormously alone.

"Do you know how long I was with the company?" said Rimmer, his fist slowly clenching into a ball. Lister turned to face him. A trickle of madras sauce ran from his lip, and dripped in great dollops from his chin into the remainder of the curry. Noticing this, he hastily wiped it away with his arm. Rimmer looked disgusted.

"Yeah, I know, Rimmer," replied Lister, sighing. He knew perfectly well…and he knew what was coming next.

"I'll tell you," Rimmer said, seemingly ignoring Lister's answer. "Fifteen years." He paused for a moment, his face twisting into its usual, sour grimace. "Fifteen years," he repeated, anger and frustration erupting in his voice. He motioned loosely to the room around him. "And for what? The chance to be marooned in space with a total slob, a neurotic mechanoid and a man who thinks solar flares are something that come in sizes small to extra large."

Lister picked at the foil container with his fork, chewing irritably. He had heard it all before, and yet Rimmer always seemed to demand an answer. He shovelled another forkful into his mouth.

"Well what do you want me to do about it, Rimmer?" he said, waving his fork at the hologram's face. His voice was laden with sarcasm. After all, what could be done about it? Rimmer thought for a moment. He wrung his hands together and twiddled his thumbs, caught in a vortex of his own bitterness.

"Well quite frankly, nothing," he muttered. "I'd rather trust the judgment of that curry than listen to your advice." Following Rimmer's gaze, Lister looked down at his meal and impaled another chunk of meat onto his fork.

Repulsed, Rimmer stood from his seat and headed for his bunk. As he lay down, he could just about make out the stark red lettering that read "Officers' Quarters" above the door.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, resting his hands upon his chest, "years ago, those words would have meant something to me. I would have given anything to be here; to live amongst the most respectable, the most honoured men and women on the ship. But now," he turned to Lister once again, his voice turning sour, "now, they only remind me of what I could have achieved. What I could have achieved if I didn't have the wrong smegging parents." Lister looked at him, still chewing, his brow creased in thought.

"Rimmer, maybe you were never meant to be an officer," he said with his mouth full. The hologram raised himself from his bunk, resting his arm against the pillow. Lister continued. "I mean, you're just not cut out for it. You've got less charisma than a stuffed warthog." Rimmer's face twisted into a scowl.

"Well I'm sorry Lister," he scoffed, "but being forced to wear boxing gloves every time I went to sleep at boarding school hardly did anything for my self-esteem." He sat up; he felt far too restless to remain on the bunk. Lister dropped the now-empty foil container onto the table and begun the lengthy process of licking the remnants of the curry from his fingers. Rimmer cringed, unable to watch. Lister was clearly enjoying it.

"It's not all bad, man," he said, inspecting his nails for any scraps that had eluded him. "I mean, we've got digs on the best room here! Surely that counts for something!" Rimmer shot up.

"But that's precisely it, Lister! It doesn't!" He paced across the room, his eyes ablaze, his hands engaged in a series of wild motions. "Those words," he pointed above the entrance, "are a symbol of earned respect. These were never my quarters." He stopped. "Oh no, these were the quarters of some jumped-up, precocious goit, someone who had never even heard of Io House."

"Look, Rimmer, would you just calm down?" Rimmer's nerves were frayed, Lister knew that much. He tried to change the subject. "Holly's just checking out another part of the ship. You know, making sure it's safe from contamination. I'm gonna go down there later and see if I can find some gear."

Rimmer's only response was a sigh. He returned to his seat at the table and stared blankly at the glistening foil container, paying no real attention to anything aside from his own thoughts. An awkward silence ensued, which made Lister feel especially uncomfortable. Luckily for him, it was quickly broken by the entrance of the Cat.

"Eeeeeeyoooooow!" he screeched, sliding into the room as if on ice. Through his feline ancestry he had acquired a sleek confidence to his movements, never subsiding to clumsiness, every shift of his feet deft and agile. He was wearing a fur-lined coat, with a shimmering vest so reflective that the light of the room seemed to turn it a brilliant gold. Noticing Lister, he gave a toothy grin. "Hey buddy! What's up?" He glanced at Rimmer, who did not look up, and his expression changed to one of confusion. "What's wrong with Goalpost Head?"

Lister motioned to him to be careful. "He's just a bit upset." Cat chose to ignore his warning, as he was often known to do.

"You know what I do when I'm upset?" he said enthusiastically, pointing towards the hologram. Rimmer's glance lifted, although it was clear from his expression that he was not expecting much. "I get as far away from here as possible, that's what I do! The further away from you I am, the better!"

