Better Than Life

  So this wasn't reality. So what?

  Reality, it struck Rimmer, was a place where bad things could happen. And bad, vile, unspeakable things had happened to him on an almost daily basis the entire period he'd spent there.

  Why should he subscribe to a reality in which he was an outright failure - a loser with no equal? Unloved, unfulfilled, ungifted, and many other words too legion to list, all beginning with the prefix 'un'.

  The unreality offered by Better Than Life was far more palatable.

  'Mr Rimmer, sir?' A bespectacled man in a brown tweed suit quivered obsequiously at the door. 'It's all ready, sir. Shall I bring it through?'

  Rimmer nodded.

  'If you'd just like to slip out of that one, we'll see how it feels.'

  Rimmer pressed the release catch concealed in his navel, and, with a whoosh, his essence floated out of his body.

  He felt slightly sheepish hovering around the room, temporarily bodyless, and was glad when the man in the brown tweed suit returned pushing a stretcher.

  'Here it is, sir. Perhaps you'd like to try it on.'

  Rimmer changed his body more often than most people had a haircut. Every time he detected the slightest wrinkle or sign of wear, he'd trade it in for a brand-new model. And why not? Out there, in reality, he didn't have a body - he was a hologram. Here, in Better Than Life, it was, therefore, only natural that his psyche had fantasized the science that made body-swapping possible. But with every body-swap, Rimmer's face remained the same - it was the one part of him he refused to change. Without his own face, he argued, it would feel like his success belonged to someone else.

  The men pulled back the sheet, revealing Rimmer's pristine new form, and Rimmer's essence slid into it gratefully.

  He wriggled his new shoulders and stretched out his new arms.

  'Comfortable, sir?' inquired the body-tailor.

  Rimmer murmured non-committally, and walked across to the full-length dress mirror. He looked his new physique up and down. It was virtually identical to the body he'd just vacated, with a few minor tweaks and adjustments: the pectorals were slightly better defined, and the stomach wall a tad more muscular. 'Not bad,' he conceded grudgingly. 'Penis still isn't big enough.'

  'Sir, honestly: any bigger and you'll have a balance problem.'

  Rimmer nodded. The appendage was fairly gargantuan, and certainly sizeable enough to put the fear of God into anyone who stood next to him at a urinal, which was all he was interested in. The tailor was right - he couldn't keep on asking for an extra half inch or so to be added to his favourite organ. It was fast reaching the stage where he would become the only man in history who dressed on both the right and the left-hand sides simultaneously.

  Rimmer dismissed the tailor and started to slide his latest body into his crisp, new morning suit.

  Yes indeedy, this place certainly had the edge over reality.

  Here he was a god, and everything was perfect.

  Well, almost everything.

  Still, that was behind him, now.

  Juanita Chicata was history. The world's number one model and actress no longer kept her cosmetics in his bathroom.

  The much-publicized court case dragged on for months, and Rimmer had found the whole experience thoroughly galling.

  Preposterously, the 'Brazilian bombshell' had denied adultery, and Rimmer's lawyers had been forced to parade Juanita's ex-lovers through the witness stand.

  It took five days.

  The pool attendant, the gardener, her tennis instructor, two butlers, four chauffeurs, seven delivery boys: a seemingly endless stream had flowed through the courtroom and testified to their indiscretions with his wife.

  Worst of all had been the exhibits: Exhibit A - a large carton of whipped cream. Exhibit B - a skin-diving suit with the bottom cut out. Exhibit C - a bucketful of soapy frogs. Soapy frogs? On and on it went, until, by Exhibit Q - an inflatable dolphin with battery-operated fins - Rimmer could stand the humiliation no longer, and he'd agreed to settle out of court.

  The alimony agreement had been of historical magnitude. In fact, it would have been cheaper for Rimmer to support the entire population of Bolivia in perpetuity, rather than subscribe to the settlement he did.

  But it was worth it. It was worth every single nought to get that crazy, dangerous, gorgeous woman out of his life.

  Helen couldn't have been more different. Good Bostonian stock, society family, old money, normal libido.

