by Kerrie Noor
“He’s a coffee addict,” said the second in command.
“Unemployed,” said another in command, but what level no one knew.
“His mother’s a hoot,” said the first in command.
“He goes to a Starbucks every day and writes,” piped up a small voice at the back.
Hilda held up her hands for the others to stop. “Follow that dwarf,” she shouted, “and keep me informed.” Which was code for don’t tell Beryl. And then she strode outside the shed like the captain of a ship heading into battle, ready for her second portion of stew.
Hilda had a thing for power dressing; from the day she left the Operators’ shed, she cut her hair and took to wearing extra-large suits rather than the trim-fitting tuxedo. She was a woman who advocated swimming in cold water and eating sauerkraut and beetroot, stating that if it was good for athletes of the north it was good for her. Her stride was on par with the Kremlin march.
Later, Hilda, still in striding mode, headed to the Voted In beverage room—the smell of pizza hit her and she smiled. Pizza was expensive and banned from meetings by Beryl.
“Wouldn’t it be a hoot,” said Hilda, “to follow Woody?”
A few of the Voted In dropped their pizza in mid bite.
“I mean, Woody is a bonus. He could be of help to us here, make our job that much easier.”
No one really got the “much easier” line. However, no one argued; watching Woody was better than any cappuccino or foot rub.
Two hours later, Beryl had called a meeting.
Chapter Eleven—Beryl
“GIVE WITH ONE HAND and tax with the other.” —Manifesto the Great, 1955
Beryl ordered, “Stop now,” and the screen flickered, crackled, then slid into a slit in the ceiling.
“Will that be all, Sirness?” said a soothing voice from the screen.
Beryl nodded as the Voted In wondered what was next. They had spent the afternoon watching the plight of Pete in a Starbucks disabled toilet while listening to Beryl talk about the futility of poor coordinates and the cost of mistakes. She even threw in her “serious threat to the planet’s invisibility speech.” It was a relentless experience, which no amount of coffee could make bearable.
“Shall we watch Woody again?” said a small voice from the back. “Maybe just the end bit where he climbs in . . .”
Beryl glared as the Voted In exchanged looks.
One of the footmen passed over the amended minutes in a messenger.
“Is this the fourth or fifth amendment?” Beryl asked as the messenger was passed around the table. No one answered. It was, after all, an appeal to cover the extra cost of Pete’s telespray balls-up. Each Voted In had to read the messenger before Beryl did, and if they amended it, they had to explain why. It was a process Hilda liked to skip and a process Beryl insisted upon.
The Voted In passed the messenger from one to another until it landed in front of Vegas. She pulled at the seal and looked about the table for help; a few shrugged. Vegas, frustrated, pulled at a corner with her teeth. Beryl nodded to a footman, who picked up the messenger and placed it into Beryl’s outstretched hand. Beryl lifted a nail file from her pocket.
“The reconstruction of Teflon-ic leather is expensive, especially when completed on another planet,” Beryl said with an expert twist of her file. “I mean, robots landing in bathroom stalls? Whatever next, fishing with whips?”
A few of the Voted In chuckled as Beryl swiftly manipulated the seal with an impressive command of her nail file; several blank sheets floated into the air; the Voted In stared—waiting for the minutes to appear.
“I mean, whose idea was it to telespray him into a coffee shop, for beetroot sake?” said Beryl.
No one said anything, as it was, after all, Hilda’s idea. And pleasing Hilda was safer than not.
“Look,” snapped Beryl. “Can you tell me if this is a setup? And if it is, we need to nip it in the . . . proverbial . . .”
Beryl waited for an answer, and when none came she tried another tact: “And what of this man of limited stature?”
“Woody,” said the voice from the back.
“Yes,” said Beryl.
“He is considered to be of service,” said Vegas.
“Oh, by whom?” said Beryl.
Silence.
“Can anyone tell me why, then?”
Still no answer.
