by Ganymede & Titan
Series VI - Emohawk: Polymorph II - All scenes
("RED DWARF" THEME)
Scramble! Scramble! All hands
on deck! Emergency drill! Scramble!
Er, perhaps you didn't catch
that - I said SCRAMBLE!
Yeah, that would be great
with bacon and beans, man.
Look, Starbug's a blazing inferno, the
engine rooms are waist deep in rocket fuel,
and we're being attacked off the
starboard bow by a unidentified craft.
- No, of course not really. It's a drill.
We're pretending Starbug's
on fire and under attack.
And I'm pretending
to scramble, man. Goodnight.
Look, you've got 30 seconds to get out of bed
or I'm declaring you officially dead.
Good, then we can rest in peace.
Well, gentlemen, congratulations. Scrambling
in a Red Alert situation, a new record time -
1 hour, 17 minutes, 39 seconds.
Hey, not bad. And I bet we could get it down to 1:16 if we cut out that fourth round of toast.
You think I'm a petty-minded
who delights in enforcing
because he gets some sort
of perverse pleasure out of it,
and in many ways
you're absolutely damn right,
but that doesn't alter the fact that the
only way we're going to track down Red Dwarf
and get through this in one piece is
with a sense of discipline, a sense of purpose,
and wherever possible,
a sensible haircut.
- I'm going back to bed.
- Would it harm you to have hair like mine?
I have got hair like yours...
just not on my head.
Well, I'm no stranger to the land of scoff.
Perhaps you would like to explain to me,
why it is that every major battle in history
has been won by the side
with the shortest haircuts.
- Oh, surely not, sir.
- Think about it. Why did the US Cavalry beat the Indian Nation?
Short back and sides versus girly hippy locks.
The Cavaliers and the Roundheads -
one-nil to the pudding basins.
Vietnam, crew-cuts both sides -
Oh, for a really world-class psychiatrist.
Check your screens. I'm getting something
up my left nostril and it's coming in fast.
Scans are all negative, sir. At the risk
of challenging your olfactory excellence,
perhaps a re-smelling is in order.
I'm telling you bud, my
nostril hairs are shimmying
faster than a grass skirt on a
fat Hawaiian hula-hoop champion.
- There's something out there.
- Scan's still dry.
I'm invoking Space Corp Directive 68250.
68250? But, sir, surely that's impossible
without at least one live chicken and a rabbi.
- Forget it. Forget I was ever born.
- Sir, I'm very happy to perform the ceremony,
but I'm absolutely bewildered as to how sacrificing
poultry might clear up the screen problem.
Wait a minute. Getting something.
Major power surge off the port bow.
Some kind of vessel. It appears to be uncloaking.
He's too damn close!
That power surge'll toss us around
like we're a bead of sweat in an
aerobics teacher's buttock cleavage.
- Hang on. Here it comes.
- Damage report?
Navicomp's down, slight rupture in fuel pipe 9
and somehow the pilot's headset's got jammed
on the Country and Western Channel.
Second wave coming!
What's he thinking of,
warping that close to another vessel? Damn space hog!
My god, that's a Space Corp
external enforcement vehicle.
- The space filth.
A computer-controlled enforcement probe.
It's scanning us now.
- (COMPUTER) Property Corps Space removing and
equipment Corps Space damaging,
ships Corps Space of series a looting
with charged formerly are you.
The materialization must
have scrambled its voice unit.
It's making about as much sense
as a Japanese VCR instruction manual.
- Plead you do how?
- It's in reverse. "How do you plead?"
- How do we plead to what?
- It's charging us with looting Space Corps derelicts.
But we don't loot Space Corps derelicts.
We just hack our way in and swipe what we need.
Lister, if this goes to trial,
I demand separate lawyers.
What's the penalty for this? 'Cause if it means outfits
with arrows on, I'm committing suicide.
Er, no, sir. It means wearing outfits with wings
and haloes on, sir. The penalty is execution.
- Why so harsh?
- It's frontier law, sir.
We're the deep space equivalent of horse rustlers.
Severe sentencing is the only way
to maintain order. Don't expect it to show us any mercy.
- What do we do?
- Let's face it, sir, we're as guilty
as the man behind the grassy knoll.
- Yeah, but if we admit it, it'll blow us out of the stars.
Suggest I take the rap for everyone, sir. You can say that I held
you hostage and forced you at gunpoint to do my evil bidding.
