("RED DWARF" THEME)
(MUSIC: SULTRY JAZZ)
Maybe it's the moonlight, but you look pretty good for a corpse.
- I can explain everything. - Let me save you the trouble.
You planned Pallister's murder, but your sister squibbed him off.
You took the rap, knowing you had an alibi in me. You played me for the dumb sap I am.
- It wasn't like that, not with you. - Yeah?
So you going to turn me in?
Watch me do the sit-down dance in the electric chair?
No, sweet-lips. I'm gonna let you kiss me.
Sir, you should come and take a look at this.
Sir, it really is quiet urgent.
I want you, Loretta, your body next to mine,
like you were that Tuesday night. Kiss me!
Honestly!
Honestly, you haven't been off this machine in a month. Oh!
Philip, I don't understand.
It's simple, Loretta. This isn't real. It's an AR computer simulation game.
I hand you to the cops and get the goody-goody heroine.
I've played it before. It's just that you drive me wild.
- You're the sexiest computer sprite ever. - Oh, Philip.
- I don't care that you've killed three men. - Five.
Whatever. It's not your fault. You're programmed.
So you take me for what I am? A psychopathic, schizophrenic, serial-killing femme fatale?
Forgive and forget, I say. Pucker up.
"Choose your character." Oh, honestly! I just want to talk to him.
Oh, anything...Sammy the Squib. Crack shot with tommy-gun. Engage.
Oh, it's so frivolous!
Mr Lister, sir?
Hmm, curious.
Hi, Kryten. What are you doing here?
I finished the chemical scan and discovered traces of millennium oxide in the vicinity.
Couldn't be happier. See you.
Sir, I believe we've wandered accidentally into a rogue simulant hunting zone.
That would explain the devastation on the derelicts where we found this game.
Who is it? It's Sammy the Squib!
- Good evening, miss. - Don't kill me, Sammy. Kill him.
I'll come away with you. I never stopped loving you. Kiss me.
- You're trash, aren't you? - I'm programmed to be trash.
I can't resist her, Kryten. Get back in the car.
I only ever fall for heartbreakers or moral garbage on legs.
Sir, turn off the AR console.
We have to continue on silent running to avoid detection.
- Ten minutes. - Sir.
- I'll keep my hat on! - Now!
Philip?
I'll be back, sweet-lips.
Stay bad.
Kryten, you are a total gooseberry!
Next time I play, I'll give you money to go to the pictures.
At last, we have silent running. OK, long-range scanners are down.
The only early warning we've got is you.
OK, bud. I'll keep my nose peeled.
You took your time. Where've you been?
- In the AR machine. - Again?
- What do you mean, "again"? - You only use the AR machine to have sex.
- That is not true! - Yes, true.
It's pathetic watching you grind away...day after day.
You're like a dog that's missing its master's leg.
That groinal attachment's supposed to have a lifetime's guarantee.
- You've worn it out in nearly three weeks. - That is an outrageous piece of libel.
I don't just play the role-play games. What about zero-G kickboxing and Wimbledon?
You're having it off with that jailbait ballgirl.
Another total lie! She's not jailbait, she's 17.
Lister, she's a computer sprite. She's just a load of pixels.
Yeah, but what pixels.
- What's all the hullabaloo? - We've wandered into rogue simulant country.
Biomechanical killers created for a war that never took place.
Some escaped the dismantling programme
and prowl space searching for quarry worthy of their mettle.
I say abandon pursuit of Red Dwarf and flee.
Give up the chase? You're kidding?
- Wait. My nose is getting something. - Powering up.
- Scanners report a battle-class cruiser. - It's rogue simulants, all right.
Recommend immediate total surrender.
Sir, surrender is the worst thing to do. They despise all humanoid life.
They think you're the vermin of the universe.
I didn't even know they'd met him.
Getting a message. Punching it up.
State your species and purpose.
One of us will have to speak to them. Who's the least human-looking?
