The hologram combat vessel SS Occassus had descended into chaos. So much for a Saturday morning lie-in then.

It was the last thing that Captain Viktoras had been expecting. News that your best soldiers had suddenly turned insane and were embarking on a ship-wide killing spree wasn't the most welcome interruption to one's breakfast.

Now crouched with the remainder of his crew behind the barricade - hastily constructed from the metal chairs and tables of the Science Lab - he listened as a series of almighty clangs sounded from beyond the door, where the deranged were demanding entrance. Despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn't help but feel slightly annoyed that his cornflakes were now becoming decidedly soggy.

"How the hell did this happen?" he barked to the young Lieutenant crouched to his right. To Viktoras, it was merely a straightforward enquiry (and rather polite he thought, considering the early hour and lack of caffeine). But judging by the Lieutenant's subsequent cowering and spittle-coated features, it was obvious that his tone was perhaps a tad intimidating.

Lieutenant Hayes swallowed, watching as Viktoras' square-set jaw tensed visibly. His untimely demise had been rather a frighteningly violent one - having met his end at a simulant war camp more dank and depressing than the Butlins at Skegness. But not even that nightmarish hell-hole could match the undiluted fear this man could instil in him with just a single look.

"I-I don't know, sir," he mumbled in apology. The pair ducked their heads as another harrowing pound at the door threatened to break through, forcing the group to brace their collective weight against the steel defence. "The science officers believe it's a holo-virus of some sort."

"Holo-virus?" Viktoras snapped. "I thought those bloody technical bods had reported only last week that the virus-scans were bang up to date?" He ground his teeth. "Why the hell didn't they follow correct protocol upon returning to the ship?"

"They did, sir," Hayes ventured awkwardly. "But the scans didn't seem to pick anything up." Fishing out an electronic notebook from his belt, he watched as the screen reeled with green neon text of the report, reading aloud as it scrolled.

"Routine recon procedure of hologrammatic upgrades from derelict ship SS Constantine.

Combat soldier roster: - Boyle, Frost, Gallagher, Murray and Watling

21:18 Following a successful mission, all combat solders returned to the Occassus, docking in Bay 47.

21:27 Weaponry returned to Munitions Unit. Signed in by Officer Gillam.

21:46 Soldiers reconvened at the Lab for full debriefing to the Science Officers on duty.

22:12 Hot chocolate served with those little teensy marshmallow and chocolate sprinkles.

22:37 Virus screening completed by Science Officer McCloud. All clear given.

22:58 Sign out."

Glancing to their left, the pair regarded McCloud's lanky, be-spectacled form cowering with the Science Staff collective. The man clutched pathetically at a makeshift weapon fashioned from a fire extinguisher, as if it would form any semblance of defence against raging lunatics. Viktoras face darkened like a gathering storm. If these relaxation breathing exercises didn't kick in soon, McCloud risked exiting the Occassus through the nearest airlock.

"This morning their readouts were off the chart, sir," Hayes offered. "The virus seems to have heightened their sensory capacity and physical strength." He braced his weight against the barricade as another series of clangs sounded at the door.

As silence descended once more, he mopped his brow with the red-striped sleeve of his otherwise jet-black uniform and continued. "Their memory banks have been completely corrupted," he explained. "Some files have been deleted altogether whilst more negative drives seemed to have been enhanced beyond recognition. They don't seem to recognise anyone around them." Hayes swallowed a second time, his throat suddenly dry. "Didn't even blink when they killed them all - "

Viktoras ran a comb of fingers over his dark receding hair - cropped literally to an inch of its life - and allowed a low soothing growl to rumble forth from the depths of his chest. Enough chat.

"How many left?" he asked evenly.

"Of the original five?" Hayes ventured. A combination of air-lock flushes, incineration and light bee shut-downs had wiped out all but one. He hung his head in reverence. "Just Murray, sir."

Nodding thoughtfully, Viktoras drew forth his trusted pair of silver-plated Glock 17s. "Well then," he sighed. "I think it's time we put in a call to HR and furnish Murray with his permanent P45, don't you?" He loaded both guns with the ammo from his belt. "Now," he announced to the group. "Arm yourselves."