“Well,” said Beryl. “This Woody is bad for morale—every time his name is mentioned you lot act like teenagers. What’s wrong with you?”
“Woody is the only thing decent about this whole saga.”
“He’s short.”
“And kind.”
“Don’t forget funny . . .”
“Exactly. Short, kind, and funny—how many times does that happen in one man?”
“And he knows a thing or two about flapjacks,” said the voice from the back.
“Everyone knows about flapjack.”
Beryl shouted over the rabble, “He seems to have an influence over Pete, probably reads his mind . . . which could cause trouble . . .”
“Thought that was just the Identities,” said Vegas.
Beryl sighed. She could be home on her silk sheets getting a little caffeine blast. Instead she was fighting on all fronts and Hilda was not even present. Ever since the story of Legless’s death had surfaced, the Voted In had lost interest—the Identities it seemed were no longer of any importance, let alone a threat. In fact, Beryl was sure the only reason they agreed to the mission was to free up Mex’s flat. Vegas had been spotted loitering around Mex’s balcony measuring things up like an undertaker.
Beryl did her best; she talked about how the Identities inspired by Star Trek and heavens know what else are to be not only watched but stopped at all cost. “I mean,” she said, “there is talk of the Identities building a spaceship, which could cause us grievous planetary harm . . . we must be vigilant.”
“Star Trek, Captain Kirk—they are as believable as a footman’s wig,” said Hilda, appearing in the doorway. The minutes, still suspended in the air unread, poofed into confetti and fluttered onto the table.
Hilda in her spy trench coat strutted into the room clutching her LEADER KNOWS BEST mug. She laughed (or snorted, as Beryl liked to call it). “You really are ridiculous, Beryl,” she said.
“The internet,” continued Beryl, “has opened a nest of hornets.”
The Voted In exchanged looks; no one spoke of the obvious, that the internet made their life easy. The microchip gave Operators access to phones, tablets, iPads, even surveillance cameras—in fact, anything microchipped Microsoft-ed or Apple-Mac-ed and even, if bored, a bit of Kindle. Watching Earth was as easy as opening the screen and shouting play. Who would want the good old days back, viewing Earth through mirrors—how rubbish was that? The lighting, the timing, looking at the world through toothpaste-splattered bathroom mirrors . . .
“I like the hornets’ nest,” shouted the voice from the back.
Everyone looked.
“I mean the internet.”
“Yes, well . . . the Identities talk of rediscovering their roots, and when they do, the hornets’ nest,” said Beryl with a glare at the back, “will be well and truly trampled.”
“A serious threat to the invisibility of Planet Hy Man,” yelled Hilda. “I find that hard to believe; they can’t even read a book let alone figure out how to search for their ‘roots.’ The idea that they would manage a mission is laughable.”
Hilda was so loud that even the footmen outside the Voted In room could hear, even the Operators in the shed out the back could hear.
“The Identities will be the end of us,” Beryl muttered, but nobody listened. She looked about the blank faces . . . It would have been easier to push a weasel through a cat flap than raise interest, let alone funds, for my mission.
Beryl, with a dispirited sigh, watched the confetti dissolve on the table. Some days she wondered whether it was all worth it.
HILDA STRETCHED O
UT on her bed, wrapped in her favorite black satin sleeping gown. It was a cool evening after a hot day, and she had the windows open with her silk curtains billowing.
She took a sip of the illegal beverage and looked at one of the many mirrors in her bedroom. Her lips tilted a little on the left as she adjusted her black robe; it was just like Beryl’s except newer, and silkier. Hilda couldn’t resist looking in a mirror. She had a leader’s face with a great Roman nose, worthy of at least one decent portrait hanging above the “chair gallery.”
Hilda let out one of her robust Russian groans.
I must keep an eye on every movement, keep control, convince the Voted In that Beryl is a threat as real as a footman’s inability to think, stand, and answer at the same time.
Hilda poured herself another coffee, this time with extra cream, and stared out the window onto her patio. It was a clear night and the Milky Way was on view. Hilda wondered: How long would it all take?
