Day 11, Part 2
As the day wore on and puberty continued to hit Jim and Bexley like a tidal wave, the boys became increasingly frustrated, moody, and sullen. Everyone had to be on tenterhooks around them. They had become prone to sudden bursts of, for the most part, unprovoked anger in conjunction with their raging levels of testosterone. They took their aggression out on anything from each other to the defenseless rubber plant.
Jim and Bexley were currently unaware of their surroundings, immersed in watching volume three of Lister's female boxing videos that he had discovered in the locker rooms months ago.
Lister and Rimmer were sitting across from each other at the student's table. Lister was reclining back in his chair at ease with his feet up on the table, only a few inches away from Rimmer's face. Lister sneezed loudly halfway through swallowing a mouthful of a chocolate malt shake, spraying the substance all over his surroundings. Rimmer's nose crinkled in distaste and he scooted further away from Lister, who was immersed in watching the screen in a trancelike state.
"I wonder," said Rimmer, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "What puberty would be like in their own dimension?"
"I dunno," said Lister, taking another long sip of his shake and spilling half of it down his front. Rimmer couldn't help but marvel at how Lister always succeeded in feeding his shirt front more than himself. This, unfortunately, was a trait that Jim and Bexley had inherited as well, as they had displayed so well every time they attempted to do what they called 'eating.'
"They've been a bit tetchy lately," said Rimmer. "I merely asked them how they were doing and they told me to smeg off."
"Of course they're tetchy," said Lister sympathetically. "You'd be a bit tetchy too if your balls were dropping faster than a pair of maraschino cherries on top of an ice cream sundae in the middle of July."
"It's got to be different than it would be here," Rimmer speculated. "If the roles of males and females are reversed over there. It's actually probably better that they're going through their adolescent years over here."
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Lister frowning and dabbing at yet another new spill to his t-shirt.
"It'd probably be just like raising a pubescent teenage girl here," said Rimmer thoughtfully. "I've always heard the opinion that it is easier to bring up boys than girls. With girls, you have to worry about being sure that the bathrooms are always stocked with tampons and other feminine products. You have to be suspicious of their boyfriend's intentions—will you find birth control in her Coach purse, or a couple of Trojans stashed underneath her bed between the pages of a novel by Louisa May Alcott? Yes, Listy—I'd say that raising boys is certainly easier. Your only concern for them is to be sure that they stay out of the cheerleading club and don't have dolls in their backpacks."
Lister suddenly looked quite worried, and stole a glance at his sons to be sure that they weren't listening. He instantly saw that he was safe to say whatever he pleased, they couldn't have looked more vacant if they were comatose. "Are you trying to say that when we, you know, take them back—that the gender roles will be reversed and they'll have to deal with all that smeg?"
Rimmer nodded. "That's exactly what I'm saying."
Lister visibly shuddered, and took a long sip from his half-full or half-empty glass, willing his mind to think of anything else than what was in store for his sons.
Jim and Bexley, forever hungry because they were growing like weeds, announced that they were going to go get some more food from the dispensing machines. They each returned with a foot long sandwich piled with every topping known to man.
Bexley saw Rimmer eyeing his sandwich enviously as he ate. "What, do you want some?" said Bexley, his mouth full as he proffered his sandwich to the hologram.
"No thank you," said Rimmer, smiling stiffly. "I can't eat food, if you didn't remember."
"Why not?" said Jim, hitting his chest with his fist when he swallowed a sizeable bite that didn't quite fit down his esophagus. "Oh, right! You can't eat because you're dead!"
"Yes," said Rimmer bitterly. "Thank you very much, Captain Obvious."
Bexley took a huge bite of his sandwich, closing his eyes and chewing slowly, being careful to make sure Rimmer was watching. "Mmm," he said tauntingly. "This sandwich is so good…"
"I can't imagine what it's like for those poor smeggers who can't eat," said Jim, tauntingly waving the remainder of his lunch in front of Rimmer's snarling face.
"All right, all right, that's enough, boys," said Lister, grinning. "You can stop it now. It's unnecessary. He gets it. You can eat and he can't."
Rimmer continued to sit with his arms crossed. A permanent scowl was fixed on his face as he stared at the opposite wall, his hologramatic mouth watering for just one bite of the sandwiches the boys had—he would do anything just to remember what it was like to eat.
"Want a sip?" cackled Lister, proffering his chocolate malt shake to Rimmer.
…
Lister, Cat, Jim, and Bexley were all sitting around a table in the Recreation Room having a game of poker. Lister and Cat had just finished explaining the game to the boys. They now planned on playing a practice game to help them get the idea of how it works.
"Now you put in you antes," Lister said. "Since you boys are first-timers we'll start small and not play for keeps," he wriggled his ring off his finger and put it into the center of the table.