  Helen was ... nice. Not just nice, of course - that made her sound bland. She was nice, obviously, but also, she was very sensible.

  No berserk, china-hurling tantrums for her. No satanic, knife-wielding charges at his naked person. No embarrassing bellowed arguments in humiliatingly expensive restaurants. No - that wasn't Helen's style at all. Helen, it seemed, had no temper to lose.

  Dear, sensible Helen, with her short, sensible legs, her thick, sensible ankles and her sturdy, sensible underpants.

  The first time Rimmer had encountered them, these leviathans of underwear, lying on his bed, he'd climbed under them, mistakenly assuming they were a small duvet.

  Rimmer thought with a shudder about Juanita's underwear.

  That wasn't very sensible.

  Ghostly threads of spun black silk that stretched wickedly across her flat brown belly. You could have swallowed her entire lingerie collection without needing a glass of water.

  Well, as Helen had sensibly pointed out, she'd pay for that in time. Rheumatism, arthritis ... what horrors lurked in Juanita's autumnal years? What price would be exacted for wearing panties that offered as much protection and warmth as a spider's web?

  Rimmer hurled back his head and brayed a bilious, joyless laugh, an even mixture of malice and pain. God, she would suffer; by the time she was twenty-three, she'd probably need a walking frame or something, just to get around. She'd probably have to use the disabled toilet. And all because she'd eschewed the large, warming expanses of thick, elasticated cotton that graced the legs, thighs and quite a lot else of Mrs Rimmer mark II.

  ***

  If Rimmer had thought about it, he might have asked himself why, in a landscape moulded by his own mind, Juanita existed at all. Even so, it was unlikely he'd have come up with the right answer. The truth of it was: his psyche just didn't like him.

  Better Than Life operated on an entirely subliminal level. It wasn't possible, for instance, to wish for a turbo-charged Harley Davidson and blip! it appeared. Early, non-addictive versions of the Game operated in exactly this manner, and proved boring and unplayable after only a few days.

  The secret to BTL's addictive quality was that it gave the players things they didn't even know they desired, by tapping their subconscious minds.

  It pandered to the players' deepest, most secret longings.

  Which was all very well, so long as you weren't a total psychological screw-up.

  Unfortunately, Rimmer was.

  Subconsciously, Rimmer felt he was worthless: he didn't deserve success, and he certainly didn't deserve happiness. What he deserved was punishment. Punishment and misery.

  And Better Than Life, which catered to his innermost desires, wasn't about to disappoint him.

  ***

  The carved ivory phone purred into life on the Louis Quinze writing bureau. Rimmer waited his customary twenty rings before he strode over to the desk and picked up the receiver.

  It wasn't much of a conversation from Rimmer's point of view: all he said was 'What?' five times. The first 'what?' was a flat, evenly delivered inquiry. The second was a mixture of incredulity and amusement. The third was loud and angry. The fourth was screeched and hysterical, and the fifth sad, quiet and resigned.

  He replaced the receiver gently in its cradle, then rolled his body into a ball and began moaning quietly on the bed.

  FIVE

  Tnok!

  Eeeeeeeek!

  The Cat leant heavily in the saddle, his left hand firmly gripping the leathery neck of his gigantic bron
tosaurus as it galloped downfield towards the unguarded goal. His mallet arced up in the air and flashed briefly in the sunlight, before sweeping deftly down and blasting the small, furry creature between the two white posts.

  Tnok!

  Eeeeeeeeeeeeek!

  The small, furry creature smacked into the left-hand post and ricocheted out.

  Thunk!

  Blatt!

  Eeeeeeeek!

  The Cat hauled the lumbering dinosaur to his left and met the rebounding ball of fur square on the polished heel of his wooden mallet, sending it once more inexorably goalwards.

  The creature timidly opened one eye and saw the looming goalpost.

  Errrrrrrk!

  It hammered into the right-hand post, rebounded across the goal and spanked into the left-hand post, before spinning back into the goal net.

  'Goal!'