Chapter Twelve—Leather
“LEATHER IS AS LEATHER does.” —Anon, door of the shed
Mex sat on the bed. She was starving. She looked about the room. It was dark with seventies wallpaper she recognized from the sitcoms that she and Pete watched together, the sort of sitcoms that had Pete muttering mirth-like noises and Mex wondering why.
Her mood was not good, for not only was her stomach rumbling like a thunderstorm, but the Voted In had made a complete pickled egg of the arrival. They had sent Pete to some town she had never heard of, and before she could find out where, he was telesprayed again. And now, thanks to her bargain-basement equipment, she could no longer find his coordinates. Rather, she was expected to “lay low” and wait for him to contact her—a robot who got upset about an anniversary card.
Mex sighed, opened her backpack onto the candlewick bedspread, and pulled out her H-Pad. It was bleeping furiously; Beryl was waiting. Mex typed a message . . .
“Women are treated with great familiarity here. They wear clothes unbefitting of the weather and shoes of great height, allowing water in. Running is obviously not respected on Earth.”
She pressed second-class send. Her H-Pad had, on Earth, leaked energy like a tennis racket under a tap and Mex had to conserve as much as possible. She needed Pete here to recharge it—not an easy feat when she needed her H-Pad to find Pete.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her weapons of intuitions were shot. She felt nothing, smelt zero, and had as much idea of what to do as a footman. On Planet Hy Man, intuition pumped through Mex’s veins like air through a foot pump. Once Mex had the scent of someone, she could trace them from miles away. She was like a bloodhound, like a shark on the scent of bleeding seal—except she was a vegetarian.
On Planet Hy Man, Mex had a body that could heal in seconds, the heart of a woman that had never loved or wanted to, and the mother of all intuition. Mex had been designed, educated, and brought up to protect her mother planet. She was the ultimate spying machine, the best man spy ever.
Mex had spent a lifetime scouting for hidden men. At first it was a challenge. The men were young and virile; they hid in places that took days to find and, once found, put up a pretty decent fight. Back then Mex was young, the top of the pile, the pick of the litter, and she could source men that no one else could. And her reputation grew, so much so that the mere mention of her name had men surrendering from their sheds like something out of a western; except there were no guns—just herself, wielding her whip around like a circus lion tamer.
Of course, as the men grew older, their hiding places became obvious. Broom cupboards and abandoned cars, some even dressed as women—so predictable. Finally, the men stopped fighting and started handing themselves in for the plush footman jobs.
And it was all thanks to her.
Her future was looking good: resting on her famous reputation was the promise of a new, better life. She was “this close” to a pension of double figures and “even closer” to her penthouse on the seaside block with its patio and fragrant view and, thanks to her reputation, she could make a fortune egg popping. The eggs of someone like her were worth a fortune to the baby clinic.
Granted there were a few hiccups, but as long as she kept reminding those in power of how much the planet owed to the man spy fraternity . . . the fraternity wouldn’t be forgotten. But now, thanks to this pickled egg of a mission, her penthouse by the sea was as far away from her as Pete and his plugulator. And as for her reputation—it went down the tubes the day she left the planet for Earth, worthless as her eggs would soon be. And the fraternity—without her would they still keep up the pressure, keep the memory alive?
Her H-Pad began to bleep again; this time it was Pete. His face appeared on her screen with an unrecognizable look. She scrambled with the volume, shouted “Pete” several times, and watched as the picture faded away. If Mex knew what swearing was, she would have said a mouthful. Instead she tossed the H-Pad onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
MEX’S MIND RACED BACK to the week before, when she tried with all her might to argue against going down to Earth.
That night, after listening for what seemed like the hundredth time to stories of how good the food was “down there” from not only Pete but anyone else she asked, Mex could not take any more. She—after her nightcap—raced up to Beryl’s pad prepared with every argument under the Milky Way. And for a while Mex thought she had won Beryl over, had her reaching for the “retrieve a plan” button. Without interruption Beryl listened, nodded, and smiled until Mex had exhausted all arguments. Then Beryl closed her curtains, pushed a creamy macchiato Mex’s way, and told her the Story.