Cat removed one of his silver fish skeleton earrings and placed it into the setting as well.
"Wow," said Bexley, poking at the earring. "I like this!"
"Me too," said Jim. "It looks like Lennon and McCartney but a lot skinnier."
"Really?" said the Cat, taken aback. "I hate that old thing!"
"What should me and Jim put it?" asked Bexley, digging in his pockets for any artifacts, but finding nothing.
"Umm…oh, I know," said Lister, digging into his pocket and producing the picture of Marilyn Monroe that they had been fighting over earlier that day. "It'll count for the both of you."
Lister turned around in his chair to look at Kryten, who was polishing anything in the room that could hold still. The occupants of the room feared remaining stationary for too long, lest they get a squirt of surface polisher in the face. "Kryten, man, are you sure you don't want to play?"
"I'm quite sure, Mr. Lister, sir," said Kryten. "Besides, I have nothing to bet. I have few possessions apart from my spare heads."
"What about you, Hol?" said Lister.
"Afraid I can't at the moment, Dave," said Holly. "I'm rather busy."
"Busy?" said the Cat disbelievingly. "You? No way are you busy."
"I am actually," said Holly defensively. "I'm only navigating a ship the size of a small city. Plus I was just preparing for the you-know-what by making sure the Holly Hop—"
"Holly!" said Lister sharply, nodding toward Jim and Bexley. The boys weren't looking or paying any attention for that matter, but were involved in a fierce game of rock, paper, scissors. "Ontday alktay aboutway ethay ollyhay ophay ivedray aroundway emthay."
"Oh, right," said Holly, nodding. "Iway ikelay otay eakspay italianway ootay."
"You've never spoken Pig Latin before, have you, Hol?" said Lister.
The Cat elegantly Hindu shuffled the deck and dealed them each five cards. Rimmer suddenly strode into the room, looking very smug indeed.
"What is it now, Rimmer?" said Lister, briefly glancing up from his hand.
"I've done it," said Rimmer triumphantly, hands clasped proudly behind his back, his eyes bright as his nostrils flared.
"Done what?" said Lister, not even attempting to sound interested.
"Just look at yourself!" exclaimed the Cat. "You're so full of yourself I'm choking from the smug!"
"The skutters must have taken my threats seriously," said Rimmer arrogantly. "They've put off their strike."
"That's old news, man," said Lister, placing his bet. "They ended their strike when I promised that we'd have you switched off every other week or something like that."
"You did what?" cried Rimmer in horror. "You can't just appease them by promising to have someone switched off like that—who do you think you are, Pontius Pilot?"
"Don't worry about it," said Lister offhandedly. "Just disappear for a few days every other week, wander off to some other part of the ship, take a tour of the Diesel Decks or something. You liked doing boring smeg like that. They'll think we've done it—they'll never know the difference."
"That'd be doing us all a favor!" grinned the Cat. "Did you see those signs they had? Those dudes knew what they were talking about."
"I can't believe you agreed to have me turned off," said Rimmer, shaking his head dejectedly. "That's what really gets my goat. After everything we've been through—"
"Rimmer, relax. What matters is that their strike is over. Just chill. Now that the whole things blown over, they'll probably just forget about it all."
Jim turned his hand of cards over and over again, as if trying to make sense of them. Bexley stared at his own cards, looking equally baffled. Bexley leaned over to look at Jim's hand, wondering if the two sets looked anything alike.
"Hey, no peeking!" Jim exclaimed, holding his hand out away from his twin.
"What are these little squiggly things?" asked Bexley, holding up a red 3 of hearts card.
"Oh, that's right," said Lister. "We can't play the game, Cat. It'd take forever. They haven't learned their numbers."
"What d'you mean they haven't learned their numbers?" cried the Cat. "Even I know my numbers, and I am one-hundred percent self-taught!"
"Yes," gloated Rimmer. "That explains everything. It is quite the accomplishment for you, isn't it, Cat?"
"So, what else do you boys feel like doing?" asked Lister.
"I know," said Rimmer. "I discovered a storage locker with utilities not yet accounted for. We could always add those to the supplies list if we're looking for a good time. Reading out the names and checking off the boxes next to each item is only half of the fun!"
"Oh, really?" said the Cat. "What's the other half?"
"Hey, Rimmer," said Lister. "I only now just remembered something I wanted to tell you. I was watching Channel 27 earlier and saw a commercial for a documentary they were going to show today on twentieth century telegraph poles. I think it just started."
"Really?" said Rimmer. "That sounds fascinating. It's on right now, you say?"
"Yeah," said Lister. "You go on ahead. We'll be there once we've cleaned up here."
"See you in a moment, then," said Rimmer, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he strode out of the games room in the direction of the sleeping quarters.
The Cat rounded on Lister. "Buddy, are you crazy? No way am I watching some dumb show about telegraph poles. Why'd you tell him we'd come?"
