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Rimmer’s father had been a gardener.
Even now the revelation felt strange to accept. He had spent so much of his life – his whole entire life, actually – trying to live up to the expectations of a man who could never be pleased and he’d never known why it had been so impossible, why it had felt so much like an unending uphill struggle. Now it made perfectly depressing sense.
He had been born into a losing battle, dealt a hand of dud cards and expected to try to make it work somehow without even knowing just how uneven the playing field he was being thrust into was. He’d never had a hope in hell of making his father proud.
From the moment he was born the odds were stacked against him, his father’s bias for his biological sons an insurmountable obstacle he could never hope to overcome. It wouldn’t have even mattered if he had somehow outperformed his brothers in every conceivable way. It would simply never be enough, because Rimmer was not a Rimmer at all. And he’d never even known about it.
That realisation had been a bitter pill to swallow, the realisation that he had genuinely wasted his whole life seeking the approval of someone who would never see him as anything other than a failure – not just in his own right as the academic runt he had been throughout his school days, but also as an all too unpleasant reminder of the breakdown of a marriage that had been on a steady decline for years.
He could have been anyone’s son. His mother had unabashedly propositioned just about every male member of staff who had ever worked at or even breathed in the general vicinity of the Rimmer family home and many had taken her up on her offers. Any one of them could have fathered him. He could have had the genetic make-up of men with decorated military backgrounds, talented businessmen or successful spacefaring types but instead the universe had decided to go with the gardener, a man who stank of compost and spent most of his days babbling nonsense to himself while he watered the plants.
In retrospect, maybe he should have figured it out sooner. The curly hair certainly should have been a dead giveaway. None of his brothers had been plagued with unruly curls that needed to be forced into submission, and their father’s hair – when he had still had any – had been equally as tame.
Ditzy old Dungo, however – or Dennis, as he had actually been named – had had a wild mop of curly brown hair that had always seemed as though it had a mind of its own, the way it had often appeared to be bursting forth from beneath his little tweed flat cap.
It had been a lot to take in. He hadn’t been meant to hear any of it until after he had achieved his goal of becoming an officer but he had listened to it anyway, when hope had seemed lost and he might never have had another chance to hear what his father would have said to him.
There was something horribly sour about learning that even if he had ever actually made it as an officer, the man whose approval he had worked so hard to do it for still wouldn’t have said he was proud of him.
He hadn’t really had time to process it in that moment. There had been more pressing matters at hand with the simulant ship lurking nearby waiting to destroy them. He couldn’t afford to slip into an identity crisis, or mourn the time he’d wasted on someone who wasn’t worth the effort. There would have been plenty of time for that later if they ever got out of that mess. In the meantime he had had to simply swallow down the shock, find some way to hurriedly rationalise it all and then try to come up with a plan.
Somehow, miraculously, he had managed it. The jolt of discovering his father hadn’t been his father at all had been oddly freeing, the weight of a lifetime of failed expectations and crushing disappointment slipping off him like water off a duck’s back for the first time ever in his life.
For once, for that brief temporary little moment, he had been able to think clearly, unburdened by all the usual complicated hang-ups that had always previously clouded his resolve and made him doubt himself, and he had got them out of there.
In the aftermath, however, he had been forced to realise that truly accepting this revelation would be a much more long drawn out process.
Yes, he didn’t have to care what the man he had thought of as his father thought about him anymore, that was true, and it did come as a welcome relief after so long wondering what he had done wrong to realise that he hadn’t done anything. It had been his mother’s doing and he had been treated unreasonably unfairly for the simple crime of not being the fruit of his father’s loins. He didn’t have to respect a single thing the git had ever said to him ever again, didn’t have to be held back by him anymore. But that was far more easily said than done.
All his life he had worked to become something he wasn’t cut out to be, had tried to shape himself to fit a mould he wasn’t made for and now that he knew it was pointless to keep trying, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t know who he was meant to be anymore.
How do you just throw away everything you thought you had to be all at once? What’s left of yourself when everything you’ve become was built around trying to meet those expectations? Who will you become afterwards?
Rimmer sighed heavily and shook his head, no closer now to coming up with an answer to any of those questions than he had been when the revelation had been fresh and new. In many ways he had almost avoided having to think about any of it, decided paradoxically that maybe it was simply easier to continue as he had been instead of suddenly trying to turn around and change anything, to swim against a current he had been going along with for as long as he could remember. He had spent his whole life trying to achieve something that might have always been impossible for him but since he had spent so long pushing for it, it somehow felt more like a waste to give up on it now.
What else was there for him to do anyway?
Striding swiftly through corridor after corridor, stewing as he so often did these days in his own miserable, complicated thoughts, he found himself coming suddenly to an abrupt stop outside the doors to a section of the ship he had rarely had cause to visit before.