Listy, the mic's all yours.
Wait. I've got an idea. Stall them with static.
Kryten, mid-section. Cat, you too.
Why do you delay? State your species and purpose. You have one minute.
- What the hell are you doing? - (LISTER) Nearly ready to transmit.
- Incoming. - (LISTER) I am Tarka Dall,
an ambassador of the great Vindaloovian Empire.
Scanners reported human life on your vessel. Is this so?
Humans?! (SPITS) The Vindaloovian people despise all humans.
They are the vermin of the Universe. Is that not right, Bhindi Bhaji?
(CAT) You bet. We hate them.
Scum, scum, scum, scum, scum! (SPITS)
The Vindaloovian Empire has pledged to exterminate them all.
- We won't rest until our task is completed. - Er, Lister.
- Hi. - How's it going, bud?
A human and a humanoid,
a hologrammatical human and a mechanoid who is a slave to humans.
I hoped for so much more.
Whoever you are, boarding us is an act of war.
Ergo, we surrender.
And as prisoners of war, I invoke the All Nations Agreement, article 39436175880932/B.
39436175880932/B?
"All nations attending the conference are only allocated one parking space"?
Is that entirely relevant, sir? I mean, here we are in mortal danger,
and you're worried about the Chinese delegates bringing two cars?
Can't you let just one go? I meant the right of POWs to non-violent constraint.
That's 75880932/C, sir.
It's embarrassing as much as anything else.
You're totally humiliating me in front of this genocidal maniac. No offence.
Primitive. You will be no sport at all. I have no alternative.
- How long were we out? - Navicomp says three weeks.
Strange. The drive interface has been upgraded. So have the engines.
If this readout's correct, we're armed. Laser cannons.
They've upgraded the whole ship.
They've even got rid of the squeak on the seat control.
We have made some improvements to your craft. Now you may be of some small amusement.
You have two minutes before we attack.
- Let's get out of here. - I know this game, cat and mouse.
There's only one way to win - don't be the mouse.
- What you saying? - The mouse never wins.
Not unless you believe those lying cartoons.
Don't run. Strike. It's the last thing they'll be expecting.
No, the last thing they'll be expecting is for us to turn into ice-skating mongooses.
Your plan makes as much sense.
- I say go with it. - Agreed.
You're going with one of my plans?
Are you nuts? What if we get killed? I'll never hear the last of it!
What are they doing? Power up the weapons.
- Nailed him! - Hit.
- Take them with us. - Can't return fire.
Hack into their navigation computer. Transmit the Armageddon Virus.
- What is it? - The navicomp. Something's wrong!
See you in Silicon Hell.
Shutdown network. The navicomp's been infected with a virus.
The navicomp's frozen. We're locked on this course!
How long before we hit trouble?
If trouble's a large moon in our path, about 38 minutes.
Sir, I must contract the virus myself, analyse its structure
and create an antidote before it wipes out my program.
Do I have your permission?
Do lemmings like cliffs? Granted.
- I have to create a dove program. - Dove program?
A dove program spreads peace through the system, obliterating viral cells.
I have it.
The virus is extremely complex.
I will have to dedicate all my run time.
Shutting down all non-essential systems.
Is there anything we can do?
Watch my dreams.
- Twenty-three minutes to impact. Any change? - Getting worse. Weaker and weaker.
Look, we can't all get out of this in one piece.
- If we do, it'll be one big flat piece. - And?
We should decide who takes the one-man escape pod.
- How? - If you bear with me,
I think I've devised a fair system of choosing who survives.
It's based on age, rank, seniority, usefulness...
To cut a long story short, it's me.
I was as stunned as you are and demanded a recount.
But it came out as me again!
- Keys? - The escape pod isn't an option.
- Why not? - It escaped last Thursday.
I was having a few beers and used the release mechanism as a bottle opener.
- Whoosh! - That's it, then. We're finished!
