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Rimmer taps the tips of not one, but two fingers against his lips. “It’s not ideal.”
Lister sighs wearily and rolls his eyes. Of course it’s not smegging ideal; it’s three feet underwater, as Rimmer has so frequently reminded him. It needs a bit of TLC, to be fair, but what eventual farmer’s/artist’s paradise doesn’t? Turning a slightly hostile place into a home must be part of the journey.
The shuttle pod hovers about six feet above the surface. Soon (as soon as the drainage stuff gets sorted) the grimy waves below will give way to acres of land, and the palms will raise their heads again, ready to be immortalised in a work of art…he hopes.
He also sincerely hopes that Rimmer won’t change his mind and leave him high and dry or, for that matter, high and wet.
-
“What was it like at art college?”
Lister snorts and rubs his eyes. He’s not ready for coherent interaction quite yet; it’s only 10 o’clock on a Saturday morning. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t stay there long enough.”
“But you must have met people. Got an idea of the atmosphere and all that,” Rimmer’s voice, unusually soft and dreamy, floats up to the top bunk. “I wondered, hypothetically, if I would be able to…”
“Eh?”
“I don’t know.” Lister hears Rimmer kicking at his duvet as he rolls over. “Fit in, I suppose.”
“Why not? You get all sorts there.”
“Mm.”
Lister forgets about the conversation. Just a week later, he comes home to see Rimmer hunched over the desk, chewing on his nails and sweating over a letter of resignation.
The sight makes Lister recall his conversation with John. Rimmer is going to attempt what John did — do something meaningful. Learn how to become a complete person. It’s a bold move. As embarrassing as it is to admit, it might be bolder than most moves that Lister himself has made.
He has his plan, of course. There’s Fiji, the sheep and the cows, the horses. There’s Kochanski. Kochanski, who sometimes flashes that pinball smile at him but never seems to have a great deal of time for him.
The gulf between the current state of affairs and the vision of her in a white dress, riding the horses, suddenly seems wider than ever. Having a concrete plan might put him ahead of many people his age, but other than saving some money, what has he actually done to make his dream a reality? Perhaps it’s time for the next step, whatever it might be.
“Off to art college, then?” he asks casually, peeking over Rimmer’s shoulder.
Rimmer jumps and rushes to cover what he’s written. “Nose out, Lister. And be quiet. I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Okay, okay. I was just going to say, if you needed any help with choosing where to go, or - ”
“All I have to do is find out which you went to and pick the one that’s the greatest distance away,” Rimmer mutters.
“Ha smegging ha.”
“Now leave me alone, Lister, and that’s an order.”
“And it’s the last one I’ll ever not listen to.” In direct defiance of Rimmer’s order, Lister sets up next to him with his own piece of paper and begins to draw a timeline.
-
For a moment, Lister wonders if he’s come to the wrong shuttleport or got the time or date wrong. It would be very unlike Rimmer to be late; he’s always prided himself on doing everything with military precision.
The first glimpse of Rimmer walking through the gates tells Lister that the bunkmate he remembers is gone, or at least has been suppressed. “What is that, Rimmer?” he exclaims as they shake hands, pointing at the middle of Rimmer’s face with his free hand.
“I’m sure you’ve seen a moustache before, or are you afraid to look in the mirror since that hideous alien growth has taken over your face?”
“Smeghead.”
“Goit.” Rimmer adjusts the ridiculous red cravat around his neck and runs a hand through his hair which, like the rest of him, is rather less military than it was in the Red Dwarf days. He looks happier — his demeanour is more relaxed, and the anxiously pursed lips have been replaced by something that almost looks like a real smile. “So…I assume it didn’t work out with Kochanski, then.”
Lister doesn’t detect any snideyness in the question. “No, I guess not. But I thought maybe after I’d put down roots, and - ” he catches Rimmer’s eye and shrugs. “You know.”
“I see.”
Rimmer can’t possibly know what he’s thinking, which is also what he thinks as he tosses and turns every night. Maybe once I’ve accomplished something, maybe once I’ve built a proper home, I’ll have proved that I’m worthy of her. Maybe… But there’s no time for that now; they need to catch their flight to Earth.
-
“So over there’s where the cottage will be,” Lister says. “And on this side - ”
“Lister, stop, stop,” Rimmer interrupts officiously. “You’re just waving your hands about with no clear direction. I can’t tell what you mean by ‘there’ or ‘this side’. Besides, our designs don’t match.”
Lister gapes at the elaborate blueprint that appears before his eyes as if by magic. “What do you know about farming? Or building, come to that?”
“Plenty, thank you, because I’ve done actual research at the library. You know, where people go to gain knowledge.”
“So have I.”
“Don’t be silly, Lister, you don’t read.” Rimmer gets his ribcage out of the firing line just in time. “Nevertheless, as co-investor, I’m entitled to some input.” His nostrils flare mightily and, for a fleeting moment, Lister can see the Rimmer of two years ago. For some strange reason, the image makes him smile.
The sun has set by the time they disembark onto the temporary floating shelter, still arguing about the placement of the cottage. Lister knows they won’t come to an agreement before they go to bed, but he thinks he can talk Rimmer out of painting the walls grey, whether military or ocean. The last thing he wants is to replicate life onboard Red Dwarf; this is his new life, their new life, and he intends to make the most of it right away, even if he has to wait an eternity for certain other parts of his plan to come to fruition.