Twenty four hours later, the situation was this; The crew was sort of headed in the direction of the derelict that began this whole situation, but had to make a pit stop first. The Starbug had managed a rough, seat of its pants landing on an ice moon. The plan was to get water, since the last excursion hadn't been a total success. In fact, it was so far away from a success that new definitions of the word "failure" had to be invented to cover it. The magical mental feat that Rimmer had done to repair the ship three days earlier was, happily, still going strong, but nobody wanted to trust it. Which meant that they would have to double and triple check all systems, making sure that they were going to remain in one piece. However, fifty percent of the crew were incapacitated in some form or another. Rimmer and Hippolyta were still unconscious in the medi-bay, neither of them having even murmured since Bai abused and abandoned them. Kryten was off line, his head detached, doing emergency repair and data recovery since his dousing in the bathroom. That left Lister, Kochanski and the Cat to do all the work.

Well, that left Lister and Kochanski to do all the work. The Cat had vanished a while before, saying that, in the battle, his closet had been disasterously displaced, and that it would take at least three days to reorganize and color code it. Too tired and bruised to argue, Lister had just shook his head and waved the Cat off.

So he and Kochanski sat at the table in the galley, going on their 37th hour of sleep deprivation. They had the schematics for the ship spread open before them, and they were boning up on the automatic mining equipment. They couldn't even come close to digging up all the ice that they'd need to survive all by themselves. Not to mention that they simply didn't have the outerwear to deal with the frigid surface of the moon.

Kochanski had large, purple circles under her bloodshot eyes, and her usually immaculate hair hung in nappy cords. Nobody had been able to shower since the disaster in the bathroom. Kochanski's brilliant idea to keep warm hadn't been so brilliant after all. The ship's recyke water storage was totally depleted, and the pure stuff was swiftly going the way of its slightly off cousin. Lister didn't have the heart to go look in a mirror. He could feel his newly shorn hair sticking out behind his ears, giving him the look of a slightly startled baby orangutan. And, not that he was totally sure, but he thought he felt a zit starting on the end of his chin. Hippolyta usually had perfect skin, and he wondered briefly if she would hold the breakout against him. Then he realized that she would have to wake up first, which didn't look like it was happening any time soon. He heaved a deep sigh, and slumped forward, bumping his head on the table top.

Kochanski patted him on the back of the head. "I know, dear. But once we get the ship on automatic, we can go sleep for a bit. Just a little longer."

Lister raised his head, and stared blearily at his girlfriend. "It gets on my tits that we have to do this alone, that's all."

"I realize that this is a first, and hopefully a last, but I do wish Kryten would hurry up and fix himself. For once he might actually be useful."

Lister stared at the schematics again. And, again, they made absolutely no sense to him. "Krissy, we've been at these diagrams for 12 hours now. You'd think something would sink in, but it isn't. I've been flying a Starbug for almost 10 years. And I still don't get it. I'm tired, exhausted, knackered, shagged out, pooped! I need sleep! I need a warm bed and a glass of warm milk and a warm body, preferably yours, next to me so I can sleep!" He couldn't really believe it, but he began to cry. Tears welled up and spilled over. It was as if all the bad smeg to happen to him over his entire life was being focused like a laser, a single point of misery, sharply and shamelessly screaming to be released. "I'm stuck as a woman for the rest of my life!" he wailed. "We don't know where the watch is, we don't know how to get it back! I've turned you into a lesbian!" He buried his face in his hands and screamed.

"Lister?" said Kochanski kindly. "If your eating habits and guitar playing hasn't made me join the other team yet, you being in the wrong sort of body isn't going to make much more of a difference." She reached forward and took one of his hands away from his face. He peered at her from behind the fingers of his other hand. "We'll go to the derelict, we'll find the watch. We'll get you back to your old self again. And if, in the process, we find this Bai bitch and give her a good solid smack down, so much the better."

"But when we scanned the derelict, there were no lifesigns. She ain't there!" howled Lister, totally awash in hormones and frustration.

Kochanski sighed. She wondered if she'd ever been this difficult when she was premenstrual. A remote possibility, to be sure. Just don't get in the way of a lady and her pineapple chunks. She took a deep, calming breath. "Lister. Go to bed. I'll handle this."

"What? Kris, you really mean it?" Lister was snivelling, his face all red and splotchy from his cry.

"Yes. I've just about got it. Go."

"You're the best, Kris. You know that, right?" Lister stood up, wobbling.

Kochanski smiled tightly. "Yes, well, I'm not getting anything done with you sitting here whining at me. It's better if you go."

Lister made a face, and said, "I'm a woman. I can whine all I want." He managed to take two steps, then froze, a startled and wholly disgusted look crossing his face. "Oh my God."

Kochanski, who'd bent back over the papers, looked back up at Lister. "What? What is it?"

