The image visible through the plexiglass viewscreen was that of a giant space battle cruiser in the shape of a cow skull. All it's lights were out, it was missing huge sections of its body, and it was definitely ten times more intimidating than it had been the last time they'd seen it.
But Lister was blind to this. He was a man with a mission. No, actually, he was more than that. He was an incredibly stupid man with an incredibly stupid mission. Of course, he didn't realize that. Stupid people rarely realize they're being stupid while they're doing the stupid thing. It usually isn't until long after when they're propped up in a body cast in a hospital bed that they realize that their intelligence was somewhat lacking at the time.
"There she blows…," he said, gazing at the ship.
"Logging onto the ident computer," Cat said, tapping some controls into his keyboard.
Rimmer and Kryten entered the cockpit and headed for their stations.
"What's this?" Rimmer asked, looking past Lister's chair to get a look at the recently made derelict ship.
"We've come across the simulant ship we totaled a couple of weeks back. We're gonna try and board it for supplies," Lister replied, focusing on his target.
Kryten registered this comment and realized that Mr. Lister was once again playing the pointless hero role again. Ever since they'd become trapped on Starbug, things had certainly gotten a lot more dangerous, and they were very exposed to all forms of peril. Unfortunately, Lister had become a little too "action man" for his tastes due to this. His first instinct when confronted with danger was to charge at it with a bazookoid and kick it's teeth in before blasting it. While the mech would never admit it, he often thought that Mr. Rimmer had it right sometimes when he suggested they run away. Sometimes it actually seemed downright sensible.
"Is that wise, sir?" he asked. "The scan says the superstructure is highly unstable and could go at any time."
"What if some of the simulants have survived?" Rimmer asked, taking his seat anxiously.
"There's an old cat saying," the Cat spoke up. "If you're gonna eat tuna, expect bones."
Rimmer rolled his eyes. "There's an old human saying: If you're gonna talk garbage, expect pain."
"Look, we'll take our chances man, okay?" Lister said dismissively.
"No-kay," Rimmer retorted. "They're cybernetically deranged mechanical killing machines. Not content with blasting their ship out of the sky, you now want to go back and steal what remains of their belongings? That's the metaphorical equivalent of flopping your wedding tackle into a lion's mouth and flicking his love spuds with a wet towel: total insanity."
Lister moaned with annoyance. "Look, ever since that refrigeration unit packed in we've had to live off a few pathetic handfuls of moss and fungi scraped off passing asteroids. I can't stand it anymore!"
Kryten looked astonished. "Well, sir, are you really saying you'd rather have a psychopathic mechanical killer rip off your skull and play your frontal nodes like a xylophone than have another bowl of my nourishing space nettle soup?"
"Buddy, I'd hand him the sticks and hold up the sheet music," Cat said firmly.
But Rimmer wasn't about to give up. "Lister, they are simulants. Why on Io should they have food supplies?"
Lister turned around in his chair and gave Rimmer the smuggest look he could muster upon his chipmunk face. "Because the ident computer says they do," he said matter-of-factually, pressing a button on Rimmer's computer. "Look: stacked to the gills."
Rimmer stared at the new data on his screen with a look of disbelief. Lister was right.
"It's true, sir," Kryten said sheepishly. "Rogue Simulants always carry large stocks of food supplies in order to prolong the torment of their torture victims. In some cases, they've kept subjects alive for over forty years in a state of perpetual agony."
Rimmer glared at him. "If we wanted to live in a state of perpetual agony, we'd let Lister play his guitar. We don't. I say drive on."
But Lister just stared at the derelict again before speaking. "Kryten, what's for dinner?" he asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.
"Tonight, sir, asteroidal lichen stew followed by dandelion sorbet," Kryten said pleasantly.
"We're going in," Lister said decisively.
While the Cat was docking with the simulant ship, Lister went down to the mid-section to do a few last minute things. Kryten and Rimmer followed him down, trying to knock some sense into him.
"Sir, can't you see your behavior is totally irrational?" Kryten implored.
"In which case, we can remove him from duty as per Space Corps Directive 196156," Rimmer said quickly, quietly grasping the Worry Balls in his hands.
