A/N: I know I'm not updating enough, but I finally got this one out there. It's a bit long, but I guess I need to be upping my game here guys and actually using plot development rather than just dreaming about it.
A special thanks to: E. Nagrom, kellyofsmeg (who always edited this little puppy), Radar-rox, Feline Ranger and Sophoclesdude for their lovely reviews! Concrit always welcome!
Danke!
Sunny
XXX
Then, there existed those brief, almost sordidly short seconds of calm before the proverbial storm. In one breath, the rumbling halted and worried glances were swapped, but then – as hastily as it had started – the almighty shaking recommenced with additional vigour.
It was then that all hell was let loose. The mechanoid waiters appeared in their dozens, descending upon the room and adjoining corridor like a herd of reverse-metallic- locusts, saving and salvaging everything in their path. They quickly bundled anything expensive into
ornate cabinets which were carefully bolted, various other items of furniture were fastened to wall or the floor or anything of substantial weight and size not to go sailing off at the first tilt of the ship.
Amongst the chaos, Lister (quite oddly) felt very much at home. Crashes were, unfortunately, a regular occurrence in his life. So much so that lately he'd been treating any 'disruptions to their pre-destined flight path by an unplanned and haphazard landing' with worrying indifference. Crash landings had played such a part in his existence that, somewhat paradoxically, they'd faded from significance.
As he cast an expert eye around the room, he quickly realised just how much Rimmer might have in common with the crew of the S.S Centurion. Two had taken to cowering under the pool table, with only the lack of a pair of colanders to spoil the cowardly effect. Another man was busy convincing four of the mechanoid waiters to form a 'protective cocoon' around his trembling body, shamelessly stuttering that if they didn't they could certainly "kiss goodbye to their place in Silicone Heaven". Over on the other side of the room one man had fainted, two were engaged in furious (and no doubt false) worship to whichever God would show them enough mercy to survive the crash and one more had snapped a salute and started singing "God Save the Queen" in a slow, mournful voice.
'Definitely a group for Rimmer' Lister thought.
Amongst the pandemonium a few voices cut a path through the heaving, sweating, and screaming block of panic. Gregory had somehow wrestled his way into further command. "We need to get down to the flight deck" he announced dramatically "See if we can find out what the bladdy hell is going on!" He gave a decisive nod to those assembled around him, obviously crewmembers whose courage and backbones prevented them from cowering, bribing, praying or panic singing with the rest.
With his group of loyal followers (of which included Michael, Isaac and two others Lister had yet to meet) the host dashed from the room. Lister followed them. After all, what else was there for him to do? Cat, amazingly, had climbed atop an unnecessarily ostentatious china cabinet and was watching the madness unfold with dozy bemusement. Rimmer had joined the two other "Pool Table Cowerers" in their spineless crusade and was currently curled up in an impossibly small ball of hologram, sobbing uncontrollably and cursing everyone who'd ever done him wrong (Lister, most notably). Kryten was no-where to be seen, so it seemed to Lister that the obvious choice of action lay with Gregory's band of intrepid gentlemen, on their way to discover the source of the problem. After all, with his experience, he could be a valuable help.
As he ran alongside Gregory and the others, a large section of the corridor wall bulged and groaned out of shape, confirming Lister's suspicion that they'd got caught in a meteorite storm. A fairly dense one by the feel of it and despite the S. S Centurions vast size and expense, Lister doubted it could survive such a ferocious volley of meteorite attack for much longer. The run to the flight deck took a good five minutes, if that, but to Lister (and no doubt to others) it stretched out, further and further, lasting for what seemed and felt like
an indeterminate age. Once or twice Lister lost his footing and had to clamber back to his feet as the ship bucked, ducked, rolled and writhed with each new onslaught of rock.
The mechanoid piloting the ship was attempting to simultaneously apologise for "sticky wicket" he'd gotten his masters into, initiate his shut-down process as well as swerving and shirting the craft around, under or over (and if absolutely necessary, through) the meteorites. Gregory flung his breathless self into the co-pilots chair, adopted full control and shouted "It's a meteorite storm – a big one!". He might as well have told them all that water was wet, the sun was hot and flat-pack bookcases are more trouble than they're worth. Talk about the smegging obvious!
Isaac, hovering behind him, turned a colour often described by most paint charts as "Off-White" "Look, it's getting worse" he cried. Clearly, adding an unnecessary verbal commentary to the proceedings were this group's forte.
"Can't we pull out the storm?" queried one of the men Lister had yet to formally meet. His eyebrows had formed a fuzzy V on the top of his nose "If we carry on like this, we'll get torn to shreds in a matter of minutes!"
The other unknown man began to whimper "What are we to do?" he wailed.
Gregory clenched his jaw, tossed back his head and rolled his shoulders before announcing in a voice swiped from a Hollywood Action Blockbuster "We ride it out".
It was then that they all spotted something truly catastrophic. A meteor the size of the Wembley Stadium was tumbling towards them, it was a good distance away from them yet but close enough to dispel any feeling of calm.
"Change of plan" snivelled Gregory, displaying a truly amazing change of heart, all under the space of two seconds. "To the escape pods – pronto!"
Michael attempted some intellectual, near invisible resistance, by referring back to the former plan "But you just said-"
He was cut short by Gregory snapping at him: "Goddamit Michael! I know what I said but we're all bladdy doomed, so stop nancying around like a great girls blouse and skedaddle to an escape pod!"