"Oh my God!"

"What's the matter? Lister!" She crossed over to him, grabbing him by the shoulder.

"Oh my GOD!!"

"What is it?! What's the matter with you?"

Lister looked at Kochanski, his eyes swimming with revulsion. He looked as if he were about to faint, vomit and scream all at the same time.

"I think I just got me period."

Kochanski blinked. "Oh, is that all? I thought something was wrong."

"You're damn right something's wrong! I'm bleeding! From a place that I shouldn't be bleeding from! Is that all, she says!" He sat back down, his upper lip curling in disgust. "Oh, God. Oh, God. I've got a woman's period." He seemed to realize what he'd said, and added, "I can't believe I just called it that."

Kochanski smirked. "I seem to recall a nice little practical joke, played on me by one Dave Lister, accompanied by one 4000 series mechanoid. Come on, let's see you do a little twirl in it." She hauled him up out of the chair again, and steered him toward the bathroom. "You get no sympathy from me, Dave. Go get yourself fixed up. The tampons are under the sink." She closed him in the bathroom, and talked to the closed door. "There's some Midol in the cupboard, too."

"How many should I take?" yelled Lister.

"At least two."

"That many?"

"Yes," she snapped impatiently, wanting to go back to the ice retrieval. "At least two!"

After a moment's silence, he yelled back, "I can't get 'em to fit!"

Kochanski's eyes widened as she realized the implications of what he was saying. Hadn't heard her talking about the Midol! He was trying to fit two... Oh God! She tried the door, realized he hadn't locked it, and burst in. Lister was standing there, with a big cheeky grin on his face, holding the bottle of Midol in his hand. "Gotcha."



Rimmer was swimming in blackness. He was struggling to find his consciousness again, knowing that there was something very important he had to take care of. But his own mind conspired against him, arguing quite succinctly that it needed rest, thanks, and to stop trying to wake up. He wasn't dreaming, exactly, due to the deep mental contusions inflicted on him by Bai. But there was a definite flickering, a rapid slideshow of images being projected against the blank sheet of his mind. Most of the images were total nonsense, consisting of mental monsters and wacky Friday night television comedy situations. A few, a rare few, were like still photographs of the women he'd known. There was Yvonne McGruder, complete with boxing gloves and trainers, frozen in time as she took an expert jab at a missing opponent. Then it was Stephanie Miller, surrounded by rubbish bins, her lips puckered up in anticipation, her eyes screwed tightly shut in fearful concentration. Then a few others, their names lost to posterity, most in the posture of getting ready to slap him silly for some inane remark he'd made in trying to pick up on them. His mother even made an appearance, with that ever-present look of sucking on a sour lemon that she had whenever he confronted her.

He patiently waited for images of Hippolyta to join the queue. He was secretly hoping he'd get some quality pornography in the mix. But she never arrived. His mind seemed to skip her entirely, and go right onto Bai.

Great, he sort of thought, even my dreams don't give me any enjoyment.

He saw another still picture now, of Bai sitting in lotus at the base of a tree, looking hopefully up into the branches. She seemed to be waiting for something, like a direct revelation from God. Then another, this time of Bai sitting in front of an old computer, her face washed out by the glow, her eyes wide and alert and full of joy. Another, Bai surrounded by big, intimidating men, while she smiled secretly to herself.

Now, he knew that he'd never seen any of these scenes himself. Wonderingly, he thought that maybe Bai had been so deep in his head that she'd left a little of herself behind. Which meant that maybe he could still use her power...

Remembering the fist, remembering the frantic flinging of his mind through space to find Hippolyta, he reached out.

And was stopped by a throbbing, blinding pain lancing through his forehead. The consciousness that he'd been searching for once again danced out of his grasp, and he plunged deeper into darkeness.

An indeterminate time later, Rimmer swam upwards again, this time knowing that any further experiments in telepathy would reduce him to a gibbering hulk of spam-like meat. Which, he was forced to admit, wouldn't be too much further from his current position. But at least now he could remeber the important stuff, like his name and his post code. The last wasn't particularly important anymore, seeing as he was three million years away from the post code in question, but it's the little things that make a man.

He slowly became aware that there was a light shining directly at his face, and he scrunched up his already closed eyes against it. Then he realized that any light he was seeing was real, honest to goodness light, and that he could very well wake up soon. On the other hand, it could be the light of the afterlife, calling to him. Tentatively, he cracked open one eye, dreading what he might see. All he saw was the lamps on the ceiling of the medi-bay. He opened his other eye, and then blinked rapidly to clear the sleep gunge out. He was awake!

He rolled over onto his side, coughing, eyes streaming tears against the onslaught of the light. When they cleared a little more, he saw Lister lying unconscious in the bed next to him. How had that happened? What was Lister doing...