He had always thought it would just be a dead, filthy place, littered with the dried out remains of what might once have been plants, or a rotting, putrid fungal nightmare. Perhaps, it could have even become an untameable jungle wilderness attempting to burst free from its confines and take over the rest of the ship after so long left unattended.
Either way he hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near it pretty much at all in the years since he had been resurrected as a hologram. He simply hadn’t wanted to deal with whatever colossal clean-up job it might have required so he had decided to pretend that that whole area just didn’t exist at all.
He had been surprised, then, to find some time later that Kryten had taken it upon himself to restore the Botanical Gardens to their former lush, verdant glory and had largely succeeded in his endeavours.
It had taken him a while, of course. Most of the plant life that had once been there had long-since died from the lack of having anyone to tend to them anymore and as a result there had been plenty of mess to clean up in the form of mould and fungus and gummed up drainage systems and a lot of leftover organic matter but, naturally, the old bog bot had thrown himself into his cleaning duties with great enthusiasm and had eventually managed to make the place look decent and respectable again.
If that had been all he had intended to do with the place, Rimmer would have understood. Kryten was programmed to clean so having a humongous filthy mess to clean was surely a sanitation bot’s version of a wet dream but after he had completed the arduous task he had continued to disappear down to the Botanical Gardens on the regular anyway.
Apparently, according to Lister, caring for a garden had been a long-held dream for Kryten, something he had fantasised about for years well before they had ever happened upon him waiting in the crashed Nova-5, and now that he had a generously sized garden all to himself he was making the absolute most of it.
Stepping in tentatively, Rimmer peered around looking for any signs of Kryten. He hoped fervently that for now the know-it-all git would be presently engaged elsewhere on the ship, perhaps deep in the middle of a corridor clean that would keep him busy for hours. Either way, he simply didn’t want to have to talk to him if he could help it.
Hearing no obvious signs of there being anyone else around, Rimmer let his shoulders slacken just a bit and wandered further into the humid warmth, astonished by just how green the place really was. He had to admit that Kryten had done a good job. It wasn’t entirely unlike the gardens he had seen back home, cultivated and maintained with great care and attention to detail.
On a volatile, hostile moon like Io, the only way to sustain life had been to create large domes within which the population would reside, supported by an artificially generated breathable atmosphere and a manually controlled climate system to keep the place comfortably temperate. In a way they had almost served like large botanical gardens of a sort themselves, every single plant grown there placed purposefully and intentionally. Nothing could grow on its own on Io without help to get it started.
A frown creased Rimmer’s features as he made his way through the different sections, looking over the variety of plants and greenery that somehow still managed to thrive so very far from the Earth their ancestors had originated on. He didn’t know how Kryten had managed it, how he had found what he’d needed to make it possible, but then he didn’t really know the first thing about gardening so maybe it had been easier than he could imagine.
As a child, he had largely kept away from interacting with the gardener who came to tend to the plants. His father – or the man he had thought was his father – had warned him not to talk to him, to keep away and not get any funny ideas, and Rimmer had obediently followed orders, tried not to stick so much as a toe out of line in the hopes that it would garner him even the slightest bit of acknowledgement for his good behaviour.
Sometimes, however, avoiding interaction had been somewhat impossible.
There had been plenty of times when he had run off into the garden to escape the antics of his older brothers, concealing himself amongst the bushes and shrubs only to find himself met with the person he had been told to keep his distance from.
Dungo— Dennis— no, Dad had always been very gentle with him in a way that had felt strange and unfamiliar. There had always been a warmth about him, a kindness behind his hazel eyes that he had never felt from his own parents and it was only now, with the benefit of sorely needed context, that Rimmer wondered whether it had been because he had known what Rimmer himself had not.
Had Dennis known that Rimmer was his son? Had he been trying to reach out, only for Rimmer to continuously pull away? He supposed he would never know.
He reached out, absently, and gently took hold of the leaf of a nearby plant, rubbing its smooth, waxy surface distractedly between his fingers, his mind many miles and many years away.
He didn’t hear Kryten come in until it was too late to avoid him.
“Oh, Mister Rimmer, sir, I didn’t see you there.”
Startled, Rimmer’s hand jerked involuntarily back away from the plant before he could loosen his grip, the resultant motion plucking the unsuspecting leaf clean off its little stem, another small, unintentional casualty at the hands of Arnold J. Rimmer.
“Kryten!” he cried, whipping his hands behind his back, crushing the fragile, delicate form of the severed leaf in his tightly gripped fist. “Where did you come from?”
Kryten blinked bemusedly at him for a moment before shaking his head and picking up a little watering can that had been left next to the flower plots. Tilting it slightly, he began to water the dainty little flowers closest to him, carefully regulating the flow so as not to completely saturate them.
