by Ganymede & Titan

Series V - Terrorform - All scenes



(KRYTEN'S VOICE) Remain calm, Kryten.
This is your CPU speaking.

There has been an accident.

Both your legs have been
crushed beyond repair.

Your ambulatory system has been destroyed,

and your life expectancy
is currently estimated at 67 minutes.

If there is any further news,
we will keep you updated.

In the meantime, here Is a little music.


Your auto-repair systems are now able
to restore visuals.

Kryten personal black box recording.

Time - unknown. Location - unknown.

Cause of accident - unknown.

Should someone find this recording, perhaps
it will shed light as to what happened here.

My short-term memory has been erased.

This I ascribe to the proximity
of the magnetic coils from Starbug's rear engine.

Secondly, due to the proximity
of the magnetic coils,

my short-term memory
appears to have been erased.

This, combined with the erasure
of my short-term memory,

has left me a little

67 minutes?! I'd better get out of here.

Of course.




- Can you hear me?

Find an ore sample pod.
There should be plenty strewn around the crash site.

Initiate the homing procedure and bring help. OK?

- Good luck, boy.

Shoo! Go on!


- OK. I'm here. What's the beef?
- We've got a visitor.

- What?!
- A pod arrived about 20 minutes ago.

Something was in it, but it's broken free.

- Any ideas?
- Well, I don't want to spread any panic or alarm.

What do you mean "don't want to spread panic and alarm"?

Well, you've always had this thing
against tarantulas, haven't you?


I mean, you've never been overly
fond of them as a species, have you?

- Well, no.
- And the prospect of waking up

and finding one crawling
over your clammy, naked, helpless body

has always filled you with a kind of, cold dread?

Well, yeah. What are you trying to say to me, Holly?

I'm saying it might not be your night.

Look at this. This is the best shot
security cameras could get.

- Where is it now?
- We lost it.

- What does Kryten think?
- Kryten's off moon-hopping with Rimmer.

Radio link's down. I'll keep trying.

So, what's the problem?
Hey, you OK? You look tense.

You're playing that dumb adventure game.

Then buy a potion from Gandalf,
the master wizard. That's what I usually do.

Kryten, man, take it easy.
I'm gonna get you outta there.

(KRYTEN) My legs, I can't feel them.

Yeah, they're trapped under this stanchion.

- I'm gonna have to cut you in two.
- Begging your pardon, sir?

Kryten, man. Keep still. I'm trying to draw a line here.

I don't want it to go all wonky.
Use as much of you as possible.

Sir, a couple of brief points. Firstly,
you are not a qualified service engineer

and consequently sawing me in two
will invalidate my guarantee.

Secondly, I wouldn't trust you to open
a can of sardines that was already open.

Ooh! You're right! He really isn't dead!

I owe you 20.

- Kryten, you OK?
- I think so, sir.

There's a few bits and bobs left over,

but it's always the same when you try a bit of do-it-yourself, isn't it?

- Where's Mr Rimmer?
- We were just gonna ask you that.

- What happened?
- Well, there are gaps.

I remember Mr Rimmer spotted an S3 planet on the scope
and wanted to claim it on behalf of the Space Corps.

As usual, the ceremony
consisted of planting the flag

and singing all 23 stanzas
of the Space Corps anthem.

Then the planet started to erupt around us,
which, frankly, came as something of a relief.

- A moonquake?
- Worse.

It was as if the entire planet was reshaping,
terraforming itself as we watched.

- And then?
- Then things got a bit sketchy.

I remember an explosion and then blackness.
And then I remember Mr Rimmer screaming.

I have an image of his face
twisted with fear, pain, anguish, dread...

absolutely mortified.

Did someone suggest
he pick up the tab for lunch?

Something took him. Something awful.

Can we track him Holly, can
you get a trace on his light bee?

Got him. Klick and a half due south.

Suggest we continue the journey by land, sir.
I'll lower the caterpillar tracks.

I think I've just worked out
what that missing circuit board is for, sir.

This is one weird place.
Strange animal noises,

unbearable stench, squelchy underfoot...

It's just like your laundry basket at the end of the month.

- Getting anything?
- My guess is this is a psi-moon.

- Psi-moon?
- An artificial planetoid.

It tunes into an individual psyche
and adapts its terrain to mimic his mental state.

In this instance I believe it reconfigured itself

using Mr Rimmer's subconscious as a template.

- What are you saying to me, Kryten?
- We are interlopers inside Mr Rimmer's mind.


This sounds like a 12-change-of-underwear trip.

If this planet's Rimmer's mind, what is it that took him?

All his neuroses, all his personal demons
will be incarnated here, made flesh.

- Example?
- Well, each person's mindscape is unique,

but we could well encounter, say, Mr Rimmer's lust
personified as some kind of slobbering rampaging beast.

Rimmer's lust monster?


Every individual's mental landscape
is dominated by one drive.

In some cases, it might be ambition.
In others greed, envy, or the desire to please.