Oh. Wait. That wasn't Lister. That was Hippolyta. The events of the last two weeks caught up with him. He'd become so accustomed to seeing Hippolyta as a female in his mind that her current state was a shock. Again. He really would have to get over these jolts if he wanted to stay sane.

Achingly, creakingly, he stumbled out of the medi-bed and crossed to her still sleeping borrowed self. He leaned over her, his thoughts bouncing off each other in confusion. She was back from her captivity, seemingly worse for the wear, with large bruises around her face and neck. But she was back. And the GELF wouldn't come visiting again. Not for a while, at least. But she was back, and relatively safe. She was back.

He realized his breath was coming in deep, shuddering gasps. He'd not really allowed himself to think about the fact that she'd been, almost, permanently gone out of his life. So many others had shut him out, put him away, let him go. She really was the first person in his life who kept him close. The reasons why still weren't entirely clear to him, but he wasn't quite ready to deal with that yet. He kneeled next to her recumbent form, and laid his head down next to her on the bed. His arms were splayed across her torso, sort of holding her. It was the closest he could come to intimacy, considering the circumstances.

"Hippolyta. I'm so sorry," he said to her, muffled by the shiny blanket that swathed the bed. "I know you must hate me, and I can't blame you. But I need you. I love you. I didn't want to lose you." He knew that she couldn't hear him, but he had to say it now, while he still had the courage to do so.

"I wish I could give you more than what I can. I just can't! I don't know how to get over this, and frankly I don't want to. If you're stuck as a man for the rest of your life... I guess we're done. I don't want it to be done, but I just can't! Forgive me." He could feel his heart breaking into a million pieces, just as he realized that he was dumping her while she was unconscious. Which was right up his alley, where lowdown behavior was concerned.

She seemed to stir, her arms moving under the blanket. Forgetting his words of a moment ago, he quickly regained his feet and leaned over her, his face inches from hers. He didn't even imagine, not in a million years, what she was about to do.

Her eyes flickered much the same way his had, and she seemed disoriented and confused. But then, her eyes focused on his face, and she lit up. "Rimmer!" she whispered fiercely. "Oh, God, I missed you." She managed to get her arms free, and wrapped them around his neck. "Kiss me." And, before he could struggle out of her grasp, she had her borrowed, decidedly male lips on his.

Time slowed to a crawl as Rimmer tried to find his stomach. It had dropped into his legs somehow, and was making odd rumbling noises. His heart had also migrated from its normal home, deciding to take a holiday in his throat, and was thumping around merrily. Then his heart and his stomach decided to go on honeymoon together, and clanged violently into each other somewhere in his sternum. Then his knees wanted in on the fun, and started knocking together like a pair of castinets. His brain, already quite beaten up, decided that it wanted no part of this, gracias.

But the rest of his body was cooperating with the inevitable. Moments passed, and he convinced himself that, against all available evidence, it was Hippolyta kissing him. He realized that it wasn't all that dissimilar from kissing her in her own body. She did that same little swirly thing with her tongue that he loved so very much. He gave in. He even found himself enjoying it. Sort of.

Then, suddenly, Hippolyta froze, and she pushed him away with a look of sheer horror in her eyes. "Oh, God! Rimmer!"

He swallowed and closed his eyes. "Hello. That was... interesting."

"I am so sorry! I wasn't thinking! I... wait, what?"

He opened his eyes and managed a weak smile. "Well, the universe seems to be ticking along just fine, no explosions or crashing of the heavens into the firmament. So, how about a bite to eat?"

Hippolyta regarded him with an open mouth. "You're not mad? You're not vomiting or running away in fear and disgust?"

He shrugged. "Well, it's not how I'd prefer to spend my time. Kissing a bloke I mean. I think I'd rather go in for a nice game of checkers, but I guess I'm ok."

Hippolyta coughed, disguising a chuckle. "I owe you an apology, Rimmer. I was out of it, and I'm not..." She stopped here, and threw up her hands. "Oh, screw it. It's about time you got over it. I'm not at all sorry, and I hope you're happy."

He squinted at her. "You did it on purpose!"

"Of... of course I didn't! I'm still mad at you for throwing that book at me. I just forgot myself, that's all." She fidgeted, playing with the blanket. "I'm glad you didn't bolt, though. You're getting better."

"Yes, well, you get a pass this time, what with all the swapping and telepathic nonsense going on. But don't let it happen again."

She smirked. "Ok, Rimmer. But if I'm stuck as a man forever, you're going to have to. I'm not giving up on this. And you'd better not either, or I'll... I'll do something drastic."

"What, that wasn't drastic enough?"