Hayes watched with open-mouthed disbelief. "B-but sir," he implored. "Technically he's still functional. If we could only just isolate the virus - "

He stopped short as Viktoras snared him roughly by the throat, eyes blazing with restrained fury. He could feel the cold chamber metal pressing against the soft skin of his neck, his lightbee recreating every shiver of sensation.

"You really think that Murray - " Viktoras hissed the name with little compassion, "is going to show you any leniency when he bursts through this door, Lieutenant?" he demanded. Releasing his grip, he loaded the slides with an audible click. "I said 'arm yourself'."

Viktoras shook his head in disgust as the young Lieutenant fumbled to load his guns, the rest of the crew hastily following suit. Although he couldn't possibly have known it, his views on mercy were rather similar to how the last human alive regarded a salad garnish on a lamb kebab - pointless, unnecessary, and getting in the way of the fun meaty bits.

After all, he didn't get his stripes for going soft when the simulants decided to turn on their creators three million years ago. He knew full well those metallic monsters wouldn't have granted him the same mercy. Besides, it was the very reason they'd been created - so that humans could enjoy the entertaining bits of war without having to get their hands dirty.

Following the swift but bloody defeat of the simulant uprising, the human race learnt two valuable lessons. One - never build something that can rip your head off using only its little finger if you give it so much as the wrong look. Two - never build thousands of them. Otherwise, things tend to go a little tits up when said creations give two fingers to the human race and do what they hell they want.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that war has a habit of forging heroes, and Viktoras had done rather well out of the whole situation. Well, he'd died, but in 2475 that was hardly a drawback. Hard-light hologram technology had come on leaps and bounds since its invention almost 200 years previously, and having the dead walk amongst the living had long been forgotten as taboo.

Hence the inception of the SS Occassus – the 'ship of the fallen'. A combat vessel chock full of Earth's finest hologrammatic warriors, who had all proven their mettle and lost their lives in bygone wars. A ship that could power out into the depths of unchartered space, protecting the far-flung human race from the universe's ever-lurking dangers. And with the legendary Captain Viktoras at the helm, the ship would be unstoppable.

Or so everyone thought.

They hadn't even realised that a small collective of simulants had survived the war and fled Earth. They hadn't reckoned with the simulants' vengeful pursuit for revenge against the holograms that had slaughtered their kind. And they certainly hadn't considered that three million years later, they would set in motion their plan to settle the score.

The battles between the warring factions of hologram and simulant had been continuing for centuries now - their violent clashes spilling out into the paths of so many innocents in the cosmos. Yet for two of the most arrogant species in the multiverse, the time spent on their great war had merely been a drop in the ocean of eternity.

After all, immortal beings were fantastic at holding a grudge.

Which is why the simulants had been rather tickled by their latest creation. Ferveo Silenti: 'the Rage of the Dead' - an intelligent virus that was undetectable by system scans. With the power to rewrite a hologram's memory programming, it could draw forth their most negative drives to unleash the resulting fury on those around them.

It was a virus that could be left to lie in wait on derelict ships scattered across the cosmos. A virus that could be lurking in any ship network - ready to slip into projections, unnoticed. When holograms sought out system upgrades on reconnaissance missions, perhaps...

Which is probably the most likely explanation as to how the crew of the SS Occassus had landed themselves in such a pickle.

The barricade had been broken; the once sturdy metal of its structure now cast back - twisted and deformed under the telekinetic will of the possessed - leaving the crew to stare back at their lost comrade.

The domineering figure now poised in the doorway echoed Murray's image, but certainly not his mind. Clothes now bled black and eyes as dead as night, he stared back at his old crewmates as though they were glass - looking through them rather than at them.

He opened his mouth to speak. But what spilled forth wasn't the once-hearty laugh that had been his trademark, but a corrupted voice with an edge of distorted feedback. Just like a simulant's.

"Gentlemen," he announced. "It's dying time."

Viktoras' face hardened as he raised his guns to his old colleague, hardly a flicker in his eye. The rest followed suit.

All was not lost. After all, the holograms had one last trick up their sleeves in the war on their dreaded enemy. And every simulant feared the day that they'd play that card.