"Cat!" Lister wailed, rubbing his temple. "Just leave 'im alone, okay?" Cat looked suitably hurt, and he set to adjusting his collar. "Look Rimmer, I'm sorry man," Lister continued, only to be quickly interrupted by a voice from the video screen.

"It's ready, Dave." Their gazes shifted to the monitor as the display vanished to reveal the digitalised face of Holly, the ship's computer.

"What's ready, Hol?" Lister asked impatiently, secretly wishing Holly would describe more specifics when she gave an announcement. The computer appeared not to notice, and continued in her usual droll way.

"The deck," she said. "It's clean. Checked it all through this morning. Kryten's standing by waiting for you now, if you're all set."

"Brutal!" said Lister, with a hint of childish eagerness. He lifted his feet from the table and headed toward the storage rack. "Only this morning? I thought it spanned most of the ship!" He gripped the straps of his backpack and proceeded to heave them over his shoulders. The bag was heavy and unpleasant to carry, but well-padded, for which he was extremely grateful.

"Yeah, it does," Holly replied thoughtfully, "but a number of factors combined to make the job easier." She paused, "Mainly the fact that there's bog-all to do around here."

"Tell Kryten we'll meet him there." Holly nodded, and the screen reverted back to the virtual aquarium display it had previously played. Lister looked to Rimmer, who was still sitting motionless at the table. "You coming?"

He shook his head.

"Well, if you change your mind," said Lister, "we'll be on floor 436. Come on, Cat." He handed over a backpack. Cat examined it meticulously, an expression of disgust on his face.

"You want me to wear this?" he said in disbelief. "This thing's so square it makes me look like one!" Lister sighed. He was used to Cat's quirks by now, but in situations like this they never ceased to irritate him. Besides, he was keen to explore the newly-secured deck. That was one benefit of being the only human on board; he had free roam of the entire ship, something he would never have been entitled to as Third Technician. So much of the craft was undiscovered, and with no civilisations in feasible range, the exploration of these decks was a welcome change to the monotony of everyday life.

"Just put it on," Lister replied, taking a bazookoid from the rack. "We'll need 'em to carry all the loot." He strapped the weapon over his shoulder. It never hurt to be prepared.

"Fine," Cat said indignantly. He huffed, and slipped his arms through the thick, silver straps. "But only for the sake of all the shiny things I'm gonna find."

They exited the room, leaving Rimmer alone with his troubled thoughts.

"Window 143-3PB, floor 65, left-hand side. Rivets in need of repainting."

Rimmer paced along the corridor, followed by a skutter. The blue, mechanical creature carried in its claws a dictopad, through which Rimmer could list the faults of the ship, being unable to write them physically down. That was something he sorely missed. Removing his notepad from his shirt pocket and reporting Lister one more time…the sense of satisfaction it gave him was immeasurable. The sense of authority.

Rimmer hated skutters. He had always thought them worthless machines, incapable of performing the simplest of tasks. He was reminded of the time he made them repaint the corridor a different shade of grey. It had taken them an entire hour just to cover an inch. Useless.

"Come on, keep up," he said irritably, despite the fact that the skutter was almost to his heel. It did him good to maintain an air of control. "We've got fifty more corridors to go." Rimmer knew all too well the pointlessness of this task. There would be nobody to congratulate him on his constant inspection and maintenance of the ship – nobody to come up behind him, pat him on the back and say "well done, Rimmer". He wondered indeed if he had ever heard those words at all.

"Next," Rimmer spoke loudly and clearly in his efforts to sound important, "window 143-3PC, slight splitting of the…" He trailed off. His eyes grew wide with excitement.

Through the matter-proof glass he could see a craft.

It shone a vibrant blue, and light glinted in tiny orbs from its round, precision-placed windows. The shape was like none he had ever seen; it was oval-like, with two large, protruding wings on which were mounted the massive engines. Aliens! His mind leapt as he thought of the possibilities. Here perhaps was a chance at his ultimate dream – the dream of a new body, a chance to live again. He considered the time it would take to reach it; an hour, maybe two at most.

Without even stopping to give the skutter further orders, he charged off down the corridor toward the Drive Room.

Lister rummaged through his backpack. It had been a successful trip, and although it had taken a great few hours, they had found many supplies. He took out a can of beans and studied the label.