Wait. We're getting something.
(HONKY-TONK PIANO)
(CA T) What is this?
(LISTER) I think we've tapped directly into whatever passes for Kryten's subconscious.
(CA T) Why is he a sheriff in some old western?
(LISTER) Must be how his core program is coping.
For whatever reason, it's converted the struggle into some kind of dream.
Well, well, well, Sheriff.
Fancy seeing a man of your sober disposition in a low-down drinking establishment.
Now, boys. I don't want any trouble. Just doing my rounds.
(LAUGHTER)
You shouldn't oughta have done that.
Try it, Sheriff.
They say you used to be faster than a toilet stop in rattlesnake country.
Sorry, I tripped over your boot there. Didn't mean any harm by it.
Give me two fingers of your best sipping liquor, and make it the smooth stuff.
The stuff where you get your eyesight back after two days.
The Apocalypse Boys is here.
They's asking for you, Sheriff.
I'll be right out.
Ah, I don't believe I've had the pleasure, sirs.
Name's Death. These here are my brothers.
Brother War...
Brother Famine...
and Brother Pestilence.
You seem like nice boys. How can I be of service?
We want your sorry ass out of here. You got one hour.
He's losing the battle. His life signs are barely registering.
Isn't there some way we can turn ourselves into tiny electronic people and get in there?
Isn't there some gizmo someplace that can do that?
And if not...why not?!
Look, we've all got something to bring to this discussion.
- The thing you should bring is silence. - No, no, no.
- I think he's got something. - Twice in one lifetime?
When you're hot, you're hot!
If we link up the artificial reality console to Kryten's mind,
we should be able to project directly into his dream state.
- Without even leaving the room. - What about me?
We'll power up your hard light drive. Come on. Let's get these wagons rolling.
There. I've loaded in some characters from an AR western game. Choose a player.
- Two. - You're the Riviera Kid.
Special skills, ace gunslinger.
- Rimsy? - Uno.
One. Dangerous Dan McGrew. Special skills, barefist fighting.
Which leaves me with Brett Riverboat, knife man.
- And we definitely can't get hurt? - No, you can get out at any time.
There's a button inside the glove. When you want to get out, just clap.
OK, Riviera? OK, Dangerous?
Let's mosey on into town.
(WESTERN-STYLE MUSIC)
I've seen westerns. I know how to speak cowboy. Leave the talking to me.
Dry white wine and Perrier, please. And you chaps?
What westerns have you seen? "Butch Accountant and the Yuppie Kid"?
Leave this to me. This sounds like one for...
(MEXICAN ACCENT) ..the Riviera Kid.
(FLAMENCO GUITAR)
Senorita, three tequila, por favor.
- What? - Three shots of gulping whisky, ma'am.
- (CROAKS) Mighty smooth. - I was expecting a little more kick to it.
I don't suppose you've got any ginger ale?
I'll take that as a no, then.
(RETCHES)
A man beans up in the hat of Bear Strangler McGee,
he's either mighty brave or mighty stupid. Which are you, boy?
Sorry, what were the choices again?
You'll have to forgive our friend, he's a gunman short of a posse.
That pays for the hat. What about the insult?
OK. You're a fat, bearded git.
Take the lot. Rimmer, what is wrong with you?
Relax. You said yourself, no one can hurt us. Besides, you're forgetting...
(AMERICAN ACCENT) I'm Dangerous Dan McGrew, barefist fighter extraordinaire.
Lola, all my valuables are in this box. You can have it for a bottle of mind-rotter.
- You're trading in your shooting irons? - No use to me. I got the shakes bad.
- Carrots? - I'm throwing in my mule, Dignity.
Mr Sad Git or what?
Kryten, it's us, man.
I don't believe I've had the pleasure.
Don't you know who we are, why you're here?
You're fighting an electronic virus. You're trying to create a dove program,
a software antidote to wipe it out.