She started laughing. Slowly at first, then louder and faster, until she was grabbing her stomach from laughing so hard. There was a hysterical edge to it. "Fair enough," she giggled. She extended a brown hand to Rimmer, who, after a moment's hesitation, took it. She pulled him in close, and leaned her head against his arm. He lowered his own head, resting it against the small of her neck. A small voice in the back of his head said, this is ridiculous! But he ignored it. She was shaking, which at first he thought was from her laughter, but slowly he realized she was shaking from some other reaction. He leaned back, tilting her chin so she would look at him.

She wasn't crying, but she looked close to it. "Rimmer, I heard what you said. Please. Don't leave me."

He started shaking himself. "So you did do it on purpose."

She nodded, her lower lip trembling. "I'm sorry. I..." She threw her arms around his neck again. "I'm sorry I threatened to leave you! I'm sorry that I'm in the wrong body. I just... I can't... I need you. I've never needed anybody in my entire life, and I need you! You, Rimmer. Not reluctantly, not with provisos. Whole hog, fish or cut bait. I've never begged for anything ever, but I'm begging you. Don't leave."

Rimmer let her go, and sat down on the bed opposite. He was shaking very hard now. She was asking the impossible... but it wasn't all that impossible, really. He'd kissed her, and while he'd been repulsed, he also let it happen without too much struggle. He looked up after a moment.

"Hippolyta, I never told you why I'm like this."

"You don't have to. I..."

"I want to. So you'll understand what it is you're asking." He took a deep breath, and began to recall the tale of Thicky Holden. Haltingly, chokingly, he told her about the beatings he'd received from his brothers and father. "I was thirteen years old, Hippolyta. Thirteen! You must know how that affected me!"

Hippolyta nodded slowly. "I do. I get it. Ok, Rimmer. We've got our whole lives ahead of us. If I'm stuck as a man, I'll leave you be. But I would at least expect you to be my friend. Please?"

Rimmer nodded, relief showing on his face. "Thank you. Yes, I'll be your friend."

"Will you still love me?"

He nodded again, slower this time. "I'll always love you. But I can't be with a man." He paused and gulped, "Yet."

Hippolyta raised her eyebrows. "Don't string me along, Rimmer. Either you love me and you're with me no matter what, or you leave. As much as I want you to stay, if you're ending it, end it now. While I still have a chance to recover. Don't string me along."

Rimmer blinked. "But, you could get back into your body!"

"When? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year, twenty, thirty, forty years from now? Do you really want to hold out hope for that long? Aching to have me back, but knowing you can't and don't want to have me like this? While we both slowly go crazy from lust and anger and hurt? This is the rubicon, Rimmer. Either cross the bridge or burn it."

Rimmer looked confused. "What's a rubicon?"

"Not important!" snapped Hippolyta. "Do or die, time, Rimmer. Are you with me now? Or never?"

The seconds ticked past, while they both listened to the ship's air conditioning and lights hum. Hippolyta really couldn't believe this was happening. Just moments before she'd begged him to stay, now she was forcing his hand, making him decide. She held her breath, heart pounding. How could she be so stupid! She didn't know what she would do if... Rimmer finally looked up, and Hippolyta could see the decision he'd made before he even opened his mouth. And her heart broke as he confirmed her suspicions.

"Never." His voice was low, dead.

She blinked rapidly, trying not to cry. "So that's that, I suppose." She slid off the bed, trying to remember how to make her legs work. She had to get out of the same room that he was in. "I won't hold you to that friend promise, Rimmer. It was stupid, and pointless, and wouldn't work." She was crying now, and didn't care. "Just... don't take up with anybody else while I'm around. I don't think I could bear it to see you and..."

"Won't happen," denied Rimmer flatly, his eyes not meeting hers. "The only other option is Kochanski, and she's not interested." Hippolyta thought of a second option, but didn't share it. It would be bad enough to live without him, but to see him with her former body would do her in. Amazingly, he wasn't crying, which suprised the hell out of her. She supposed he'd convinced himself that this was just another argument with his former roommate. Or perhaps he didn't really care one way or the other about her. Or perhaps he'd never loved her to begin with. Or perhaps... she shut her brain down, she was done with him and his excuses and his broken soul. She stumbled from the room, blinded by tears and loss and pain.

Rimmer watched her leave. For a moment, his face was completely blank and empty. But then his eyes widened slightly and his jaw dropped. What the hell just happened? he thought. Again, he was completely left behind by current events. When God handed out brains, Arnold Judas Rimmer wasn't just not in line, he wasn't even in the right county. Then he realized what he'd done and finally, he began to cry.

The death of a relationship is a funny thing. Sometimes it's a violent, hair raising screaming match between two people. Two people who, for whatever reason, cannot stand each other any more. The little habits of months and years rasping across worn nerves, until the snores and the farts and the knuckle cracking all explode into one glorious angst fit. Sometimes, it's boredom. The little habits of the years so familiar that there's just no interest anymore. But whatever led up to it, when a relationship is dead, it starts to stink faster than a week dead fish.