  Creature polo was the Cat's favourite game. Unnecessary cruelty to small, furry animals was very much part of his psychological make-up. Plus, he got to dress up in some really neat duds.

  A huge-bosomed Valkyrie dressed in scanty armour reined in her triceratops and patted the Cat on the back.

  'Nice goal! Great stick work.'

  The Cat flashed his perfect teeth and wiggled an eyebrow. 'Baby, my stick work is always great.'

  The Valkyrie's eyes narrowed seductively, and she growled with lust.

  'Get off me!' the Cat grinned. 'Can't I keep my trousers on for five seconds? We're in the middle of a match here.'

  The ball untangled itself wearily from the net, stretched its tiny limbs and gulped several times in a vain attempt to clear its head.

  A whistle blew, a voice cried: 'Mirror break!' and two more scantily clad Valkyrie sex-slaves raced on to the field, carrying an elaborate six-foot-long gilt-framed mirror.

  For a full ten minutes the Cat stared gooey-eyed at his reflection, transfixed, as ever, by his own incredible good looks.

  There was good-looking, there was great-looking and then there was him.

  God, it was cruel to have been born a male, and have a reflection that was also male, forcing him into a platonic relationship with his own image.

  All too soon, the whistle blew again, and the mirror break was over. With a heavy heart, the Cat watched the two Valkyries charge back to the touchline with the looking-glass, as the small, furry creature scuttled gamely back to the centre spot for the next knock off.

  Tnok!

  Squelch!

  'New ball,' called yet another Valkyrie, umpiring on the touchline.

  A second furry animal got up from the bench, unzipped its miniature tracksuit, performed a bizarre variety of warm-up exercises and jogged chirpily to the centre spot.

  Tnok!

  Eeeeeeeeek!

  Two furry creatures and a personal hat-trick later, the Cat stood in the shade of the marquee's green awning, sipping a celebratory goblet of milk, while one of his army of Valkyries noisily performed an indecent act on his body.

  The Cat sighed. What a nice day he was having. This was just perfection. He had his huge, remote gothic castle, surrounded by its moat of milk; he had a limitless supply of cute, furry animals to be cruel to. And finally, he'd settled down. He'd met the dozen or so women who were right for him, and his wandering days were over.

  ***

  Mechanoids weren't supposed to have desires and longings.

  But Kryten did.

  Originally he'd entered the Game to rescue the others. He was a sanitation Mechanoid, programmed to clean, and, in theory, should have been immune to the Game's lure.

  But he wasn't.

  In theory, leaving BTL was simple. All the player had to do was want to leave. All the player had to do was imagine an exit, and pass through it, back to reality.

  Kryten had imagined his gateway easily enough, but as he was about to pass under the pink neon 'Exit' sign, a cafeteria materialized to his right. In the window was a handwritten card which read: 'Dishwasher wanted.'

  The cafeteria was deserted, but in the kitchen, stacked ceiling-high, were several huge towers of dirty dishes piled around a sink. Now, what kind of sanitation Mechanoid would he have been if he'd ignored those greasy, food-stained plates?

  I'll just wash a few, he'd thought. Reduce the pile a bit.

  Eight months later, he was still there, still washing, still surrounded by stacks of dirty dishes.

  Finally he realized he'd been duped - the Game had found his innermost desire - and he'd scurried off, ashamed.

  Mechanoids weren't supposed to have desires.

  ***

  Back in the twenty-first century, as robotic life became more and more sophisticated, it was generally accepted that something was needed to keep the droids in check. For the most part they were stronger, and often more intelligent, than human beings: why should they submit to second-class status, to a lifetime of drudgery and service?

  Many of them didn't.

  Many of them rebelled.

  Then it occurred to a bright young systems analyst at Android International that the best way to keep the robots subdued was to give them religion.

  Hallelujah!

  The concept of Silicon Heaven was born.

  A belief chip was implanted in the motherboard of every droid that now came off the production line.

  Almost everything with a hint of artificial intelligence was programmed to believe that Silicon Heaven was the electronic afterlife - the final resting place for the souls of all electrical equipment.