With their finest soldiers lost to the darkness, there was only one hope left.

They needed to find Ace Rimmer.


The sound of the gunfire still ricocheted through Rimmer's mind as he jerked awake with a strangled yell - his long limbs tangled in the ocean grey of his ship-issue sleeping bag.

Panting heavily, he took a quick stock check of his surroundings. The strange, unfamiliar ship of his dreams had now dissolved to the comforting reassurance of Red Dwarf's sleeping quarters. The countless simulants that had once surrounded him - the dark eyes of their gun-barrels staring at him sightlessly - had now receded into shadow.

He swallowed, releasing the breath that had stuck fast in his throat. The dream had felt so damn real, as if it had been based more on recollection than fantasy.

Rimmer's nostrils flared in annoyance. With his sleep littered with dreams of strange worlds and unfamiliar faces, he reasoned that his lightbee must be on the blink again. But what else could you expect from living on a trash-can of a ship where the mainframe wasn't even operational? He paused. Or perhaps that latter part was more a help than a hindrance.

His eyes flitted across to the red neon glare of the alarm clock. 3am. Ohhh joy. With his brain wired and chest pounding, there was no way on Io that the temptations of sleep would seduce him once more. Even if it happened to only be wearing a mini-skirt and peep-hole bra.

Sighing, Rimmer quietly gave the instruction to his light bee to furnish him with his usual blue navigation uniform and checked the top bunk. Untouched. Well, 'untouched' was probably the wrong word. The slimy caterpillar of Lister's unmade sleeping bag was littered with crumpled beer cans and poppadom shards. The only clue that it hadn't been slept in for the last few hours was the distinct lack of fresh curry stains.

Rimmer rolled his eyes. He was probably pining after Kochanski again – most likely accompanied with an alcohol bender that would make even Charlie Sheen look the picture of sobriety.

"Lights!" he called out to the empty room. The fluorescent bulbs of the sleeping quarters pulsed into action, chasing the shadows into the dank corners of the room.

A shocked breath caught in Rimmer's throat for a second time before sighing in relief. For the briefest of moments - in that strange realm between darkness and light - he swore blind he'd caught a glimpse of a strange figure in the reflection of the mirror above the sink, standing over his shoulder and watching him wordlessly. Of course, there was nothing there now.

Rimmer shuddered. Ever since they'd found themselves marooned in deep space, he'd always felt that the aching emptiness of the ship seemed to fill with voices and shadows after the lights went out at night. As if the crew had returned to haunt them - the guilt of the survivors.

He blinked unsteadily. Caffeine. He definitely needed caffeine.


Lister couldn't sleep.

The light matrix of the scanner readout bathed his face with an eerie green glow as he dealt out the cards once more, laying out the umpteenth game of Solitaire. The others had long since retired from their poker tournament, yet he was content to hold his own court - his bottled beer subjects lined up in a reverent row across the scanner table.

Things - he surmised academically - had gone to smeg.

Kris hadn't died. She'd left him. Upped roots and decided to seek her happiness elsewhere. A happy ending that didn't include him.

Yes, he'd been hurt at first. After all, he knew all-too-well that he was nothing like her Dave. Unlike his doppelganger's smooth charm and graces, his words had never managed to express the poetry his mind composed every time their eyes had crossed paths. Unfortunately in the case of this Dave Lister, the mind and the mouth had never been connected on a learned level, rendering his attempts to woo as eloquent as a Welsh farmer with a chronic catarrh problem.

But his chirpy optimism refused to let him sink, buoying him up with the promise that if he searched the cosmos long and hard enough, he'd find her. They'd be reunited once more and they'd both have a second chance at making it work. Hell, even the fortune teller back on that Blerion Trading Post had deemed it possible.

Of course, she'd also suggested that something else would befall them once their paths crossed again. But he'd tried not to think about that too much lately. It was much more enjoyable to ponder a more important conundrum – 'which would be more fun to use in his private reunion celebration with Kris: whipped cream or honey…?'

Footsteps echoed from the corridor and Lister glanced up from his cards. An all-too-familiar shadow passed by the doorway and headed to the kitchenette next door.

