1Three million and three years later….
"Oi, wake up, you lot!"
A chorus of disgruntled sounds made its way back through the room in response. The face of Red Dwarf's ship computer bobbed excitedly on the screen in one of the only occupied crew quarters, gleefully ignoring the occupants' displeasure as they began to stir awake. As usual, the man on the bottom bunk responded more quickly, though it was still glacial and unwilling.
Arnold Rimmer groaned, drawing a hand over his face and catching on the 'H' that marked him as a hologram. Sleep-tousled curls and rumpled pajamas shifted as he grudgingly turned to look at the clock. He frowned, then glanced at the screen with reproachful eyes.
"Holly, it's seven AM. The only reason I want to be woken up at seven AM is if the ship is under attack."
David Lister grumbled incoherently in agreement from the top bunk, dolefully dragging his pillow over his head and pressing it down around his ears. Holly gave them a smug, sideways glance that looked like it was trying to be mysterious.
"Oh, so a special delivery mail pod wouldn't interest you. Right; guess I'll just turn it away, then…."
Rimmer sat up slowly in his bunk, his expression wary.
"Mail pod?"
Holly nodded placidly.
"Yeah. Looks like it has a video message on board—one of those small pods meant for emergency communications that only carries one letter."
Rimmer sneered and lay back down, shifting into a more comfortable position.
"Only one letter? That's hardly worth rallying the troops, Holly."
He rested his head on his pillow and closed his eyes, preparing to go back to sleep. The computer managed to shrug without shoulders, looking off to the corner of the screen.
"It's from Io," he offered simply.
Rimmer shot up again.
"Io?"
"Yep. Looks like it's for you."
"Well, why didn't you say that in the first place, you stupid goit?" Rimmer chastised, leaping to his feet and rushing out the door.
A moment later, a groggy Lister slid over the side of the top bunk and dropped to the floor, yawning as he slowly shuffled after him.
Lister drew the triangular cassette from the pod, blinking at it in bleary curiosity. "For Arnold" was written in a masculine scrawl on the label. Rimmer hovered impatiently over his shoulder, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited. Lister placed the tape into the player and pressed the start button.
Arnold visibly recoiled as his brother's face appeared on the screen, an acid taste rising in his throat. Lister noticed his reaction and cocked an eyebrow at him, pausing the video.
"It's my brother," Rimmer explained, stunned. "My oldest one: John. What was he doing sending me a letter?"
Lister shrugged.
"Well, let's watch it and find out."
He pressed play.
"Hello, Arnold. I know you'll never get this; you're already dead. It's a bit awkward recording this message, but Elisa—my wife—suggested that getting my thoughts off my chest might help.
You never met Elisa. You'd have liked her, I suspect; everyone does. Remarkable woman. Beautiful, kind, gentle. She's been my lifesaver in more ways than I could ever imagine. Perceptive, too. She'd probably have liked you. She has a way of seeing into people and finding all their best qualities, and liking them so much that you can't help but make them grow. You'd have got along famously; I know, because she managed to see the good in me."
Rimmer watched intently, and the image of his brother sighed.
"That brings me to why I'm recording this in the first place. I know I'm… not the best person. In the past, I was even worse. I never protected you as a child like I should have. I was the oldest brother; it was my job to keep you safe, to shield you from the worst of the world. To say I failed spectacularly would be an understatement."
Arnold stared, wide-eyed and gaping-mouthed, at the screen. Lister turned to look at him with concern.
"There's no excuse for what we—I—did to you. I know that we all suffered. There was never enough food, and even now I still live with the effects of the rack. Arthritis. Terrible for the joints. But you had it worst of all; we all knew it. I know now that we were competing for Father's favor, because favor meant food and an easier go of it. It was just easier to push you down to get ahead. I regret that terribly now."
Rimmer's expression twitched as Lister observed him carefully.
"You know, I was going to reach out to you the day I got the message from the JMC that you had died? I had been thinking about it all morning, about how I needed to apologize. About how much I'd hoped—"
Here, John appeared to get choked up, and he took a moment to swallow the emotions. He cleared his throat and started again.
"…that we could get past this. Be the brothers we should have been in the first place. Now I know I'll never get that chance."
Arnold marveled as his stoic older brother—a Rimmer, raised to abhor all weakness—wiped away tears.
"What I wouldn't give to have you hear this. To have you know how sorry I am. God, I wish I'd just given up my pride and written you earlier, like I always meant to. I was afraid—cowardly thing, to be afraid of talking to your own brother just because he'd be justifiably angry at you. Now I wish I had, no matter what the consequences would have been. It would be better than this," he spat. "This damned regret."
He sat silently, fuming at something off-screen for a while. Finally, he spoke.
"Anyway," he said, clearing his throat and blinking back the remaining tears, "I'm going to send this out after Red Dwarf. I know it won't make any difference; there's no one there to receive it. Still, it just… feels like you'll get it somehow. I know that's rubbish, but it's the closest I'll ever be able to get to actually apologizing to you."