"Amazing stuff, this," he said, jabbing at something printed on the side. "Over three million years and it still isn't past its sell-by date. That's packaging for you!" He handed it to Cat, who quickly placed it into the storage cupboard.

"Three million years or not," he replied, "I still wouldn't want to eat this stuff. I don't know how you monkeys do it!" He took the next can and placed it beside the first.

"Well unlike you," Lister said, lifting a pack of Leopard Lager from the bag, "we do eat from all the basic food groups." Ironic really, considering Lister's tastes revolved solely around non-stop curries.

"I got your basic food groups," Cat shot back. "Fish and chicken. Cats don't need any of this monkey-food." He grinned a self-important grin, and snatched the lager from Lister's hands.

"Sirs," Kryten piped in, "if I may interrupt, I believe we may have a bit of a problem."

Lister halted in his rummaging, "What is it, Kryte?"

"It's Holly, sir," he replied. "She is not registered as aboard this vessel." It was clear in his voice that he was attempting to sound calm, but a glimmer of worry always managed to break this disguise. Lister wondered if it was his programming - the same circuit that deemed him unable to lie.

"What?" said Lister, clearly confused. His voice then changed, the implications of the scenario slowly setting in, "Well where is she then, man? We can't steer the ship ourselves!"

"Fortunately for us, there is no space traffic in the vicinity," Kryten pointed out. "Nevertheless, this may change. We must recover her as soon as possible."

"Recover her?" Lister repeated. "From where? I mean how do we know where she's gone?" His voice was becoming increasingly frantic.

"I could take a guess, sir," Kryten said. "Given the limited number of places Holly's network is linked to, coupled with the fact that she disappeared so undeniably quickly, I can safely assume that she is now running the Auto-Pilot aboard Starbug 1."

"You can tell just from that?" Cat said in disbelief.

"No, sir," Kryten replied.

"Well how else did you know, Freak-Face?" Cat's voice grew more impatient.

"Starbug is outside the window, sir."

Lister ran to the small, porthole-like window and gazed through. Sure enough, amongst the black nothingness of space was set the green, beetle-like shape of Starbug, its engines glowing as it propelled itself forward. He strained his neck to see to where it was headed, but saw nothing except the endless mass of space and stars.

"Where's she going?" he said. "There's nothing out there, man!" He turned back to face Kryten, hoping for some sort of answer.

"Great," said Cat, rolling his eyes. "She's finally lost it."

"Not quite, sir," Kryten replied. "Holly's programming forbids her to take control of Starbug purely of her own will." He illustrated his point. "Why, if this were not the case, computers everywhere would ditch their mother ships in favour of eloping off on their own adventures in their corporation's scout crafts! No," he continued, "someone else is in control of that ship."

"But that means – smeg!" Lister slapped his hand against his forehead, remembering the morning's conversation. "It's Rimmer, man. He's got her on Auto-Pilot since he can't steer Starbug himself." Cat's face suddenly brightened.

"Well then, let's celebrate!" He smiled widely. "First all the shiny things I found, and now Goalpost Head gone, all in one morning! I'd better not take any more naps today in case I miss anything else!"

"We've gotta go after 'im," Lister said solemnly, glaring at the Cat - whose face abruptly fell.

"Go after Alphabet Head? Go after a man with nostrils so large they can be used to sharpen pencils? Why?"

"We've got to," said Lister, putting on his jacket. He motioned to Kryten. "Come on. Let's load up Blue Midget."

Rimmer had kept his eyes focused on the alien craft. It seemed to have stopped. Perhaps they've seen us, he thought, his eyes starry with hope. Perhaps they're waiting to make contact. He looked to the monitor. "Holly, take us out."

"But Arn-" Holly protested, only to be cut short by Rimmer's harsh retort.

"Holly, stop your gibbering," he snapped. "I'm in charge here. Now take us out." Holly sighed, knowing it was no use to argue. She powered up the engines and opened the cargo bay doors. Rimmer rubbed his hands together in anticipation as the alien craft came into view. There it was, majestic and dominating, a sign of everything he had ever hoped to see.

"Arn, there's something you should know," Holly warned again, as Starbug powered out into the great vacuum of space. Rimmer took no notice; he was too engrossed in watching the ship's radar. It would only be a matter of time before the alien craft registered on the equipment. He sat back, satisfied. Perhaps he would get to name an entirely new species. Yes, he thought. Quagaars sounds perfect.

To be continued...

A/N: The use of the phrase "massive engines" is a little in-joke ;) Those who live in the UK might get this one!