Rimmer wondered, albiet lamely, when his relationship died. Was it when he'd thrown that book at her? Or was it before that, when he'd jerked away from her in the galley?

Or, could it be that he'd delivered the death stroke himself just now?

Whatever it was, it was over. Finally, totally over. Even if she did get back into her body, they wouldn't be together after that either.

A whole eight weeks of his life. Two months. That was it, all, finito, done, over. She'd given up her life, her career, everything, just for him. To follow him out on a grand adventure of survival, because she loved him. And now he'd done the exact opposite of what he wanted. He whinged and moaned that he never had a chance with women. Well, there was your chance, squire. You muffed it.

She'd tried to make him see. She even got him talking, kissed him against his wishes, made him think differently about the situation. But when it came right down to it, Rimmer could not, physically could not get past her body and see her true self. And he paid the price for it.

Bai. Bai did this. She did it all. He rested his head in his hands, his eyes drying, a fierce red haze descending on him. Remembering how much it had hurt to try and use her power, remembering how he knew, he just knew, that any further telepathy could turn him into a vegetable...

He tried again.



What makes a man?

This debate has been going on for centuries. Millenia, if the earliest scrolls have been carbon dated correctly. And there are three major theories, all of which have their points.

The first theory is that manhood is a purely physical attribute. Take a peek down your Y-fronts. Got a penis? You're a man. Good onya. Be proud in your knowledge that 90% of the world's advertising is aimed at you. (The other 10% consists of pouring blue liquid on litttle cylindrical bits of cotton, for some odd reason...) Of course, the main problem with this theory is that, regardless of the equipment, some confused (and some not so confused) men were attracted to other men. Or they were bisexual. Or asexual. Or had the components of their manhood removed, either by accident or by deliberate injury. Are eunichs men? Well, yes. And then again, no. Not to mention those weird mutations, those poor souls designated hermaphrodites. Oh, granted, most hermaphrodites lived full, rich lives. After, and this is the important bit, major reconstructive surgury and gender reassessment therapy. These odd cases stress the point rather than negate it: A man is whatever he says he is.

Which brings us to our second theory; societal pressures. A man is defined by the car he drives, the clothes he wears, the sports he follows and the brand of beer he indulges in. Put it this way; What would you think when faced with a man who was a professional ballet dancer, who decorated his entire apartment in soft mauves and pinks and lavenders, walked kind of swishy and drank nothing but candy apple martinis? Hello, my gaydar just went off, how about yours? Of course, this man could be straight as an arrow, and have the bonus of knowing exactly turns a woman on. (Foot rubs are favorite...) Whereas the big butch lumberjack wearing a garter belt and a bra under his flannel shirt and Levis... well.

Society can bring a lot of pressure on a person, regardless of sex, to conform to its values. The mildest of these pressures can take the form of denial of rights, shunning of the misfit at gatherings, and cruel editorials in the Sunday color suppliments. The harshest can lead to tarring and feathering, aggrivated assault and lynchings. The heaping spoonfuls of social scorn is the well that never runs dry, to badly mix metaphors.

Don't fool yourself into thinking that you're immune to societal pressures. Think of the taboos that your socitety holds. Do you find yourself shuddering at incest? Pedophilia? Murder? Think then, on your comparative anthropology courses, think of the ancient societies where marriage to siblings was compulsory. Egypt's royalty would do just that, to keep the royal blood pure. Think of the countless girls of thirteen or fourteen, forced to marry men two and three times their age, because that's the way it's done. Rome wasn't built in a day, it's true. It was built on the toil of slaves and the wombs of barely mature girls. Think of human sacrifice, down through the ages, from the cannibalistic practice of consuming your enemies to gain their strength, to the stone altars of some blood-thirsty god.

You think your society is immune from taboos? You think, perhaps, that your society has evolved, no longer participates in these brutal practices? Go down and visit your local branch of government, then. See how they think, how they pass their laws.

Which brings us to our third theory of manhood; the soul.

The human soul is a tricky thing. Hard to pin down, hard to define, even harder to observe in action. When you're having a particularly rough day, and you hear about some news item about man's inhumanity to his fellow man... then discovering the soul can be downright impossible.

But really, the invisible thing that makes a human being aware, that's the hub of the debate. Divine or base, everlasting or a brief spark. Where do we go when we die? What's it all about? Who are we, really, when it comes right down to it? Philosophers have been wrestling with this concept for generations. And usually when not fully sober, either. All philosophers have their weaknesses, their filters for reality. Socrates had his wine. (The hemlock wasn't entirely necessary.) Freud had his cigars. (Never cross a philosopher having a nicotine fit.) Kant had bitter dissillusionment laced with a whiff of laudinum. Rand had sex, but not nearly enough of it, if her books are anything to go by. Even the founding fathers of America had their all-too-human foibles, from Washington and his hemp to Jefferson with his slave girls.