- For God's sake, Kryten, we can't let you do that!
Dream on, metal trash. Get your hands
in the air and step into that searchlight.
- Minute one have you.
- No choices then. We leg it. Plot a course for scarper city.
Sir, a Class A Enforcement Orb can easily outrun us.
Kryten, the Eastbourne Zimmer frame
relay team can easily outrun us.
It's not about speed.
It's about wit, brains and cunning.
- Hmm, I was praying it wouldn't come to that, sir.
- Take a look at your screens.
We're seven klicks away from the Gelf Zone.
It wouldn't follow us in there in a gazillion years.
No, because Gelfs are untrustworthy scavengers
with no regard for life, law or property.
- Right, so we'll be safe.
- Lister, you've heard the stories.
They skin human beings alive
and turn them into beanbags.
Unless you want a triple-buttocked Gelf
sitting on your face for the rest of eternity,
probing your crevices for lost forks and biros,
I suggest you rethink.
It's the lesser of two evils, sir. In the absence
of a sane plan, I suggest we go with Mr Lister's.
Seconds 20 in firing commence will I,
reply a of absence in.
- Roughly translated, hit the reheat.
- You don't have to tell me twice...
Cat, hit the reheat!
Sorry, bud. Looks like you DO have to tell me twice.
Firing commence will I or halt!
- In which case, Bony-butts our move let's!
- Close comms.
- Comms closed.
- Gelf zone six clicks and closing.
- Weapon lock registered. Pulse missile launched.
- Impact in ten seconds.
- That's it. We're platform shoes, man.
- Firing chaff. Firing flares.
- Brace for impact.
- Missed us!
- Warning shot across the bow.
- Won't be so fortunate next time.
- Four clicks to Gelf Zone.
- Another lock, this time it won't be a warning shot.
- Incoming pulse fire.
- Decoys launched.
- It's not going to be enough! Six seconds to impact!
- We've gotta try and shake 'em off!
We've lost it.
Sorry, I was looking at the wrong panel.
It's bad, bud. Looks like Starbug's been hit.
- Details, halibut breath!
- Well, according to the damage report machine,
there are several small fires in the cockpit,
lots of smoke and the navicomp's fizzing.
Now the damage report machine's exploded.
- Another lock on!
- This one's to finish us off.
- How far to the Gelf Zone?
- Click and a half.
We've lost three fuel tanks,
there's barely enough left to get us stable!
Wait! I'm picking
Got it. Putting it on visual.
Look at the size of that thing. It must be a mile across.
A Gelf icon, carved out of a solid rock.
It's some kind of warning beacon.
- Hey, incoming message.
- (GRUFF VOICE) Kar nasa pinit.
- Wah twah morah!
- Running it through the translator.
This is Gelf space. Death to the strangers.
- Pulse missile launch. Impact in 12 seconds and counting.
- Cat, head for the eye socket.
- The eye socket?
- There's no way through it's a dead end!
- Just do it!
- Eight seconds.
- We're heading for solid rock.
- Three seconds... two... one.
- 80% of the manoeuvring thrusters are out.
- The infra-red reports 55 separate fires.
Sprinkler systems are down on
all three decks of the engine room.
There's no way to put it out. As
soon as it hits the fuel tanks, we'll blow.
Wait a minute! Gelf moon bearing 356 by 121.
It's got an ocean. Can you get us there?
Does mouse shit roll? I'll get you there, bud.
Look at it.
All our possessions, all our valuables.
Between fire, flood and impact damage,
we've lost damn near everything.
Well, at least Mr Lister's guitar
Not even Mr Lister's guitar survived intact.
It's waist-high down there, but I
managed to get the pumps working again.
- Three hours and we'll be dry.
- Thrusters, boosters, reheat -
auto-repair can take care of everything, apart from
the oxy-generation unit which is totally kaputzki.
So you're saying we can take off but we can't breathe?
And we can't repair it?
It's a black and charred mess,
worse than one of Lister's drunken fry-ups.
Well, we're snookered...
unless we get out there and trade with the Gelfs.
- Trade? You can't be serious.
- Sir, it does appear to be our only option.
Give me the arrow. It could tell us a whole heck of a lot about what we're dealing with here.
- Yep. This came from a bow, all right.
Sorry. I was expecting
a get lot more than that.
