Arnold Rimmer put his pencil down and handed in his astronavigation exam. He was through trying. Despite conventional wisdom, the third time hadn't been the charm, and if the ninth time, being the product of three and three, wasn't the charm either, then he would have to wait until the twenty-seventh time (three to the third power) for any chance of swaying luck over to his side. Rimmer doubted he could get through eighteen more rounds of outlining the terminally dull astronavigation textbook, memorizing wickedly complex formulae, and making calculations that didn't involve a single number.
"This is it," he said to himself. "If I don't make officer this time, I quit. Give up, throw in the towel, surrender to a life of maintaining chicken soup machines."
He headed to Parrot's to get a drink, or maybe twelve. The bar was crowded, but everyone gave Rimmer a wide berth, as they'd learned it was best to do on astronavigation exam days. Rimmer ordered a Scotch and soda, and tried to remain optimistic. He hadn't missed the exam day or scrawled "I am a fish" all over the test, as he had done on previous occasions. This was progress.
"Probably not enough, though," he said, and downed his drink.
He was about to order another when Kristine Kochanski walked up to his table. "Hi Rimmer," she said. "I thought you'd like to know that the exam scores just came up." She grinned and saluted. "Congratulations, Officer Smeghead."
"Oh ha ha, very funny," Rimmer said. "Who put you up to this?"
The smile faded from Kochanski's face. "What do you mean?"
"It was Lister, wasn't it? Look, it was a good joke, but we both know I failed. Now please just leave me alone."
"Fine," Kochanski said. "I was just trying to be nice. But I guess I'm wasting my time." She shook her head disdainfully and walked away.
Rimmer held his hand up for another drink. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed several restive people gathered around a monitor across the room. "No smegging way!" one of them yelled.
"You've got to be pulling my chain," Lister said, staring at the monitor. "Rimmer never passes the astronavigation exam—it's like a universal law!"
Rimmer nearly choked on his second Scotch and soda. He ran over to the monitor; yes, it may very well be a joke—then again, maybe it wasn't….
He stared at the monitor; there was his own name, in bright yellow on the screen. He checked again: still there. But maybe it was for a PD punishment…no, it was a list of the people who had passed the astronavigation exam. And Arnold J. Rimmer was on it.
He was going to be an officer.
After years of frustrated ambitions, Rimmer had finally earned something he always wanted. But a surreal feeling accompanied this revelation. He had always thought this would be his shining moment of glory, that everything would crystallize for him and he would get to bask in the warm glow of his own superiority. But nothing felt right; he didn't know how to feel.
The other people around him grumbled and backed away. Rimmer watched, not sure how to react. Maybe they were jealous? No. Lister had no desire to be an officer, but he had the same look of sullen anger in his eyes.
"Well, congratulations Officer Rimmer, sir!" Lister said, snapping out an inept salute. A faint round of chuckles followed, but stopped abruptly.
Suddenly it dawned on Rimmer: no one had wanted him to succeed because no one respected him. In all honesty, he couldn't blame them. He had always looked down on them, kept himself aloof from their hoi polloi gatherings, pulled rank on the third technicians, and generally made himself a nuisance. And why? Because he thought he was manifestly a cut above, destined to become an officer and join the social elite. But what was so inherently superior about a man who took nine tries to pass his astronavigation exam?
"Look," he said, addressing the crowd, "I know I've been a smeghead. I've been an anal-retentive sycophant with all the personal charm of a deceased walrus."
"That's what I've been saying!" a man in the crowd burst out.
Rimmer swallowed and forced himself to join the laughter. "I haven't been fair to any of you, or kind," he continued. "But now I realize that I can't stand alone, isolated on my own island of ersatz superiority. I'm not any better than any of you. In fact, I'll need all of you if I ever hope to accomplish anything."
He looked around, registering everyone's shock. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he said. "Everything's going to be different now. You have my word as an officer and a gentleman."
Everyone stared at him, surprise mingled with growing respect. "All right, then," one of the men said.
"Just one more thing," Rimmer said. "A round of drinks for everyone, on me!"
A riotous cheer burst out from the crowd. Lister came up and threw his arm around Rimmer's shoulder. "That's my mate!" he said, raising a pint of lager. "To Officer Smeghead!"
"To Officer Smeghead!" the crowd responded, raising their glasses high. Rimmer smiled shyly.
"You know, maybe I was wrong about you," Lister said.
"Possibly," Rimmer said. "I know I was wrong about all of you."
"Or another explanation," Lister said, "is that we're both too smegging drunk to know what we're saying."
Rimmer laughed. "You might be right," he said, sipping another drink. "You might be right." He looked around him at the boisterous cheer around him, and for the first time, he felt that everything was clear to him in his shining moment of glory.