Does a soul even have a sex? Are the previous-lifers seriously asking us to grasp the fact that we might have been the opposite sex at some point?

Does a man's soul in a woman's body happen? Aside from those who claim just that, and go under the knife to change themselves to a more fitting body, that is.

Is Lister even a man anymore?

Going by his memories, his soul if you will, then yes. Lister is still a man. Going by what society says, then no, he's not, because he just found out what the blue liquid on the cylindrical cotton is all about. Going by the purely physical attributes, then no. No penis. No XY chromosome.

Two out of three theories agree that Lister is a woman, then. So where does that leave Hippolyta?

Lister lay on his bed, waiting for the drugs to kick in. Man or woman, it still takes forty-five minutes to an hour for pain killers to be effective. Even in the future. Sleep, what he was really craving, still eluded him.

Lister was trying to catalogue every separate pain he was experiencing. It was almost like counting sheep, except for the fact that, instead of fluffy white quadrupeds, he was counting agonies. He'd started off with the big one; the way his lower intestine seemed to be putting his uterus in the biological equivilent of a choke hold. He briefly toyed with the idea of setting up a wrestling ring around his belly button. Then he focused on his ankles. They felt like they had been tenderized with a bloody large spiky mallet. Who was the genius who came up with ankles, anyway? Would it really be so bad to be walking around like a giraffe? Evolving ankles was a mistake. Stumps for all, he thought. Ditto for the knees. Who needed 'em? Sitting down was vastly overrated. His back! Hah! He was going to have a few words with his lower back one of these days. Threaten it with replacement. Hell, he already had done. It'd happened once, and if his back wasn't careful, he'd do it again. So there. Then there was the small matter of his breasts. They felt like somebody had taken a pnuematic hammer and whalloped them a few dozen times. Resolving to never again enjoy the sight of a naked breast bouncing up and down, he moved on to his neck. His neck was so stiff that he suspected it of being in collusion with his back. They were obviously looking for new employment. Human resources would hear about their underhanded conspiracy. His head could go with. The pounding in his temples made him think that there was some horrible ritual sacrifce going on in there. Sacrifices with clog dancing.

Then, like the flipping of a light switch, the pain started to fade. Ah, that was better. He thought for a moment that the drugs had finally started to work, but then realized he wasn't focused on his body anymore. Rather, his concentration was shifted to the person who'd just entered his room.

It was Hippolyta. And she was obviously crying, although trying to hide the fact.

Wearily, he tried to decide that whatever it was she was going through wasn't enough to distract him from his mental inventory of pain. However, he was still David Lister, and David Lister was the kind of man who couldn't stand to see women cry. Running this sentence through his head again, he gave up on the more confusing aspects of it and weakly propped himself up on his elbows.

"Hippolyta? Are you alright?"

She turned and snarled at him. "Of course I'm not alright, you moron. What the hell kind of question is that?" But this was a weak statement, with hardly any real venom behind it. Lister thought she really must be out of it, if her insults were so below par.

"You're awake then?"

"Oh my God. Lister, your becoming a woman has really honed your highly tuned sense of the motherfucking obvious."

Well, maybe her insults weren't that below par...

Lister narrowed his eyes. "Well, I beg your pardon, your royal highness, Duchess Pain-In-The-Ass. Pardon me for showing a bit of concern, won't happen again, I promise."

"Don't do me any favors." She sat down in a chair on the other side of the room, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes. Lister thought for a moment that she was going to sleep again, and wondered why she'd come to his quarters to do so. There was a perfect silence.

Then she screamed.

It was an excellent scream, fully supported by the diaphragm, although a touch weak in the upper register. It echoed beautifully around the bare gunmetal walls of the cabin. Her body was so relaxed that it seemed as if the sound wasn't even coming from her. The only thing that gave it away was the agonized violence of her face. Lister clapped his hands over his ears, flinching against the onslaught of sound.

Hippolyta continued screaming for a good fifteen seconds. Then she stopped, took a deep breath, and continued for another fifteen seconds. During the pause, Lister tenatively uncovered his ears, but had his hands firmly back in place when she started up again.

Finally, she stopped, panting for breath. Her eyes were still closed, but her cheeks were wet and flushed. Lister stared at her with his mouth hanging open, and slowly lowered his hands.

"What the smeg are you on about?" asked Lister, knowing that he was going to have a raging case of tinnitus for the rest of his natural life. Or unnatural life, if he remained a woman.

Hippolyta opened her eyes. "Haven't you ever heard of the primal scream?" she asked hoarsely.

"Oh, I heard it all right. Why'd you come in here to do it?" Lister laid back down.

"Because."

"Excellent reason. Hippolyta, get the smeg out of here. I'm trying to sleep."