He sighed, looking everywhere but at the camera. He began to fiddle with his fingers and jiggle his leg. Lister noted the family similarity. Suddenly, John started speaking again, blurting out the thought.
"Elisa's pregnant. A son. We haven't told anyone else yet. This will be our first. We were talking, and…."
He looked down again, almost pained.
"I think we're going to name him after you somehow. Maybe his middle name."
Arnold gaped at the news. John looked directly at the camera with earnest eyes.
"I'll do right by this one. I'll protect him like I should have protected you."
He lowered his voice, muttering to himself.
"This is one 'Arnold' I won't let down."
He looked back at the camera, speaking with his normal volume.
"I know it won't make any difference for you, but, wherever you are, I…." He got choked up again. "I hope… that you know, somehow, how sorry I am. How much I wish I could change things. I should have… I should have been better. And I will, now. I will be. For my son, for Elisa, I'll be the sort of man I should have been… for you. God, I'm sorry, Arnold. I wish I could tell you all this myself, but this will have to do. I hope, wherever you are, you're finally at peace. I hope you're happy. God knows you deserved it. Anyway…."
He paused, staring at the camera as though he hoped to catch a glimpse of the man he was speaking to.
"… Goodbye, Arnold."
He sighed, lingering, extending the last moment he would directly address his youngest brother. Finally, his eyes turned resigned and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.
"Goodbye."
The message ended.
The duo stood in silence for a long moment.
Finally, Lister breathed out a single, awed word: "Smeg."
Rimmer nodded slowly, eyes wide.
"Indeed."
Lister looked at him with concern.
"How are you, man?"
Rimmer blinked, the dazed expression slowly clearing from his face.
"I… I don't know. I never expected…."
He shook his head, still trying to process what he had heard.
"A son, named after me?" Rimmer looked at the screen helplessly. "I never thought... that any of them would be upset that I was gone. I supposed they wouldn't care, or even be happy about it, but..."
He stared at the screen, and Lister watched his emotions flicker over his face as he tried to settle on how to feel. Something uncomfortable ached in Lister's chest at the display—a sharp, melancholy pain straining inside of him like a bowstring pulled too taut. Rimmer gave one of his rare, vulnerable frowns: the small sort that usually only showed up after a couple of drinks, or late at night in the dark when the boundaries of proper discussion seemed looser and Rimmer thought he couldn't see it. The string in Lister tugged a little tighter.
"Looks like they did care; or, at least, one of them did," Lister suggested gently.
Rimmer blinked and looked back at him, lost and off-footed, as something raw and aching swirled in his eyes.
"I... yes. I suppose he did."
He turned back to the monitor, scrutinizing the face that was still frozen there. After a time, his soft, thoughtful tone floated back to Lister.
"John wasn't the worst of them, you know. Oh, he was hardly kind, but there were times... Sometimes, I think he'd look at me with sympathy when I'd get a question wrong and go without dinner. He'd always look at his plate then, like he was thinking about sharing with me. Obviously, he couldn't. Father would have never allowed it."
Something straightened in Rimmer's spine, and he clasped his hands behind his back. Lister recognized the blustering pride in his posture that usually served as a sort of self-defense or an excuse for what was done to him. This topic—the memories—was really weighing on him.
"There were times he'd distract the others from doing whatever it was they were doing to me. I always wondered if it was part of some worse prank he had planned, but... maybe he was trying to protect me after all."
Rimmer stared off pensively, a muscle twitching occasionally in his face as he thought, and Lister watched as a piece of Rimmer's life rewrote itself behind his eyes. He waited until Rimmer blinked himself back into the present, the distant look fading into thoughtfulness, before he next spoke, quiet and careful.
"So, man…," he said, gesturing loosely to the screen and the finished video, "any regrets?"
"I…."
Rimmer seemed to ponder the question, a lost and hopeless confusion swimming in his eyes. He looked back at the screen where his brother's face remained frozen in its final farewell.
"I suppose… I wish we could have worked things out, like he said. If I'd had any idea…."
He shook his head, looking away with a melancholy frown.
"It doesn't matter now."
"Still, though, man…. Your brother reached out to you. He cared. That must mean something."
Arnold turned back to the screen, examining the sad and earnest expression on his oldest brother's face, and smiled slightly.
"It does."
After a moment, Lister's eyes lit up with understanding, and he matched Rimmer's soft smile with one of his own. He reached over to turn off the monitor, the screen going blank. As the two men turned to walk back to their room, the memory of John's apology hung in the air.
Lister trailed behind a bit, his smile growing as he watched the new lightness to Rimmer's step. He silently thanked the man he had never met for sending out the letter that he thought wouldn't make any difference. Rimmer glanced back over his shoulder to see if Lister was coming, a gentle, genuine smile on his face. Lister grinned and moved to catch up.
The bowstring loosened in his chest, replaced with a swelling warmth.
Rimmer's words echoed in his mind, blossoming and bright.
It does.
