Hi! Thanks so much for the nudges and wonderful comments - they really helped me get back into this story after my long, schoolwork-enforced fiction-writing hiatus. :) Hope you like this next part!

Chapter Thirteen

"Commander Harris, sir," Lt. Barton said, "according to Ensign Palmer's report, these miners have already taken three asteroid belt stations and two more are currently under threat."

"I've heard enough, Lieutenant."

"But sir," the young man pressed, "If we don't send out ships, and soon, what started as a minor act of sabotage by a handful of malcontents could quickly morph into a full-blown uprising! I know this is the Admiral's anniversary dinner, sir, but if the miners should manage to contact Earth with their grievances, the media attention alone…"

Lt. Barton closed his eyes and took a breath, fighting to keep his tone level and steady.

"Commander, I believe, at the very least, we should warn General Metzeler. As the report suggests, those experimental injections of hers could very well be responsible for the—"

"Barton, I said that's enough," Lt. Commander Harris barked.

The skinny officer swallowed and snapped to attention, realizing that, by mentioning The Project out in the open – on a crowded veranda, no less – he had far overstepped his bounds.

"Sir!"

"Now," the commander said in a low, firm voice. "Our standing orders state that Admiral Rimmer is not to be disturbed until the reception is over – or, at least, until the cake is sliced and served. I'm sure this so-called 'uprising' will keep for another hour or so. Leave your report with Commander Frank Rimmer, then return to Io Base and inform Ensign Palmer she is to keep silent and wait for backup to arrive. Understood?"

"Understood, sir."

"You are dismissed."

"Aye, sir," Barton said.

The two officers saluted, and Barton marched away, dodging through the milling crowds chatting, sipping champagne, and sampling from trays of caviar blinis and chocolate-dipped strawberries while pointedly ignoring the service droids who carried them from person to person, group to group.

This affected, practiced pretense of staring past and through the robotic wait staff was why it was so easy for Lt. Commander Harris to completely ignore the rather bulky, awkward-looking server with the particularly angular head when the droid proffered out his tray. It's also why no one saw the snubbed mechanoid irritably mince after the commander with his tray held out, or noticed him eavesdropping – in a rather theatrical, exaggerated manner – on the commander's brief, yet highly animated, conversation with General Metzeler and Admiral Rimmer's sons, John and Howard.

As the general gestured for John, Howard, and Lt. Commander Harris to follow her into the main house, the snooping droid set down his tray, pressed his bulging eyes back into his rubber-tipped head, and shuffled off at top speed to find his companions...

"Kris!" Lister called, waving his arms for her attention. "Krissie, quick, grab the Cat! Where's Kryten?"

"Last I saw, he'd gotten himself sucked into serving hors d'oeuvres at the main table," Kochanski said, shooting the panting Lister a suspicious look. "What's going on?"

"Rimmer's brothers," Lister said, leaning against the wrought-iron bandstand as he caught his breath. A quintet of faintly flickering soft light holograms sat at the center of the elegant structure, playing bland, tuneless tunes on their holographic instruments with eerily earnest expressions, as if their runtime depended on their performance. And, Lister reflected grimly, perhaps it did.

"John and Howard. They're on to us, an' Rimmer too," he warned. "So, we've gotta find him first. If he's to confront his family, he'll have to do it now, or the Ionian authorities will be fittin' us all for silver bracelets, if you catch my meaning..."

"What? How did this happen? What did you do?"

"Me?" Lister exclaimed, all innocence. "I was jus' havin' a drink at the bar, minding me own business. It was those two—"

"No, don't bother explaining," she snapped, firing a fierce, exasperated glare at Lister's food-and-beer soaked clothing. "I can smell for myself what tipped them off!"

Kochanski sighed tiredly, and shook her head.

"Truth to tell, I should have expected this. I should have known that, after all this time in deep space, you would be incapable of socializing with real people."

Lister drew himself up.

"An', what's that supposed to mean, 'real' people?"

"It means human beings, Lister," she said angrily. "Mature, intelligent men and women who can tell an aria from a sneeze. Who know the difference between crème fraîche and sour cream!"

Lister bristled.

"Are we honestly going to start this again – here? Now?" he exclaimed. "Crem fresh. Sour cream," he mocked in a sing-song voice. "Who the smeg cares!"

"There! That attitude! That is exactly what I'm talking about!"

"Why? Jus' because I don't buy your snobbish notion that callin' something a French name magically makes it better than—"

"Ms. Kochanski, ma'am! Mr. Lister, sir!"

Kryten shuffled into their argument and stood wringing his hands.

"What is it Kryters?" Lister asked.

"Oh, sir," Kryten squeaked anxiously. "I've overheard something…terrible!"

"So? Stop wasting time and spill it," Kochanski ordered.

If Kryten had been human, the look he shot her would have been classified as 'bitterly resentful.' His shoulders rose and tensed until the mechanoid looked like a turtle trying to force his too-big head down into his metal shell.

"Why does he always do this…?" Kochanski said. "Is something wrong with your central processor?"

"No, ma'am, my processing unit is just fine," Kryten said snippily. "It's just that sometimes… Sometimes…!"

"Sometimes what?" Kochanski demanded. "Is it me? You can't seriously still resent the fact that I am – however unwillingly – a part of this crew."

The way Kryten seemed to be holding his breath made Lister step forward in alarm.

"Cool it, Krytes, or you'll blow your stack. An' we don't have any spare heads around for you to swap," Lister warned, and clapped a hand on the mechanoid's angular shoulder. "No worries, man, I know where you're comin' from."

Kryten took several deep breaths, then nodded.

Kochanski crossed her arms and glared at Lister, who shot her his cheekiest smile in return.

"Thank you, sir," Kryten said. "I'm all right now."

"Your news, circuits-for-brains?" Kochanski said irritably.

"What about the Cat?" Lister said. "Shouldn't he be here for this?"

They glanced over to where the Cat lay curled contentedly on a table, cooing women feeding him grapes, and shared a shrug.

"He seems all right for now. We can always fill him in later…when we find Rimmer, wherever he went," Kochanski muttered.

"Ah - wait..."

Lister straightened, already digging out his commutations device.

"His lightbee's got a comlink. We can get the Wildfire to contact him."

"All right, contact him. Tell him to get his holographic butt back to this party before the Wildfire's whole plan is blown," Kochanski said, scanning the area. "There's an empty table over by the gardens. We can talk there."

To Be Continued…

Next Time: What's going on with Rimmer's brother and that experimental 'project'? Will Rimmer be able to help Frank, and confront his parents, without falling back on his Ace persona? The action's about to heat up as this story moves into its final phase. Stay tuned! :)