- I'll drink to that. - Listen, hooch-head.
The virus is winning. You've gotta start fighting it.
Want a drink, Sheriff? Come and take one.
Now, there's no need to make me look foolish.
Come on, Sheriff. Jump! You can get higher than that!
Leave him alone!
Just having a little fun, Mr Swankypants.
The name's Brett Riverboat, knife man. Let's see how good you are.
Son of a....
Frank, Luke, line his lungs with lead.
- Who the heck are you? - Call me the Kid.
- The Riviera Kid. - (FLAMENCO GUITAR)
Well, let's see if your shooting is as fancy as your dancing.
He shot the bullets out of the air!
Well, it's been dandy meeting you, but if I'm not gone by sun up,
buzzards will be fighting lizards for my gizzards.
If he leaves, we're dead. Stop him!
Vamonos, muchachos.
- Marvellous! - Hey, buddy!
Hold it! You gotta stay!
- This is a job for the Riviera Kid! - (FLAMENCO GUITAR)
(CLUNK)
Boys, I've got to leave. It's ten to Death.
We've got ten minutes to sober him up and get him in shape. Come on.
- Sir, I just can't eat any more raw coffee. - Two more bowls.
But I am sober. Honest!
- OK, who are you and why are you here? - I'm a robot fighting this virus.
None of this exists, except for you guys, who do exist,
only you're not really here, you're on some spaceship.
If that's gotta make sense, I don't want to be sober!
I got his guns back. Look, they've got doves carved on them. And check this...
- There's no place for the bullets. - This is it. The answer's in these guns.
- Doves. Dove program. - I don't know.
- I really don't know. - (CLOCK CHIMES)
Wait, something's coming back now. You, sir, when I look at you I get an image of curry
and early morning breath that could cut through bank vaults.
You, sir...there's something familiar about you too. I get a name.
(STAMMERS) Smee... Smeeee...heeeeee.
- Smeghead? - That's it!
He remembers me.
Do the guns mean anything to you?
Something. They mean something.
- If only I had more time. - Psst! Company.
Got yourself a little help, Sheriff?
Now I remember. You're a computer virus,
travelling from machine to machine, overwriting the core program.
Have infection, will travel. Let's tip the balance a little here.
What is he doing?
He's stalling. He's spotted us for what we are -
a bunch of mean, macho, bad-ass desperados who are gonna kick his butt across the Pecos.
(SPITS) Enjoy the show.
Who's got the guts to go with me one on one, mano a mano?
- Cover him. - (FLAMENCO GUITAR)
Damn, I lost my special skills.
(CLATTER)
Rimmer, the virus has spread to the AR unit. We've lost our special skills.
Ah, Mr War, due to circumstances completely beyond my control,
there's been a cock-up in the bravado department.
I may have appeared braver than I actually am.
Exit! Exit!
- We're sealed in! - Get the helmets off!
It won't move!
The clasp at the back.
I got one of my gloves off!
- And a boot too. - Oh, brilliant!
Now you're paralysed down your left-hand side.
- Me nose! - I got it.
- You're pulling me nose off! - Here it comes!
We'll cut you up so small the worms won't have to chew.
You can't frighten me. I'm always scared. Lister!
- What now? - It's down to Kryten.
Well, Sheriff. Now it's just little old you.
I'm not afraid. My friends have bought me enough time to complete the antidote.
Now, if you'll forgive the rather confrontational imperative,
go for your guns, you scum-sucking molluscs.
I did it! I created an antidote.
Two minutes to impact. Come on!
- How long will it take? - A few seconds.
- How long to impact? - Just a few seconds.
- Loading. It's in the navicomp. - Eight seconds... Seven...
- Nearly there. - Five... Four...
- Three... Two... - We're not going to make it!
- (CAT) Impact! - (CRASH)
(ALL) Yeeeeeeeee-aaaaah!
(WESTERN-STYLE MUSIC)