Lister, nauseated by the unfolding scene, rolled his eyes in a manner usually reserved solely for Rimmer and dropped into Gregory's recently and swiftly vacated co-pilot chair. "Okay, turn all the boosters on the left side of the ship to maximum power – even realign some reverse thrust jets if you can-"
"Wha- the left side…what in blazes-" spluttered Gregory, barging his way back towards Lister, his face taut with ill-disguised fury and envy.
"We're taking evasive action" Lister hastily explained "How much fuel is there in the right side fuel tanks?" he asked the mechanoid positioned at the Science console.
"Precisely 2385.2 gallons Ma'am"
"Transfer it all to the left surplus fuel tank"
"Now wait just one second!" barked Gregory "I give the orders around here!"
As if in complete contradiction to that statement, the Science-console mechanoid piped up "Fuel transferred to the left surplus tank. All available boosters and thrusters on the left side set to maximum power."
"Brutal – now, flick the ignition force to its highest possible setting, we might scorch a few bits but what the hell?!"
Isacc, Michael and the two unknowns looked from Davina, expertly handling the complex console desk as if it were nothing more than an idiot-proof remote, to Gregory, who was breathing erratic and going a funny colour. Their eight eyes then turned to the magnificent stretch of plexiglass and there was a collective intake of breath. The mega meteorite was far too close for comfort.
"When I give the order, initiate the ignition process to the left engines only, okay?" said Lister,
"Why wait?" whimpered Isaac "Sooner the better I say!"
"Not here" explained Lister "No ship would be able to handle such a drain on the fuel and power sources for more than a few minutes. If we swerve too soon, we'd risk scraping across the meteorite – not good. We need to wait till the last possible second"
Gregory narrowed his eyes "I'm intrigued by this 'we' you keep referring to…I've yet to hear anyone else lay claim to this…insane venture. If this stunt fails, the blame will be placed firmly on your shoulders"
Very Rimmery – sarkiness and finger pointing in the face of adversity.
"Direct collision is two minutes and twenty seconds" came the call of one of the mechanoids.
Licking the last layer of lip-gloss of his lips, Lister slid his fingers round the soft padded of the steering column. He prayed he was doing the right thing. This craft was no Starbug – who knows what it could handle?
"Direct collision in one minute 30 seconds…" Time flittered away like grains of sand in the wind. "One minute five seconds…fifty seconds….forty-five…thirty seconds."
"Now!" cried Lister, wrenching the steering controls as far left as its housing would allow. There was a deafening roar as the fuel in the tanks was ignited, its potent state and
excessive use causing a fairly sizable explosion that blasted out of all the activated boosters and thrusters. The resulting force threw the S. S Centurion onto its left side with all the grace of an enraged sumo-wrestler, just in time for the lumbering lump of rock to come tumbling through, merely a foot away from the hull of the ship.
There was an anxious wait as the meteorite glided beneath them, the ship shaking and juddering with the effort to remain at such an unnecessarily taxing angle.
"Direct collision averted. Meteorite passing out of our contact range!" cried the mechanoid at the science console, allowing his 'Immense Relief' chip and 'Utter Joy' board to overheat simultaneously. Lister grinned.
"Bravo ma'am" said the mech who was supposed to be piloting.
"Yes." Came a voice from the back of the flight deck "I must say that was the most impressive feat of foolhardy thoughtlessness I've seen in all my days." It was Gregory – a vision of disgust, contempt and ridicule all working together in perfect harmony.
The atmosphere in the room cracked. Seconds before the air had been heavy with the wonders of survival – now, it stung. At Gregory's words some people had murmured agreements and nodded sagely.
"You what?" spat Lister, for he really couldn't help it.
"Did you for one second give your little plan any thought? Did you perhaps ignore the fact that your stunt could have killed every last man on board?"
"And mechanoid" spoke the one in the pilot seat.
"Mechanoid 189 - "addressed Gregory, not even taking the effort to look at the droid "you will discharge yourself immediately, activate your shut-down sequence and pack yourself away. You have outlived your usage." He paused "And as for you, Ms Lister – the next time you feel the urge to take control and risk everyone's neck, you could at least try to muster up the decency to ask first. It's only polite" and with that he turned away.
Lister flung himself out of the co-pilots chair "Risk everyone's neck? You arsehole, I just saved everyone's neck!"
"We had our own escape plan; there was no need for you to interfere"
"What escape plan? Running away, whimpering? Oh do forgive me-" drawled Lister sarcastically "I can't believe I made a mess of that foolproof, spinelessly pitiful attempt to save your own skin at the cost of everyone elses!"
It was at that comment that Gregory snapped. He came storming right back to where Lister was stood "You" he said, leering uncomfortably close to Lister's face "You need to learn some respect. This is my ship so you will abide by my rules. You are never to speak to me or
another member of this crew in that manner or tone ever again."He exhaled angrily, "You need to know your place, you ignorant little bitch"
Lister said nothing; his fingers had curled inwards, balling into a tight fist. A fist he longed to drive into the dead centre of Gregory's sneering face at a painfully astonishing speed. The silence lasted a few seconds longer, giving Lister ample time to glare at the ships host, his brown eyes narrowed to razor-thin slits. Gregory merely smirked "Not so mouthy after a reprimand are you, darling?"
He touched Lister's shoulder and gently nudged him towards the open door "Oh, and one more thing…" There was a smirk, the real slippery, self-righteous smirk of a man who knew he'd already won this spat "They don't call it the cockpit for nothing!"
Half blinded with rage, Lister shoved his way out of the flight deck doo, hissing "bastards!" just loud enough for everyone to hear and ignore.