"I believe that it's called a distraction, Mr. Cat," said Kryten. "A technique to ward off unwanted nuisances."
"Like Rimmer?" said Jim.
"Sure," said Lister, shrugging. "It works for pretty much anything, though—solicitors, collection agencies, old girlfriends…"
"You mean there is no documentary?" asked the Cat.
"No," said Lister, grinning as he shook his head.
"Whew," said the Cat, wiping his brow. "That was a close one, bud. Good thinking."
"I know what we could do," said Lister, throwing down his hand and leaping up from the table. "Let's play some pool."
Lister strode over to the pool table and picked up his favorite cue with the black stripe around the middle. He picked up the cube of blue chalk from the middle of the table.
"What's that for?" asked Bexley, pointing to the chalk.
"You put it on the end of the cue and use it to jab people in the forehead and leave blue dots all over them," said Lister, grinding the cube of chalk against the cue tip.
"Really?" said Cat.
"No, not really," Lister laughed. "I'm not really sure what it's for. I think it's got something to do with friction."
Lister put the triangle onto the smooth green velvet of the pool table and fished all of the pool balls out of the side pockets and into the plastic triangle. Once all twelve balls were in place, Lister removed the triangle and set it aside.
"I'll break," said Lister, standing at the back of the table and lining up his shot. "Show you boys how pool's really supposed to be played. Watch and learn."
Lister closed one eye and looked down the cue. He pulled his right arm back, moved it forward again, and took the shot. The white ball charged into the triangle and the balls clinked together as they scattered like frightened mice around the table away from the white cat. Five of the balls blindly found their way and scurried into the pockets on the sides of the tables.
"Ye-es!" exclaimed Lister, pumping his fist. "That, boys, is a break! What did I say? Dave Lister, pool God!"
"Let me try," said Jim eagerly.
"Then me," said Bexley.
Lister handed Jim the cue. "This shot'll tell us if you're playing stripes or solids."
Jim lowered himself closer to the table and squinted one eye closed, aiming just as Lister had. He took the shot, and the white ball rolled into the middle side pocket.
"I did it!" exclaimed Jim excitedly. "I won!"
Lister dug his hand into the pocket the ball had went into and pulled it out.
"What are you doing?" asked Jim, looking confused.
"That's called a scratch," Lister explained, holding up the white ball. "It's not a good thing. You don't want the white ball to go in. You're either colors or stripes, right? If you scratch you have to take one of your balls from the pockets and put it back on the table. The first one to hit all of their balls and the eight ball into the holes first wins. If you hit the black eight ball in and it's not your last, then you lose."
"You sure do know a lot about pool, Mr. Lister," said Kryten. "Could it have anything to do with you being discovered under a pool table? Did you ever leave that pub?"
"Hardly," Lister grinned. "Your turn, Bex."
Bexley took the cue from Jim, aimed, and shot. The white ball collided with the eight ball and they both fell into the corner left hole.
"Ah, rotten luck, son," said Lister, shaking his head. "Game over. Don't worry about it--it takes a while to master the art form. Six hours every day in a pub to be exact."
Rimmer appeared in the doorway, his arms crossed. "Well? What's taking you so long?"
"We just felt like having a game first," said Lister innocently.
"There's only one problem," said Rimmer.
"What's that?"
"There is no documentary on about twentieth century telegraph poles," said Rimmer glowering. "There's some twaddle about methods to keep women's stockings from running."
"Look, man—" Lister began apologetically.
"Who would cancel such a fine program?" asked Rimmer, aghast. "I want the name of whoever ran that station."
"Yeah," said Lister quickly. "It must've been cancelled. That's it. Those weaselly smegging broadcasters…"
Jim and Bexley both yawned suddenly, stretching their arms above their heads.
"Where are you going, boys?" asked Lister, putting the pool cue back on its rack.
"To the bunks," said Jim.
"We're tired," said Bexley.
"All right," said Lister, as Jim and Bexley turned to go. "Should I come with you—do you remember the way back from here?"
"It's all right, dad—" said Bexley, pausing in the doorway.
"We know the way," Jim finished, and the twins walked shoulder-to-shoulder out of the room.
Lister reclined back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. "Look at them. They're nearly completely grown up. Did you hear their voices—they've gotten so low. And they're almost as tall as me. See how independent they're becoming, walking back to the sleeping quarters on their own?"
"Yes," said Rimmer thoughtfully. "It's quite an accomplishment not to get lost on your way from the Recreation Room to the Officer's Quarters, you know. They don't need you anymore, Listy. Their new best friends are their right hands."
"Just imagine how confusing today's been for them," said Lister concernedly. "Just try to imagine what it's been like for them. When the day started, right, they were around twelve. Then, all of a sudden—wham! They turn thirteen. Puberty hits 'em. They started off the day as kids, and now they're practically full-grown men. I don't blame them for being so tired."