“Oh, I’d just finished putting the latest batch of Mister Lister’s laundry on and thought I’d stop by to give my petunias a little top up,” he explained, moving now to water the next plants in line. For a brief, fleeting moment his eyes spotted the broken little stem on the plant nearest Rimmer and then he lowered his gaze again and pretended not to have noticed. “If I may, sir, I don’t recall seeing you down here before. Were you looking for me by any chance?”
“What? No, no,” Rimmer said quickly, shaking his head and turning to look down again at the plant he had just accidentally mutilated, an oddly sombre look taking up residence across his features. “I was just… looking.”
Kryten regarded him for a moment, unable to read his mood. “Oh, my apologies, sir. I didn’t realise you had an interest in botany.”
“I didn’t – I don’t!” Rimmer spluttered, defensive, before shaking it off and sighing, his shoulders lifting in some sort of non-committal half-shrug. “I mean, I’ve never given it any thought in particular. It’s just…” He trailed off, suddenly looking pensive and distant again.
“My father was a gardener,” he said eventually, wistfully, before frowning a little and adding: “My real father I mean.”
Understanding blossomed suddenly across Kryten’s face and he nodded sympathetically, recalling the moment they had all come to learn that same fascinating piece of information together.
“Ah, yes. I did remember that. Did you know him, sir?”
“No, not at all! I hardly ever went near the man!” Rimmer snapped bitterly, something sour and unpleasant crumpling up his features, coiling like a snake in his gut. “My parents didn’t want me going near him. Or speaking to him. So I didn’t.”
Kryten didn’t say anything to that. He simply hummed in acknowledgement and busied himself with his plants, leaving Rimmer to stew in his own memories.
Rimmer watched him absently, feeling oddly detached, the experience bringing about a peculiar sense of deja-vu. He had watched his own father water the plants from a distance many times before, usually whenever he had been hiding from his brothers amongst the bushes and had had little else to pay attention to but sometimes he had simply been wandering looking for someone who would give him more than just a passing dismissive nod or a mischievously malevolent sneer.
Dennis had usually been quick to spot him then and would always shoot him a friendly smile and an encouraging wave and try to coax him over to give him a shot at watering the plants and Rimmer had always wordlessly rejected the invitation, turning tail and running in the other direction and trodding all over the flowerbeds on his way out.
He wondered what would have happened if he’d ever taken him up on any of those offers, if he had actually taken the little watering can and given any of it a try. He wondered if his father – his real father – would have praised him afterwards. The sense of longing at what he might have missed out on made his chest feel unsettlingly hollow and achy.
He sighed.
“I don’t know anything about him,” he admitted quietly, to no-one in particular, holding the severed little leaf from earlier in his palm and crumpling it up bitterly. “I don’t know who he was, or what he liked. I never gave him the time of day.”
Kryten peered pityingly up at him over the colourful array of flowers that lay between them, a peculiar look on his face. He considered him for a good, long moment, his brow creased in thought as though he was mulling something over, and then he straightened up and disappeared without a word, walking briskly off to some other part of the garden leaving Rimmer to scowl after him, rolling his eyes and wondering what he’d ever hoped to get out of saying anything about his past to a glorified bog bot.
He was almost considering leaving when Kryten promptly returned, holding something mysterious in his right hand and a freshly filled watering can in his left.
“Hold out your hand, sir,” he said, a self-satisfied little smile on his face.
Rimmer blinked and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, eyeing Kryten’s closed fist. “What? Why?”
Kryten shook his head incredulously and simply extended his hand out, waiting for Rimmer to do the same. “Just do it, sir. There’s a good reason for it.”
Raising a dubious brow, Rimmer nonetheless complied, holding a hand tentatively out, palm up, under Kryten’s waiting fist.
As soon as he was in place, Kryten unfurled his fingers and tilted his wrist, dropping a generous handful of dry earthy-coloured little pellets into Rimmer’s hand and stepping back, beaming broadly at him.
Rimmer gazed in bewilderment at the tiny little things, his thumb rubbing curiously through them, turning them over in his palm a few times before glancing back up to fix Kryten with a bemused, questioning frown.
“What are these?” he asked flatly.
Kryten looked positively scandalised, the smile dying instantly on his face to be replaced with an expression of dismayed disbelief that he was trying his best to conceal.
“Why, they’re seeds of course, sir.”
“Seeds?” Rimmer echoed, his face crumpling slightly. “Kryten, what am I going to do with a handful of 3 million year old seeds?”
Kryten gestured to the rows of plants all around them, as though the answer was plainly clear to see. “Plant them, sir,” he said simply. “Make them grow.”
Rimmer didn’t say anything. He just stared apprehensively down at the little tiny seeds in his hands and felt increasingly as though he had made a grave mistake coming here today.
“Why would I want to do any of that, Kryten?” Rimmer scoffed dismissively, thrusting his hand insistently back out towards Kryten again, jaw tight. “I’m not a gardener.”