"No. You did this to us, you get to deal with my rage," she answered mildly. "Besides, where the smeg are we? Are we going back to the derelict? And how did I get off that GELF ship? And where the smeg is the watch? And why the smeg are we on an ice moon? And why the smeg aren't you answering my questions?"

"Go ask Krissy," retorted Lister. "I'm not your smegging palm pilot." Lister turned his face to the wall. "Or, better yet, go ask Rimmer how we got you back. He knows what went on bettter than I do."

"Fuck him."

Lister turned back, raising an eyebrow at her. "What'd Rimmer do now? Ask you to catch?"

"Fuck you."

"Not tonight. I've got a headache. And it's not a good night for me anyway, which, by the way, I do not understand how you women deal with at all."

Hippolyta managed a lopsided, weary grin. "I was wondering when that would hit you. Having fun?"

"Tonnes, just a smegging bucket-full." Lister aimed his middle finger at Hippolyta, and covered his eyes with his other arm. He hated to admit it, but she'd managed to distract him from how much he was hurting. Bitch. He'd been looking forward to a nice long night in which he could wallow in his misery. Just as he was about to get back into the swing of this, he was distracted again.

The door opened, to reveal two scared looking humanoids, and one worried mechanoid. Kochanski burst into the room, bazookoid locked and loaded, while the Cat and Kryten took flanking positions on either side of her.

"What's going on? Who's screaming?" Kochanski was eyeballing the room, trying to find what was out of place, if anything. "Are we being attacked again?"

"Noooo," drawled Hippolyta. "I was just... venting. Put the 'zookoid down, Kochanski."

Kochanski did so, looking extremely miffed. "Venting? Hippolyta, I've already called you irresponsible, but I'm going to add insane to that." She turned to Kryten. "You can get back to your repairs, Kryten. False alarm."

"My repairs are complete, ma'am. It was good timing on Miss Hollister's part that she chose to go completely ape-doodoo when she did."

Hippolyta rolled her eyes. "I'm not crazy, ok?"

The Cat smirked at her. "You're dating Rimmer. Of course you're crazy."

The Cat wasn't too clear on what happened next, but he was able to determine later that he'd said exactly the wrong thing. He did know that Hippolyta had jumped up, and her right hand had clenched into a fist, and then his jaw hurt like hell and he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"Ow! What the...?"

"Cat. Shut. Up." said Hippolyta, standing over him. She looked like she was beyond all rational recall at that moment, and she was ready to kill. The Cat understood that his best chance at survival was to be utterly silent. So he fainted.

"That's it! I've had enough of you!" snarled Kochanski. She swung her bazookoid around, and butted Hippolyta in the small of the back with it. Hippolyta grunted once, and then fell to her knees. Lister, who'd been watching this all from his vantage point of the bunk, started at Kochanski's violence.

"Hey! Watch my back there, Krissy!"

"Sorry, Dave. But she's out of control." Kochanski aimed the bazookoid at Hippolyta, who was looking unrepentant, if in pain. "Some security officer you are. Did you pull this crap on the Dwarf?"

"All the time," simpered Hippolyta. "But then, most people didn't have bazookoids handy."

"Ah. So you're a bully." Hippolyta looked startled by this pronouncement, started to protest. Kochanski cut her off. "I don't like bullies. Especially bullies who hide behind uniforms and ranks."

For the first time in her life, Hippolyta had no clever comeback, no smart arse remark. She blinked, and looked down at the deck, her eyes belying her confusion and hurt.

Kochanski noticed, and wisely decided to not persue. Having dished out her judgement, she knew Hippolyta well enough to know that the girl would be docile now, having something to think about. "Kryten," she said, with a slight softening of her voice, "take Miss Hollister to the Galley. The two of you can finish up the ice mining schematics I've left there. Please?"

Kryten looked skeptical. "I don't want to be alone with her. Who knows what Bai did to her. She's nuttier than a mixed assortment."

"I'll behave," stated Hippolyta quietely. She looked up. "I'm sorry," she said to the room at large.

"Your apologies aren't worth a thing right now, Hollister," said Kochanski, her tone mild. "But if you behave yourself, get the water system up and running, we'll discuss everything later."

Hippolyta nodded, started to get to her feet. Kochanski held out a hand, but kept the gun firmly on her. Hippolyta secretly admired her good sense, even as she tightened her hand on Kochanski's.

Kochanski noticed, and thumbed the switch that turned off the safety. "Don't. Smegging. Try it. I'll shoot you and not lose a wink of sleep." Lister and Kryten gasped. Hippolyta just narrowed her eyes, knowing that Kochanski wasn't bluffing.

