1John Rimmer sat at the captain's desk in one of the fleet's newest prototype vessels and sighed. Everywhere he looked, his new crew was scurrying about, mixing with the remainder of the base technicians, as both groups tried their best to get the beautiful machine up and running for the first time. Everything sparkled, the scent of fresh paint hanging in the air, while even the people seemed to shine with their excitement. The crew of the Valiant were the best of the best, and they looked forward to their upcoming mission with pride. It was a great honor, John knew, to be selected as her captain. Yet, somehow, all he felt was disappointment.
He looked down at his crisp new uniform and frowned as the bitter, acid taste rose in his throat. Father had been proud—so mother said—when he had been given this commission. What parent wouldn't be? At thirty-five years old, their eldest son had claimed the most coveted role on one of the most coveted ships in the fleet. By all accounts, he was capable, charming, handsome, and brilliant—a true success.
He scoffed quietly. Success. How would he even measure that?
Somehow, he thought this moment would fill the growing emptiness inside of him. That the instant he put on the captain's uniform and claimed his spot on this particular bridge, he would finally be able to feel pride. The truth was, he felt no different from usual, and he hated it.
He growled softly to himself. Janine had been right all those months ago, though she didn't know how accurate her words were. Rimmer men were impossibly driven and forever unsatisfied. Of course they were. With parents like theirs….
He drew his hand down his face, some emotion partway between frustration and exhaustion guiding the movement.
Not for the first time, his mind drifted to his brothers. Frank and Howard were doing fine and seemed to be following in his footsteps. Frank, especially, looked like he would have a promising career. It wasn't all that surprising. Though some would consider it unsporting, their parents had foot the bill to provide all of them with an incredibly expensive intelligence upgrade. When it came time for Arnold to get his, though….
John shook his head, wincing at the memory of the lean years.
As he had already moved out to his boarding school on scholarship, his family's downturn in fortune barely affected him. Frank had only to bear it for a year, and Howard had just received his implant months before. But there was no money for Arnold, and he left before their finances recovered. He was the only Rimmer son without the beneficial upgrade, and it showed.
He heard things—of course he did, he had connections—about Arnold sometimes. He often wondered if Arnold's struggles were a window into their own natural abilities. Would he have failed to pass all of his exams like his youngest brother? He had lived with the implant for so long that he found it difficult to remember a time before things came so easily to him. It was no wonder Arnold was bitter.
The youngest and the weakest, Arnold always took the longest to pick up on things. John would often watch his brother as he tried to keep up, and worry. Arnold was like the runt of a litter—scrawny and weak and sickly—and it was only a matter of time before nature (or Father) finished him off. The rest of them hardly helped matters, he thought with a familiar guilt.
John sat for a while and pondered, morose, before grimacing and rubbing at his shoulder. His arthritis was acting up again.
The joints were often stiff and sore, despite the best treatments medical science had yet devised. It was probably the result of all those mornings on the rack, he thought: joints frequently wrenched from their sockets due to their father's delusion that it would help them grow. He would be shocked if all of his brothers didn't have some similar damage, though they were lucky it wasn't any worse. That he ended up tall was a fortunate quirk of genetics that spared him further torture. He praised whatever part of his bloodline blessed him with the height that eventually freed him from that particular family tradition.
Arnold was short for his age.
John shuddered at what he knew that must have meant for him. He winced at the memories, rubbing a bit harder at a phantom pain.
Their childhood had been… unusual at best. Aside from what John could now recognize as abuse and torture, their parents had been cold and fickle. They had also been, to put it kindly, a few cards short of a deck. He shook his head at the memory of one of their odd religious phases, marveling that a couple that could so horribly mistreat their own children would claim fervent attachment to (an admittedly strange interpretation of) Christianity. John was hardly ignorant—he had used his impressive, artificially-enhanced intellect to study just about everything—but it was probably his experience with frequent burns at lunchtimes and muscle cramps in the evenings due to their adherence to a misprint that left him distinctly atheistic. Even the thought of religion brought a sour taste to his mouth, now. After all, if there was a God, how could he have allowed all that to happen to four helpless children?
No. Life was what you made of it, he reminded himself again, fiercely. Then, remembering his brother, his resolve crumbled slightly. Sometimes, you were what life made of you.
The image of a nine-year-old Arnold staked to the ground as they poured biting ants on his jam-covered face came to mind. It had been easy to reason away at the time: just brothers being brothers. Didn't all siblings squabble? Besides, Arnold had been particularly annoying that day, following them around and begging to be included. He had always been that way, John remembered; always desperate to be part of the group. As children, they didn't have the capacity to understand why that was. They weren't able to look beyond themselves, really. At the time, he'd have argued just that: he was annoying; it was normal sibling behavior (because, to them, it had been. How could they have known any different?)—but decades later, John knew better.
They had all had it rough, but Arnold had it worst.
Perhaps, subconsciously, they knew that sticking together would give them a leg up. Even then, it was easy to see that Arnold came last in brains and brawn. Of course he did—he was the youngest. But their childhood was hardly a breeding ground for empathy and selflessness; only the strong survived. They would tear him down, sensing blood in the water, and leave him to whatever fate awaited him. Like a herd of prey animals, they shoved him to the front as bait, sacrificing the frail one to protect the rest. They knew, deep down, that the only way that they would survive was to separate themselves from weakness.