As we anticipated, they are the Kinitawowi.
Good. I have studied the dialect.
- They are one of the friendlier "kinteteach" or tribes.
- Nice welcome!
No, sir. It is a great 'hano' or
honour to be greeted in this manner.
They would have killed us the instant we
landed if they had taken exception to us.
- That's a very good sign.
- What? It's a good sign they haven't killed us?
With the Kinitawowi,
not skinning you alive the moment they set
eyes on you is one of their warmest greetings.
We are indeed "han hasset" or blessed.
And, Kryten, you are indeed a "hachum babow",
or smart alec metal git.
I will tell them we are traders in search of an engine
part and that we have many rare treasures to trade.
nich niche histan kanoa nakoo bacoo.
Nuyer neeal dol dager.
Look. Look what we got.
We got Swiss watches. Nice watch.
Hey! A hat. Look at this.
Hey-hey-hey! Nice hat!
Hey! Cool dude!
Might I suggest caution, sir. Some Gelfs have
their sphincteral orifices in their faces.
Let's hope you haven't offended him.
Oh, no, he seems quite pleased.
We need an oxy-generation unit, savvy?
Ogigon bachoo machwahah.
Ah. Aleesa. Alees tada.
Cat, get the case, man.
(GRUNTS) Machu, aloo atu ba ba.
- It seems to be going well.
- (CAT) What is that thing?
It's an emohawk, sir. A polymorph
that's spayed at birth and half domesticated.
to change shape at its owner's behest.
Like all polymorphs it's an emotional leech.
It has the ability to steal emotions from living creatures.
Emotions are a highly valued
- (LISTER) The oxy-generation unit.
- Looks like they're ready to fix a price.
I thought we'd fixed a price with all the
bangles and baubles we've given them.
Oh no, sir. That was just for the honour
of entering their "watunga" or hut.
- The bartering proper begins now.
- Rah! Rec raht wig dic anatu pata.
- What? what, you want my hat?
- Ah nu dewka ana weg bah.
- My jacket? You want my jacket?
- No, sir. He doesn't want your jacket.
- Not my longjohns does, he?
- Not your longjohns either, sir.
- Well, what then?
- Ahg nu dewka ana weg bah.
Me? He wants me?
Yes, sir. He says, in exchange for the oxy-generation
unit, he wants you to be his daughter's mate.
(LISTER) That's his daughter?!
One of three.
Apparently, sir, she's the looker.
Tell him not if she was the last warty yeti
lookalike in the world and I was the only boy.
Come on, Lister. You've dated worse.
Only due to very poor disco lighting.
Ana beg ewitah ogigon nich kawal bah.
He says no wedding, no OG unit.
Panta anag ew. Panta wa ah.
He's giving us five 'hanaka' to decide.
- How Long's a 'hanaka'?
- Curiously enough, it's exactly the same as one Earth minute.
Five hanaka. That only gives us 28 hours!
OK, look. Let's get out our sheet music
and play the Real Waltz.
There's no way I'm going down to Moss Bros
for anyone who is less attractive than
my own armpit after 20 games of table tennis.
What about us? You're not
gonna hang all of us out to dry
just because, for some reason,
she doesn't hit your G-spot.
What about sacrifice? Putting your friends'
interests before your own selfish drives?
Rimmer, it would never work out. She's
obviously an Aries. And me and Aries? Forget it.
Sir, they are proud people
and they will not change their mind
unless you are prepared to stay here
and marry Hackhackhackachhachhachach.
That's her name?!
I could never settle down with anyone whose
name sounds like a footballer clearing his nose.
The plan is obvious, we do the trade,
you go through with the wedding,
when everybody's asleep,
we come back and rescue you.
- What do you say?
- Not a chance in hell!
Ana dok kaz, ana dok wah, hah.
Ana zun keh, zun keh atta.
- What's he saying?
- You may kiss the bride, sir.
What, without a bag?
Hey, don't be strangers, guys. See you soon.
Drop in any time... ANY TIME!
Hanibech yech, ogigon yech.
Well, darling... What a day.
I'm pooped. Straight to sleep for me.
(GROWLS) Nee bonnen nic partin.
Maybe in the morning. Goodnight.
You've been looking forward to this, haven't you?
You're not gonna take no for an answer, are you?
OK, just give me a couple of minutes. I want to slip
into something a little bit more comfortable - it's called Starbug.