I recently finished writing a new Red Dwarf Novel.
The question is "Does anybody Care?"
The title is Red Dwarf 2.5: The Lost Season
The story take place between season 2 and 3
and fills in all the gaps that were left by the Star Wars like scroll at the beginning of Season Three.
I half heartedly tried to contact Naylor Inc., but it seems that Red Dwarf has become so huge (World Wide) that anything new seems impossible to get published. OK now your thinking "Oh great another piece of
Fan fiction that goes on for 93,000 words." Probably misspelled, unresearched, and an utter waste of time. It's true that quite a bit of fan fiction I've read comes off that way. But in my defense I have been writing for the last 15 years and had my own publishing company in the mid 90's until personal reasons caused me to close it.
So if anyone has a way of getting to Doug Naylor (Likesomeone who has had something Red Dwarf basedOKed and Published) Or anyone who wants MORE RED DWARF, please get in touch with me. I know the fans are loyal and would love something completly new, and yet farmiliar, to read. I know I would.
No Smegging way in hell
‘‘Get it right it this time.’’ Lister cursed the skutters called Pete, who was currently acting as the ship’s physician. Sitting on a hard plastic chair
in Red Dwarf’s Medi Bay, the last human being in the universe was having his
first gynological examination, and was less then thrilled with his attending physician.
Pete had been chosen above dozens of applicants from the one armed, three clawed, wheel based service robots which inhabit Red Dwarf and keep up it’s general appearance. Strangely enough they also keep a wide range of John Wayne memorabilia. Lister thought back to the days shortly after the crew returned from a parallel dimension. And how Pete had been chosen.
"Such a thing as choosing the right scutter," old A.J. assured the impregnated Lister during his much practiced speech, ‘‘for this kind of life threatening surgery.’’ He paused. "On a man." Another good pause. "To remove twins, cesarean no less, with the life of the last human being alive, in the universe, at stake." Well this was nothing for Lister to be worrying his preggo, not so little head over. Old Iron Balls would take care of everything, tickety-boo & lickety-split.
After about 4 weeks time the application forms were just about ready to be handed out to the scutters. They were all color coded and just a gnat’s wing from perfection when Lister insisted they get a move on,
something about needing a doctor before the twins were actually born.
In the end, the thing that clinched it for Rimmer, was the one quality that Pete the Scutter had above all the rest of the service droids. That was experience. Pete the Scutter had once assisted, three million years ago, in a minor piece of out patient surgery, compromising and dealing generally with the removal of an officer’s hang nail.
The operation wasn’t so big in itself, but the fact that it concerned an officer, made it seem unrealistically majestic to Rimmer. In his eye’s
the comparison was simple. What’s good enough for an officer must be damn well good enough for the lowest ranking member of the crew.
Actually, Rimmer had originally marked off Pete the Scutter from the list of applicants as overqualified, but when it came down to it Pete was the best candidate, so Rimmer reluctantly allowed the droid to take the position.
As Pete currently attempted to find a vein, and draw blood from the now three month pregnant Lister, and missing. . "Owwwww! Me arm. That’s the third time!’’ Lister growled "No smegging way in hell.”
"Come now Listy, old Pete here has come a long way. You’d have to admit that. If you’ll care to remember that rather unfortunate eye incident" Rimmer sneered.
"That’s easy for you to say Rimmer!" Lister shouted. “You got no soul have you man? You can’t feel pain, being a hologram. Me, I’ve been pricked so many times I feel like a thick ankled contestant in a miss lovely legs competition. And shooting for the gold cup at that"
"Calm down. Calm down. You don’t want to get hysterical in your condition" Rimmer said in the voice he saved for children and the permanently baffled. He seemed to be saying this more and more of late.
"Look, let’s take out the sheet music and play the real waltz. There’s
no way I’m letting one of those three clawed, mobile floor sweepscome within a mile of me hairy bits with a mind for action. Welding a scalpel no less! What am I the resident nutter."
"Well then who if not the skutters?” Brayed Rimmer, “Not the bloody Doctor himself, I’ll tell you that much at least me laddo. The first bit of action, any real blood and guts glory type of stuff and he’s running back to the Tardis with some piece of totty native girl in a leopard spotted nighty. Look you’ve got as less choice then a Welsh fish & chips shop."
"Your really really enjoying this aren’t you Rimmer.” He paused. “You smeg head."
“He’s right,” thought Lister, as he started looking for the vein himself. I got eight more months of blowing up like an inflatable beach ball and then, popping out twins. Yes twins.
Even though the Dwarf’s Medi Bay wasn’t set up with the kind of equipment to tell him this, he knew it for a fact. Or at least he hoped so. The other scenario involved Lister giving birth to only one child during this pregnancy. Then, somehow in the future getting impregnated again and deliver twins during that pregnancy. Lister wished he knew for sure, but was fairly confident, at this stage of the pregnancy, that two tiny lives were growing within him.
The photograph of the future echo and the experience of seeing himself shortly after giving birth during a future echo gave him a clue. Unfortunately he was still unsure. The mother to be did know one thing for certain. A skutter would never be able to perform the cesarian, which was obviously mandatory in his case.
Rimmer was going on about something that Lister was barely aware of, when Dave had what could only be described as a tingle. Now we know that Dave has had a tingle or two in his time, hell that’s what got him into this mess in the first place. But this was a different kind of tingle. This tingle took place in something wet, pink and moist and inside his head.
In the past he had done whatever was necessary to avoid paying any sort of attention to these sorts of tingles which, on occasion, had been known to go off in the brain of one said Dave Lister. Usually drinking huge sums of alcohol would take care of this rather precarious situation. It had to be large sums, if he didn’t drink enough the tingles had been known to get stronger. If the drinking was properly ensued in the end there would be no tingle at all in Dave Lister’s brain. Only a dehydrated based hangover.
This was a different kind of tingle though. Dave had been getting allot of strange brain tingles of late. The kind that nature goes out of its way to instill in you so you can’t ignore.
Mothering instincts for survival and the survival of it’s young, and the perpetuation of their species. The same instinct that causes mother alligators to forgo their loaner instinct and defend her babies to the death, born and unborn alike.
Mothering instincts that enable birds to build nests of great variation and in ingenious places without ever being taught. On Earth mothers instinctively know not to feed their children cinema hot dogs.
Mothering instincts for survival. The same kind of instincts that were developed over six million years ago when the first Homo erects was birthed on the grassy plains of the Serengeti.
Coming out of his deep thought Lister now realized that the buzzing sound was not coming out of the PA system, but of the mouth of his deceased bunkmate Arnold J. Rimmer, who was currently prattling on about some Reggie Hammond organ nonsense.
Lister roared at Rimmer like a lioness protecting her young and stormed out of the room. He had to think, and thinking was something that was best done alone. And usually a bit drunk.
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