Kryten’s gaze shifted around sheepishly but he did not make any attempt to take back the seeds. His mouth was drawn together in a tight, perturbed line, brow furrowed slightly in frustration at Rimmer’s refusal to read his intentions.
“I’m well aware of that, sir,” he said steadily, pointedly. “I just think that it’s worth giving a shot anyway.”
Rimmer clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, casting his gaze bitterly, almost enviously, over the colourful array of blooming flowers that surrounded him. “I won’t be any good at this, Kryten,” he said, continuing to hold out his hand to be relieved of the seeds. “It’s a waste of time.”
Kryten shook his head and stood his ground, his expression firm in the way that a parent or teacher’s might be in trying to get an important lesson across.
“Perhaps, sir, but if you don’t try you’ll never know.”
He reached forwards then and gently eased Rimmer’s open fist closed, pushing his hand away in a final refusal to accept the return of the seeds. With his other hand, he held out the watering can to be taken.
“Perhaps it’s not my place to say, sir, but if you really want to get to know your father and understand who he was, might I suggest you try to understand where he was coming from?” He indicated behind Rimmer, towards an area on the far end of the gardens. “There’s an empty plot up the back that I was going to use myself, but you can use it instead if you’d like, sir. Just take those little seeds up there, plant them in the soil and water them. See what grows.”
With that he thrust the watering can firmly into Rimmer’s other hand with a sense of pointed finality, gave him one encouraging pat on the arm and proceeded to promptly brush past him and busy himself once again with his own duties while Rimmer simply gaped, incredulous and furious, after him.
Turning his attention down to the items he had been handed, he debated simply dumping them right where he stood and storming off out of the room. Who was Kryten to boss him around and tell him what to do? He was just a service mechanoid with ideas above his station! He didn’t have to listen to him.
Still, as he looked at the tiny little seeds and turned them over repeatedly in his palm, he couldn’t deny that there was at the very least some very small, curious part of him that did want to give it a try, to reach back through time and space and try to make up for every previously squandered opportunity for connection.
Rimmer was doubtful it would do any actual good but he did as he was told and made his way up to the vacant plot Kryten had mentioned, a bland little rectangle of earth just waiting expectantly to be put to use.
When he got there he stared down at it warily, apprehensively, as though it were an exam paper and this was a test and any wrong move would result in an immediate failure.
He didn’t know the first thing about gardening. He’d never read so much as a single book on the subject. He’d never cared to learn before, had never had cause to try, but somehow as he held the little seeds in his hand, he felt as though he was eight years old again, watching that strange curly-haired man he didn’t yet know was his father try to reach out to him, to make a connection that Rimmer now sorely, bitterly regretted rejecting.
He tightened his jaw and swallowed thickly past the peculiar lump that had materialised in his throat and reached out slowly, tentatively, to sprinkle the seeds across the waiting blanket of soil. He didn’t know if he was doing it right, if there was more to it than that and he wondered bitterly whether he had already failed at the first hurdle, already doomed these stupid little seeds to fail.
He wished he’d sat around and listened more, had actually let Dennis try to teach him a thing or two, ‘father’s’ orders be damned. He wished he could have given him a chance to connect with him, to have him tell him he’d done well and pat him proudly on the head. He wished that there was any chance at all that he still somehow could but of course there wasn’t. His father was long dead and he was more than 3 million years late for any kind of chance at connection. There was no way he was ever going to claw back what he’d missed out on.
Still, though, he supposed Kryten had been right, in some small little way. There was something to be said for trying to help something vulnerable and fragile thrive on a lonely ship drifting through the middle of deep space, something not unlike cultivating a garden in one of the isolated little pods back on Io. If nothing else, it made the place seem just a little bit less dead, less cold.
Lifting up the watering can Kryten had given him, he held it out over the soil and tilted it carefully, startling slightly when too much initially came out all at once but gradually he stabilised his wrist and slowed the flow down to something more controlled, closer to what he’d seen earlier.
He stood back a little when he was done, surveying his work, trying to suppress the gnawing feeling of inadequacy that tried to tell him he would be no good at this, that he didn’t have the knack for it. That was his other father talking, the one who had ingrained in him such a deep sense of doubt and poor sense of self-worth that it had plagued him all his life, the one who had forced unfair expectations on his shoulders without any chance of ever being able to gain approval, whether he had ever managed to meet them or not.
He might not have been cut out for the role of officer, or for a career in the space corps at all but even in spite of the hand he had been dealt he had ended up on board a space-faring vessel nonetheless. His real father probably would have been proud of him for that and maybe, if he could manage to get these tiny little seeds to sprout and grow, if he could inject a little more life into the cold, unforgiving emptiness of space, far away from Io, from Earth, from anywhere things like these had once been grown, then maybe he would have cause to feel, just a little bit, proud of himself too.