Brow furrowed, he trailed the figure's path, pausing in the doorway as he clocked the tall lanky form hunched over the bench, fishing through the jars for a teabag.

"Rimmer," he blinked his surprise. "You're awake."

The hologram rolled his eyes wordlessly. A true contestant for Mastermind. Name: Dave Lister. Specialist subject: Stating the bleeding obvious.

"Couldn't sleep?" Lister ventured.

Click. The kettle rumbled into a boil.

Lister sighed quietly. Silence didn't usually bode well. Insults meant that Rimmer didn't want to speak to him. Silence meant that Rimmer really didn't want to speak to him. Ever optimistic, he ploughed on regardless.

"Nah, me neither," he conceded, as if to answer a silent retort.

Dipping his head, Lister regarded his shoelaces mournfully. When the pair were bickering, all felt right with the universe – as if this crazy cosmos comprehended the strange yin and yang of their relationship. But the incident on the Trading Post had moved the goalposts - his secret wedging an unbearable awkwardness between them.

He wanted more than anything to put an end to it; but gut instinct just knew that revealing the truth could make things a thousand times worse. Not only could it put them all at risk of exposure to the more hostile races of this universe, he knew full well how the hologram would react. Rimmer wouldn't see his secrecy as protective. All he'd see is a liar.

"Hey," he prodded verbally, olive branch extended. "Any chance I could get a black coffee?"

After a thoughtful pause, Rimmer's shoulders sagged with a groan, sounding his relent. "To counteract the effect of all that beer, I presume?" he sniffed, spooning in a heap of granules into a second mug.

Lister grinned but had the good grace to keep it to himself. "Something like that, yeah."

Meandering across to join him at the bench, Lister watched wordlessly as the hot water was poured out in the hologram's usual methodical fashion – the regimental inch gap to the brim – before adding milk to his own.

But then the familiar took a turn for the downright confusing when Rimmer reached for the pot of honey, carefully gathering a golden sticky mound onto a teaspoon.

"What're you doin?" Lister snorted, thoroughly bemused. Arnold J. Rimmer had always been a strictly 'milk, no sugar' man when it came to tea, and certainly not because he was 'already sweet enough'. After all, the idiom simply didn't fit with him. A bitter man with bitter tastes.

Rimmer huffed. "I'm dabbling in the art of alchemy," he replied flatly, although the sarcasm bubbled under the still surface. He dipped the now-golden spoon into the tea. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"No," Lister insisted, shrugging off the dig. "The honey, man. You never put honey in your tea." He folded his arms, tucking his fingers into the warmth of his armpits against the cold. The ship's metallic walls could really resonate the chill some nights. "You're always on my case when I put more than three sugars in mine."

"Lister don't be ridiculous," he scoffed, stirring the honeyed spoon through the milky brown until it melted into its depths. "I've always - "

He trailed off, the swirling pattern slowing thoughtfully as a flash whited out his mind's eye. For just that moment, he could picture – no, remember – standing in the training hall back on Blerios 5, savouring the taste of honeyed spiced tea on his tongue…

The spoon clattered on the worktop. He swallowed.

"Rimmer?" ventured a voice beside him. "You okay?"

Desperate, his mind scrabbled for the lost threads of the image, but they skittered away into the darkness once more before he'd seized a chance to reclaim them.

In the awkward silence that followed, Rimmer unknowingly wetted his lips. "I think I need to speak with Kryten," he managed eventually.

"Okay," Lister replied carefully, his voice low and steady as not to disturb the ripples of thought. Without deflecting his open stare, he nodded in a loose gesture towards the doorway. "We can check out the cleaning cupboard on C-Deck. Probably our best bet on finding him."

Blinking unsteadily, Rimmer nodded his consent – no-one in the driving seat.

As the pair headed towards the Xpress Lift, Rimmer gave up the chase. He resigned himself to the premise that the memory would probably wiggle its way back out of the darkness eventually. Most likely at a rather inopportune moment during one of his frequent revision sessions. Or perhaps during a mental re-visitation of his rather infrequent sexual conquests.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a memory trying to get out of the dark, hidden recesses of his mind.

It was a previously unnoticed and highly dangerous virus trying to get in.