This, unfortunately, was rewarded. Father always had a sadistic appreciation for competition; the more cutthroat the victor, the better. He raised a group of men like lone wolves: brutally efficient when necessary. Even Arnold learned that, at least. Like a cub copying its elders—its attempts weaker but essential for survival—he (even now) showed the same bitterness, drive, and selfish obsession with advancement at the expense of all others.
Though it was no secret that Arnold bore the brunt of their parents' displeasure, life at home hadn't been easy for any of them. Mealtimes left many of them malnourished, though none of them failed to notice the connection between father's favor and easier astronavigation questions. Arnold nearly died, but none of them dared defy their patriarch by sneaking him some of their food. Often, they were too hungry to spare it themselves. It was no wonder the boy was so painfully thin.
It was a marvel he survived at all, honestly. John assumed that either he somehow subsisted off the meager lunch he was provided for the school day (appearances must be kept up), or he found a kindly teacher to supplement his insufficient rations. John hoped it was the latter. Arnold had had it rougher than the rest of them and could have desperately used some kindness.
He often marveled that that broken, weak child managed to find the strength to free himself. At fourteen—starved, abused, beaten down, and tortured—he dragged himself away from their influence, found a lawyer, got himself emancipated. After that, he managed to find himself provisions, a living arrangement, education, and a job, all without family support—as a child.
Perhaps they had all been wrong, John thought. Arnold wasn't weak. He was the strongest of them all.
He really ought to reach out to Arnold, he thought, for probably the hundredth time. But how would he go about doing that? He probably had a lot of bitterness toward him (and he had a right to), and Rimmer men weren't exactly known for their ability to apologize. He knew himself well enough to know that the second Arnold's justifiable anger came out, he'd respond like his father: harsh, cutting, and tolerating no rebuke. It was why he hadn't reached out to him already—well, that and the guilt. Still, they were getting too old for this distance and animosity to remain between them. Surely, as adults, they could put this all behind them and try to find some common ground.
Tonight. He would draft a letter tonight.
One of the workers from the base rapped timidly at his door, and John nodded for him to enter. He could see the man's nametag on the chest of his beige uniform: Thomas.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Thomas?"
With a wince and sympathetic eyes, Thomas held out an envelope to him.
"I'm sorry, sir."
John felt his heart seize in his chest as his stomach sank. Forcing his hands to remain steady, he took the envelope and drew out the piece of official JMC letterhead.
'We regret to inform you….'
The letter fluttered to the ground.
John spent the rest of the night and the next several days in his quarters. He had requested, and been granted, a few extra days at the base. Many of his crew had had friends and family on Red Dwarf. A tragedy of this magnitude hadn't rocked the corps for over a hundred and fifty years, when space travel was in its infancy and technologies were still being developed. The mood everywhere was somber and grieving; they all needed some time to process what had happened.
The rare moments that the captain left his quarters, he was met with sympathetic looks and well-meaning words of comfort. He hated it. He didn't deserve the level of compassion granted to him by his remarkable crew. He spent most of his time silently staring at the walls in his room as memories played, unbidden, in his regretful mind. Eventually, he turned on the news to drown out the silence that was much too loud.
It didn't help.
The bright studio lighting shined on the anchor's curls, gleaming on the 'H' that identified her as a hologram. Channel 27 was one of the first of the major news organizations to employ a hologram; anti-dead bias was still quite strong. Her stoic face and gentle voice finished a report on advances in mechanoid technology before shifting to the one topic John hoped to avoid.
"By now, the tragic loss of the JMC mining vessel Red Dwarf has touched all our hearts. The crew of 1,167 members has been reported as lost. However, it appears that one member of the crew survived the blast."
For a moment, John's mind filled with static and desperate hope. Could it be…?
"We have recently received a recording from the ship's computer—an advanced A.I. known as Holly—with additional information. Please be aware, this recording may be distressing for those who had a loved one on board."
The anchor sat quietly as the recording played to her left. The face of an older, balding man appeared on the screen. He spoke professionally, a hint of urgency and pain in the tightness of his voice.
"This is the computer of the JMC mining vessel, Red Dwarf. There has been an accident. Due to a ruptured drive plate, all but one of the crewmembers have been exposed to lethal doses of cadmium-2. Third technician David Lister was recently placed in stasis and remains shielded from the radiation. Per JMC protocol, the ship will be directed away from all inhabited planets until it's safe again."
The message froze, and John's hope crumbled. His mind focused on the fact that the name sounded familiar. He'd have to look back at his messages, but the sole survivor of the tragedy that stole his brother's life might have been the man who served under him.
The anchor started speaking again.
"The reason for the failure of the drive plate is still unknown, as is the reason for Mr. Lister being placed into stasis. While the unexpected survival of one of the crewmembers is a light during this dark time, his family and friends should, unfortunately, not expect to see him again. According to our experts, the amount of cadmium-2 released in such an accident would render the ship uninhabitable for three million years. David Lister will never again be released in our lifetimes. If the ship survives that long, he will be revived to a changed and distant galaxy. What will he find there? Will he encounter species we can only theorize or our own evolved race? Will he find himself in a thriving universe or an empty and dying one? Sadly, this is a mystery that will never be solved in our time. To the survivor of this tragedy, to the man who has captured our imaginations—if you ever see this recording, Dave Lister, from all of us, from all of humanity: Good luck."
John turned off the screen, staring blankly as the silence buzzed in his ears.