Whatever it is that took Mr Rimmer, we can
only pray that its intentions are benign.

Come on, he can't be in that much
danger. I mean, he's a hologram.

Not here. Here he will have
a physical form until he leaves.

Any danger he may be in will be very real indeed.

Look, I don't know who you are,
or what you think you're doing,

but I demand my
right to a phone call.

Yes, I thought that'd stop you. I thought the threat of legal action
would have you running for cover.

Look, I'm trying to keep my temper, but you
really are pushing your luck, miladdikins.

Is this the British embassy?
Does it even look the remotest bit like the British embassy?

I want to know who you are, what I'm doing here, and I want to know now.

(UNEARTHLY VOICE) In accordance with the appetites
of the Dark One, the vicious ruler of this domain,

we, the hooded legions,
proffer up this sacrifice

to slake the vile depraved thirstings
of the Unspeakable One.

Well, that's cleared that up.

Oh! Thank God. Thank God.

There were some very, very strange men running around in black hoods

with drums and rather unconvincing red eyes.

Thank God you're here. You know, I actually thought I was in the most awful danger.

Is it me or has it suddenly got
rather hot in here?

What's happening,
why have we stopped?

I don't like the look of that swamp, sir.
I don't think it'll support the 'Bug.

- I suggest we continue the journey on foot.
- You mean, go out there?

Out into Rimmer's

According to the signal,
we're almost on top of him.

- Shouldn't be more than two or three hundred metres.
- Remember, it's Rimmer's mind out there.

Expect sickness.

I'm a second technician in the Space Corps, I'm briefed
to give you my name and number and nothing more.

I don't know who you people are,
or what you think you're playing at,

but I'm not going to
give you anything else.

You can oil me all you like, you can use your
tongues and your full sensual lips to caress my erogenous zones

onto a plateau of sexual ecstasy.

But I'll tell you now -
this nut's not for cracking.

However, far be it from me
to change your game plan.

If you absolutely insist on using erotic persuasion
to achieve your devious ends, then so be it.

Just have a large quattro formaggio pizza
with extra olives ready at the end.

Er, where are you going?

Er, what are you doing?

My God! Are you going to take a flying leap?!

- We are going to summon the Master.
- The Master?

You have been prepared for him.

This Master character - and I acknowledge
I may not want to know the full answer to this one -

why does he want me oiling particularly?

Obviously, whatever he has in mind is
facilitated by my being slippery and pliant. Yes?

He always likes his victims to be oiled. An oiled body is so much better for conducting the electricity.

Not the best news, but it could've been worse.


Why I ever agreed to go for a stroll
in Rimmer's psyche I will never know.

Oh, terrific. This gets better and better.

Is it me or are those frogs saying "useless"?

(FROGS) Useless. Rimmer. Rimmer. Useless...

Hey, look at this. You've got a huge great
blood-sucking leech on your neck.

It's got a human face.

It's Rimmer's mum!

Sit, come quickly. I think I've found a metaphor.

- A what?
- Look at all these gravestones.

Here lies self-respect, died aged 24.

They're all aspects of Rimmer's personality
which are dead.

"Honour - gone but not forgotten,
died aged 12."

Look at this. This one's minute!

- Check this one, this one's freshly dug.
- Who's it for?

Oh, psychologically speaking, Mr Rimmer may
be in far bigger trouble than any of us ever suspected.

If we don't get to him before this grave is filled,
we may never get out of this nightmare.


Boy, am I glad to see you.

You must be the Unspeakable One.

Just to fill you in - there's been
a gigantic administrative cock-up.

Some of your staff have somehow
mistaken me for a virgin.

(ECHOING VOICE) Stop your putrid whining,
you dank tuft of rectal pubic hair!

Sorry, yes. I do tend to jabber on a bit when I'm nervous.

I've never been partial to physical torture.

It's actually always been one of my...
worst nightmares, actually.

Now all your nightmares
will come true here. All of them!

He's got to be somewhere here. We should be right on top of him.


Whatever that was, let's hope it's had lunch.

- It's right below us.
- (RIMMER) Who are you?

- Here.
- (RIMMER) And why are you being so horrible to me?

It is you who created me,
nurtured me, helped me grow strong.

I am the part of you that hates yourself.

I am your self-loathing.

- My self-loathing?
- Is it not true that you despise yourself?

That you detest
your own incompetence and stupidity?

That you hold yourself in contempt for your
countless failures and disappointments?

Is it not true that you feel nothing
but the deepest, blackest rancour

for that walking vomit stain
the world calls Arnold Rimmer?

Is it not true?


Look, we've got two choices.

Either we go in there, with bazookoids blazing,
and somehow try and get him out of there

or we sit here like lemons
and watch him get tortured.

Anybody got any opera glasses?

Set bazookoids to kill, stuff and mount.

We're going in. Kryten?



Is it my turn now?


Sir, another barrage of bazookoid fire
could start a rockslide and bury us all.

- Reload!
- You'd risk your lives for me?