The first night Rimmer was gone, Lister fell into his bed in an uneasy sort of sleep. He was nervous. Mostly the excited sort of nervous where you're expecting something world-altering-ly fantastic to show up any moment: excited for the new life Rimmer was going to live, the better person he was going to become. But there was also another, darker sort of nervous. The sort of nervous that fed off fear and uncertainty. The sort of nervous that made him second guess everything he had chosen, not just for himself but for the entire remaining Red Dwarf crew and especially for Rimmer. The sort of nervous that whispered tauntingly in his whirling mind that maybe, just maybe, he was going to miss him.
Still, though his stomach was filled with butterflies and his mind swirled with possibilities, the excitement outweighed the nerves and he fell asleep with a smile on his face.
As the days went on, though, the ship felt increasingly desolate. The silence weighed on him, as did the empty places where Rimmer was supposed to be. It was as if he had really died, leaving Lister to feel the uncomfortable heaviness of his absence. Worse, he couldn't talk to the others about it because they thought that it had been the real Ace who jetted off to parts unknown. He grew jumpy as the days progressed, half-expecting to turn the corner and find Rimmer tinkering with a food dispenser or sitting, prim and stiff, at the bunk room table only pretending to read his astronavigation books. But though he was anxious, he found himself sort of wishing he would find Rimmer one of those days, if only because the ship had gotten unbearably quiet.
He was able to distract himself, for the most part, during the days. Flying, ship repairs, meals brought in by a simpering Kryten and bantering with the Cat were normal enough, and he embraced them for their normality. But he clung to them too hard, and the others began to notice. Cat sneered at the added attention and stalked off to the uninhabited parts of the ship for solitude, while Kryten, in his overly emotional way, asked if Mr. Lister was sure he was alright and if a delicious curry wouldn't help cheer him up. Their concern caused Lister to realize how he was acting, so he backed off, and their relationship returned to normal. But without the added focus on the others, he was forced to face how truly lonely he had become.
Sleeping at nights was especially strange. Many nights, he lay awake on a top bunk that no longer had a lower neighbor in a room that was unnaturally still and silent. He had gotten used to noise and banter, insults flying back and forth in a verbal fencing game that he only just realized brought him comfort because that, too, had been normal. After the accident that wiped out the rest of the crew, their relationship as antagonistic roommates remained the one constant part of their lives "before" and "after." He had subconsciously clung to that as an anchor in strange and rough seas, but now Rimmer was gone—along with his nasal snores and pretentious newspaper clippings, along with his ridiculous pomposity that buried a deeply pained insecurity, along with their very strange and unique friendship masked by affected hate—and it was not just the out-of-whack heating system on the ship that weighed on his chest and made the air of their room feel oppressive.
He realized, with a lonely certainty, that he had now lost everything that tied him to the time before the accident. No Red Dwarf; no other humans; no original bunkroom; no sniping, wonderfully familiar roommate…. He was adrift in space with an entirely new crew, the last of his species, bereft now of the only other person he knew who even thought he remembered what it felt like to be human. He curled in on himself and, despite the heat, drew his bunk's duvet into a crushing hold against his chest as he fought to get to sleep.
The next day, he offered to exchange rooms with the Cat, who, enjoying the larger space, promptly accepted. Rimmer's bed got turned into an additional, makeshift closet: hangers dangling from newly-installed bars attached to the underside of the top bunk and shoes lined up on the mattress. Though it pained him to see the disrespect, Lister let it go. After all, it was too uncomfortable for him to live there now. He always felt Rimmer's ghost. Ironically, though Rimmer had technically been dead for years, this was the first time that Lister really felt that he was. He embraced his new room with a desperate joy and promptly fell asleep on the unmade, single bed.
The new room helped his mood immensely, though he still felt the glaring absence. He often found himself, when the nights came and the ship ran quiet, thinking about the man who used to share his space and whose absence he felt so unexpectedly.
He'd never really enjoyed Rimmer's company when the crew was alive, finding him to be far too arrogant and petty. His neuroticism was off the charts, and, at the time, Lister had wanted nothing more than to just kick back and have fun. To say they hadn't meshed well would be the world's biggest understatement. He was cowardly, selfish, spiteful, insecure, and weaselly. But time had given Lister space to think, and he realized just how little he'd ever actually thought about the other man before.
When the nights got dark and silent, it was easy to go down the rabbit trails.
He pondered Rimmer's disastrous attempt at leadership on the Wax World planet, remembering how furious he'd been at him then. He recalled Rimmer's cowardice when running from the simulant, leaving them all behind, and thought somberly on their experience on the psymoon. Images of a nagging hologram trying to get him to take better care of himself and his unborn sons mingled with a drunken, dancing hologram at his own deathday celebration. An evil man in fishnet stockings and piercings, and a beatific poet dressed in blinding, peaceful white…. Finally, most haunting of all, he remembered Rimmer's eyes when he told him to go be a hero.
He thought about those eyes often. Those last moments, his last memories of the man he'd grown to almost hate and sort of care for, were burned forever in his mind: large, frightened, kicked-puppy eyes… swirling with bourgeoning hope and determination.
Lister realized that the man was more complex than he'd known.
They'd always told Rimmer how useless he was, how stupid and unlikeable. How cowardly, selfish, disgusting, and burdensome. That was all Rimmer had ever known, he knew, recalling their conversations about his upbringing. No one had ever told the man that he was good or had it in him to be kind. No one told him he was clever or wanted or brave.
The image of Rimmer's lowest form came, once again, to mind: evil, hateful, sadistic. Then, the image of Rimmer's self-loathing taunting him with bitterness and spite as he stood there, chained by his own mind, nearly destroyed by his own self-image. Heart-rending tombstones lining a daunting path spoke of just how bleak the man's life was, how hard he had to fight to merely stay alive.
Rimmer knew what he was. More than anyone.
And yet, those insecure, determined hazel eyes….
Then Lister remembered Ace.
He shifted positions, resting his head on crossed arms. For a long moment, he simply stared through the ceiling as though he could see the stars. As though, somewhere above his head, a certain test ship flew with one incredibly unique hologram at the helm.
After all he could have been, after all everyone always told him he was, Arnold still chose to become the hero. When he could have easily chosen to be more like his low form, he—uncertain but willing—embraced the better person he always wanted to be.
In the silence of the late night hours, surrounded by the profound and laden darkness, Lister understood.
"I always wondered what kinda man you were," he mused, his tone soft and thoughtful.
His voice seemed to resound in the emptiness despite his almost reverent whisper. It carried a weight that Lister hoped would deliver his words to the hologram wherever he may be.
"I think, man… you finally helped me decide."