"You'd better hope that they don't sleep long," said Rimmer, glancing at his watch. "Because you've only got eleven hours left with them."
…
"Look at them," said Rimmer, standing beside the bunks where Jim and Bexley's sleeping forms lay. Jim was in the top bunk and Bexley had taken the bottom. "They suck their thumbs when they sleep just like you do."
"Really?" said Lister interestedly. "Do I snore like that, too?"
"No," said Rimmer. "They're silent as the dead compared to you."
"Do we have to wake them up?" said the Cat. "I was kind of enjoying the peace and quiet!"
"They do look really peaceful, don't they?" whispered Lister, cocking his head to one side and watching them affectionately. "I don't have the heart to disturb them."
"They do appear quite tranquil, sir," said Kryten. "I'm telling you—it's from that sandwich they had earlier. Turkey always does make one quite sleepy."
"But they've been sleeping for six hours!" Rimmer cried. "Holly's got the Hop Drive prepped to leave in five hours! They'll be seventeen in one hour and eighteen four hours from then."
"Don't worry," said the Cat, pulling a purple-dyed feather out of one of his many pockets. "They're not really sleeping."
Cat leaned over and tickled Bexley under the nose with the feather. Bexley squirmed and he the Cat giggled when Bexley smacked his own face, but Cat had already removed the feather.
"Cat!" Lister exclaimed angrily. "What was that for? Let them be!"
"I was just testing his reflexes," said the Cat innocently. "What about the other one—"
"No," said Lister firmly, grabbing the Cat's wrist and wrestling the feather away from him.
"As I was saying, if we're going to stick to your plan—" Rimmer interrupted.
"I know man, I know," said Lister soberly. "It's just—part of me still can't believe that I'm just dumping my sons off in another universe. There's so much I haven't got to show them yet. I kinda feel like a failure as a parent. They're nearly adults and I still never got around to teaching them how to read or write. I haven't even had time to show them how to make the perfect shami kebab."
"They have to go today, Listy," said Rimmer. "May I remind you of something you've surely tried to forget—a horrible, highly unpleasant accident involving the navicomp, your youngest son, and a lethal explosion that will take place within the next twenty-four hours if they stay here? I mean, I only estimated that Bexley was twenty-five, he could have been younger."
"What're you talking about, grease stain?" asked the Cat.
"He's right," choked Lister, collapsing into the desk chair, all color rapidly draining from his face. "The future echoes, remember? Rimmer thought he saw me die in the Drive Room, but my future self told me and Rimmer that it wasn't me who had died, it was Bexley. He told me what happens to Bexley when he's around my age. My future self must have known that we'd need the warning so that we wouldn't keep them here; knowing that if I didn't send them off in time, Bexley would… he would…"
"Your future echo must have known that if you couldn't save Bexley's life, you could at least postpone his death," Rimmer finished, realization dawning on him.
Lister looked sick to his stomach. His whole body trembled as he spoke in a quavering voice, "I can't believe that I was so smegging happy back then—when my future self told me that it wasn't me who died I was too relieved to realize it was actually about my son. I don't think I really understood the effect of it all, or believed myself for that matter. I wasn't a father yet. I didn't know what it was like to have sons. I thought I'd have years to spend with them, not three days. Now I wish it could've been me instead of him…"
There was a long respectful silence as Lister struggled to compose himself.
"Sir," said Kryten, placing a comforting hand on Lister's shoulder. "I have a suggestion for something to cheer everyone up and at the same time celebrate our remaining time with Mr. Jim and Mr. Bexley. Why don't we have a party for them before we use the Holly Hop Drive, sort of like a going away party?"
"Yes," said Rimmer. "It could be like a birthday party."
"Their first birthday party," said Lister, his countenance brightening ever so slightly. "We can do it when they turn eighteen, like Kryten said—just before we Holly Hop. Brilliant idea, Kryte!"
"I'll make the cake," Kryten volunteered excitedly. "I'll be in the kitchens if anyone needs me."
"Someone should be in charge of decorations," said Rimmer.
"I will," said the Cat.
"I'll get some groovy tunes," said Holly. "Who'd like to hear my new scale? I think I nearly have all of the bugs worked out."
"And I'll have the skutters set up some entertainment," said Rimmer. "Who's up for a game of RISK?"
"Anything but that, Rimmer," said Lister. "I'll distract the boys while you lot get everything ready."
"How're you going to do that?" asked the Cat.
"Come and get me when the party's all set up. In the meantime, I'll treat them to a game," said Lister, rubbing his hands together, "of Better Than Life."
AN: It's really winding down now. Once again, Kryten knows about the pool table from Lister because this episode was the original home of Lister's story about how he was found.