The thought occured to Hippolyta that she now outmassed Kochanski by quite a bit, and could easily throw her. It was a great temptation, but Hippolyta remembered the gun. And as horrible as she was feeling, getting her silly ass killed for no reason other than pride wouldn't solve a damn thing. The notion that Lister would be stuck in her body didn't even occur to her. The two women eyed each other for a long moment, and even Kryten held his breath. Then, mercifully, Hippolyta let go, and turned to the door.

"One moment, Hollister." Hippolyta turned back to Kochanski, expecting further recriminations, and decided that she damn well would risk getting blown up if it meant she didn't have to listen to Kochanski whine at her again. "Is Rimmer awake? We could use his help."

Hippolyta closed her eyes, licked her lips, and lied. "No."

"Ok. Kryten, fill her in on recent events, as well. I think I'm going to get some rest."

"Yes, ma'am." Kryten and Hippolyta left the room.

Kochanski held her defensive pose for a beat longer than necessary, then heaved a great sigh. She propped the bazookoid against the wall, bent down to revive the Cat. Lister, who'd been frozen during this whole exchange, tried to stop his heart from pounding frantically against his ribs. He tried not to think how dangerously close Hippolyta had come to getting a hole blown through his stomach.

"Jesus Christ on a Vespa, Krissy. What the smeg was she thinking?"

"Don't know. Don't care. C'mon, Cat. Up you get." The Cat cautiously opened one eye, gazed around the room.

"Is the psycho gone?"

Kochanski smirked. "Yes. The psycho, who has had a hell of a rough month and is probably hurting like hell, is gone. You're quite safe from being punched in the jaw again."

The Cat sat up, stuck out his tongue, put a hand to his jaw. "If I bruise, I'll have to change. Bruises don't go with this suit!" He regained his feet, shook his head, smoothed his suit down. "You wouldn't have really shot her, right Bud Babe?"

"If she puts one more toe out of line, I'll gladly give her flesh wound. If only as incentive to politeness."

The Cat looked confused. "What was that second part again?"

Kochanski rolled her eyes. "No, Cat. I wouldn't have shot her. But don't tell her that, ok? Now scat. Lister and I are going to sleep. Go check in on Rimmer, please?"

"Ok, but only because I'm already going to the Medi-place, got me? I need an ice-pack."

As he left, Kochanski began to wearily remove her clothes. "God, I stink. I so need a shower."

Lister eyed his lover, his mind whirling. "Kriss, you are a very, very scary woman."

"Only when provoked, Dave. Only when provoked."

"You could have killed my body, Kristine. That would have been the end of me, you know that?"

Kochanski bit her lower lip, sat down on the edge of the bed next to Lister. "Dave, that honestly didn't occur to me. I'm so sorry."

Lister mulled this over, and decided that he did want to say it. "Well, it was her fault. I can't blame you. She's such a pain in the ass. Sometimes I really, genuinely hate her. Why?"

"Why do you hate her? Or why is she such a pain in the ass?"

"Both!"

Instead of answering directly, Kochanski asked, "Has she ever told you about how she ended up on the Dwarf in the first place?"

"Not really. She did once mention a boarding school that was practically a prison..."

"Well, it's not my place to tell you. Ask her sometime, when she's calmed down a bit. You'll get a hell of an instructive answer." Kochanski lay down next to Lister, arraigned the blankets. "As for why you hate her, well, I'd think it's obvious. She's replaced you as Rimmer's confidante."

"What?!" Lister sat bolt upright, undoing Kochanski's careful blanket arrangement. "Are you saying I'm jealous of her? Over Rimmer?!"

"That and the fact that she's a trigger happy, violent, anger-filled person with a huge talent for pissing people off deliberately."

Lister snorted, laid back down. "Understatement of the millenia, love." He laid his head on her shoulder, his head still swimming from the recent events. "Krissy," he asked eventually, "do you think we're stuck like this? Hippolyta and me, I mean. Will I eventually turn into her? And her into me? Permanently?"

Kochanski didn't say anything for a long moment. Then she answered. "I hope not, Dave. I sincerely hope to God not."



The Cat tenderly put the cool chemical pack up against his jaw in the medi-bay, eyeing himself in the reflective chrome of a nearby cabinet. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rimmer's reflection as well. Rimmer was indeed unconscious, which jibed with what Hippolyta had told them all about his not having woken up yet. So it didn't even occur to the Cat that somehow Rimmer had moved from one cot to another, and that he was deathly pale, sweating, and mumbling faintly.

And as the Cat muttered to himself about his minor injuries, he didn't even notice that Rimmer suddenly stopped breathing.

Author's Note: I am such a whore, I know. Don't even say it. I go for months and months without a chapter, and then I do this. But then, I'm all about the three act structure. Act 1: Get your characters up a tree. Act 2: Throw rocks at 'em. And these are some pretty big smegging rocks I've chucked, wouldn't you say?

Don't worry. Act 3 is always about getting 'em out of the tree, whole and hale and happy.

To Be Continued...