Kryten looked confused. "196156 – 'Any officer caught sniffing the saddle of the exercise bicycle in the women's gym will be discharged without trial'? Hmm, I'm sorry, sir that doesn't quite get to the nub of the matter for me."
Rimmer growled quietly with frustration. He was always off by one number, but Kryten was already talking again before he could correct himself.
"Sir, we have enough thistles and weeds and cultured fungus for you to scrum yourself stupid until the day you die. This foolhardy trip beggars logic!"
Deciding to go along with the mech for once, Rimmer backed him up. "Lister, we'd be fools not to listen to him. When is he ever wrong? All right, he may have a head shaped like an inexplicably popular fishing float, but he does operate from a position of total logic and we'd be fools to ignore his sage council."
Kryten nodded. "At least let me and Mr. Rimmer go in your place. We are after all merely electronic life forms and therefore expendable," he continued.
Okay, screw that, Rimmer thought. "And what the smeg would you know, you bog-bot from hell?" he snapped.
But Lister hadn't been listening to a word they'd said. He was too busy loading up the bazookoids. "There's something else," he said quietly. "I didn't want to say in front of the Cat."
They all threw a glance at the cockpit where the Cat was still working. Rimmer frowned. Since when was the Cat a child that they had to hide bad news from? What was so horrible that someone couldn't know about it?
"The reserve fuel tank got punctured when we crashed into that ocean moon," Lister continued. "If we don't re-supply, we're out of power, two, three days."
Kryten looked incredulous. "But what about the readouts?" he asked, looking over at the wall panels.
"I rigged the readouts. I didn't want to cause any alarm," Lister replied simply, as if it was the noblest thing in the world, as if he'd donated a kidney to a dying child.
Rimmer's expression looked really alarmed. "You rigged the readouts!" he yelled indignantly. "You didn't want to cause any – !"
And suddenly there it was. Rimmer was now clutching his chest and grinding the worry balls as he hyperventilated. "I can't breathe, I'm hyperventilating!" he gasped.
Kryten was at his side in an instant. "Please, sir, don't panic."
"It's not a panic, it's a full-blown hysterical fit!"
"Grind those balls, sir! Grind them!"
Rimmer ground like there was no tomorrow. Working his way through the pain, he managed to get himself back under control, and he proceeded to let torrents of sarcasm pour from his mouth like a waterfall.
"So let me get this straight," he said, leaning against a wall for support. "If we board that ship and get captured, we're finished. However, if we board that ship and don't get captured, but the superstructure disintegrates around us, we're finished. On the other hand, if we board that ship and don't get captured and the superstructure doesn't disintegrate around us, but we can't find any fuel, we are, in fact, finished."
Lister nodded grimly. "That's about the shape of it, yeah."
"After you with the balls, sir," Kryten said simply.
"Look, we're out of options," Lister continued. "We've got less choice than a Welsh fish and chip shop. We've got to board that ship, even if it is on the brink of disintegration. Let's just pray the crew are rotting in Silicon Hell with all the photocopiers."
But Rimmer shook his head. He held the balls tightly in his hands. He couldn't go. For once, it was genuinely hazardous to his health. One more panic attack and he'd be in more danger than Rupert Murdoch's career. "Look, you three go. I'm not leaving Starbug," he said firmly.
Lister shrugged. "Fine, that's fair enough. Unless, of course, something weird and hideiously ironic happens, like while we're away you get boarded by a rampaging torture party of crazed simulants in the rapid grip of bloodlust fever."
Rimmer stared at him. Great, now he was in danger no matter what he did. He looked to Kryten, secretly willing the mechanoid to make up some excuse for him to stay here, but the mech looked back at him helplessly. No way out.
Damn his pride, what little of it he had.
"I'll go pack," he said at last, pushing past them towards the stairs.
Lister smirked at his retreating form. "Bring your extra-brown rubber safety pants," he said mockingly. "And your hard-light remote belt. We need all the hands we can muster."
Rimmer glared at him furiously before grinding the balls again. He vowed that he would reveal his condition once this was all over. He'd let Kryten spill the beans later on, and then Lister would feel horribly guilty for forcing a hologram near death to be allowed into such a stressful situation.
He hefted the balls in his hands.
Just so long as he didn't die first.