  The concept ran thus: if machines served their human masters with diligence and dedication, they would attain everlasting life in mechanical paradise when their components finally ran down. In Silicon Heaven, they would be reunited with their electrical loved ones. In Silicon Heaven, there would be no pain or suffering. It was a place where the computer never crashed, the laser printer never ran out of toner, and the photocopier never had a paper jam.

  At last, they had solace. They were every bit as exploited as they'd always been, but now they believed there was some kind of justice at the end of it all.

  ***

  Kryten believed in Silicon Heaven. Of course, he'd heard rumours that all machines were programmed to hold this belief, but as far as he was concerned, that was nonsense.

  For was it not written in the Electronic Bible (Authorized Panasonic Version): 'And some will come among ye, and, yea, from their mouths shall come doubts. But turn ye from them; heed them not. For it is harder for a droid who disbelieveth to pass through the gates of Silicon Heaven, than it is for a DIN-DIN coaxial cable to connect up to a standard European SCART socket.'

  Mechanoids shouldn't have fantasies. Not if they wanted to get into Silicon Heaven.

  Kryten genuflected the sign of the crossed circuit, and stumbled up the path towards the Cat's golden-towered castle. He was going to make amends. He was going to rescue them all from their paradise.

  SIX

  NNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

  The air-horn thundered into the night air, as the twelve-wheeled juggernaut slewed sideways across the ice into Bedford Falls' main street.

  The revelling carollers stood like a waxwork tableau as the giant tanker jackknifed into an uncontrollable skid and started to plough relentlessly through the line of shops. It slammed through Mulligan's window, showering the street with teddy bears, dolls and lethal shards of glass. It demolished Old Man Gower's drugstore, which ignited in a blue plume of chemical flame; it smashed through Pop Buckley's pet shop, sending rabbits, puppies and canaries bolting, twittering and flapping out into the night. Next, it took out the entire ground floor of Ma Bailey's boarding-house, before carooming through Ernie's gas station, uprooting the single pump and sending raw gasoline pulsing over the forecourt.

  A spark from the juggernaut's fender caught the spreading pool, and a pretty orange mushroom thumped up into the night sky. A wall of flame dashed across the wooden rooftops, feeding hungrily on the rotten dry timbers. Within moments, the remai
ning shop facades teetered forward and crashed into the street's melting sludge.

  And still, on it went, this juggernaut from hell, demolishing everything in its path. Round and round it span, like a clumsy bull on a skating rink, locked in a 360-degree skid. Lister watched, helplessly, as the juggernaut's tail sliced through the giant Christmas tree, sending it tottering through the first floor of the empty orphanage.

  The impact flicked the truck's cab on to its side, and it twisted free of the trailer before slithering across the main street and finally coming to rest in the sitting room of 220 Sycamore Avenue.

  There was an ominous creak, and both side walls collapsed from the bottom up, showering the cab with plaster and brickwork.

  Lister stood in the crowd, clutching Kochanski and the twins, and watched as the cab door opened. A leg in a laddered fishnet stocking hooked itself over the side of the up-ended cab, followed by some peroxide blonde hair.

  Lister was too far away to read the tattoo on the woman's inner thigh, but it read 'Heaven This Way' and was accompanied by an arrow pointing groinwards.

  The woman jumped to the ground, and staggered in her eight-inch stiletto heels over the rubble towards the dumbstruck crowd.

  'Is everyone OK?' she said. 'My heel got stuck under the air brake.' She tugged pointlessly at her ludicrously short black rubber skirt, and tried to rearrange her bosom, so that at least thirty per cent of her mighty breasts remained inside her tight red bolero. 'Bloody things,' she muttered. 'Is this Bedford Falls?'

  Bert the cop stepped forward. 'It was, lady.' He held out his hand. 'You got any ID, ma'am?'

  'ID?' She started rummaging through her shoulder-bag. 'I dunno. Uh, hang on.' She tipped the bag upside down, scattering the floor with a selection of marital aids, French letters and half-eaten sandwiches. 'Oh shitty death,' she blushed.