Beryl knew her prodigy like the back of an H-Pad. She knew that Mex would probably try something coercive like coming around with a nightcap, and she was ready.
“It was a hedge like no other,” said Beryl. “It was 1959, I remember it well . . .”
Mex held her breath. She could handle it . . .
Telling the Story was way worse than the watching of the Story, and telling the Story to a woman of intuition like Mex was on a par with a rollercoaster ride with vertigo. Mex’s imagination was in 3-D and long lasting. If she pictured it, she experienced it—not always a talent one would want.
“On a hot afternoon, while huddled behind a hedge, Legless caught a glimpse of a woman in an apron and fluffy slippers.”
Mex started to gag . . . it was just a matter of sentences.
“As she bent over her basket of washing, Legless stared at her small behind pressed against her nylon skirt and lust filled his loins.”
“Stop, stop—I will go, please, no more . . .”
Mex sighed. God, I am weak.
Three sentences, that was all it took, three, and not only was she shouting “stop, stop, I will go,” but vowing that she would “never look at another hedge again.” And what made it worse was goddamn Pete with his smug “I give you two paragraphs” comment; she didn’t even make it to the end of the first.
She heard a “Star Trek at your service” from the H-Pad and knew before she even looked that it was Pete using his hammy American accent. Pete waved at Mex. He had the glazed expression of happiness mixed with the discomfort of indigestion; his latte had gone down the wrong way.
He belched.
Pete had tucked into more cakes than a dieter on the rebound. Pete had eaten cakes like he had never eaten before, which he hadn’t. And as the sugar and caffeine hit his virgin system, he felt a surge of pleasure. Pete was on a high, something he had never heard of let alone felt.
He glanced across at the explosion of colored sugar before him, wondering what to try next. He tapped the cherry perched on top of the frosting. Do I lick or bite?
Woody lifted his Nokia from his pocket and was about to let his mum know he’d be late when Pete, with all thoughts of being incognito lost under a sea of sugar and caffeine, grabbed the phone. His vision was blurred, his hands were a little shaky, but he hadn’t seen one of these since . . . the gym days.
He
began to press things. Just wait till the others in the yoga class saw what he was tucking into.
Woody watched Pete click, push, flip, flatten, and fizzle the mobile as he tried to tune it in to Planet Hy Man frequency. Woody knew when to ask and when not to. And he also knew that Pete was as high as a jumbo jet and had no idea how to take a photograph.
“Oh, bugger and beetroot!”
“Here, let me,” said Woody.
THE VOTED IN SIGHED; they watched Woody direct Pete to the window to catch the light. They watched Woody maneuver Pete into the best position for a photo as Pete insisted on “getting the cakes in too.”
“Woody is the be-all and end-all,” said one Voted In as the others sighed.
WOODY HANDED THE PHONE back to Pete as Mex’s face appeared on the small screen, her face packed like a sardine against the sides, thanks to being a coordinate or two out.
“Pete’s log; Captain Kirk,” Pete said and then snorted at his own wit.
“Pete?”
“Yes sirree, ma’am.”
“We haven’t much time,” she said.
Pete let out another belch along with a “pardon me, ma’am.”
“Is that a coffee? Are you in a coffee shop?”
“Ma’am, it’s what is known around these parts as a skinny latté.”
“Quickly, Pete—your coordinates.”
“I am at a superb coffee establishment with a nicely compact young man by the name of Woody. He’s coming back to . . . reconvene with us.” Pete pointed the mobile at Woody; Woody gave an embarrassed wave.
“And me,” shouted the elderly lady now pursing the sandwiched.
“Coordinates, Pete,” she shouted as Pete’s face came in and out of focus. She gave her H-Pad a good bash on the wooden headboard. The H-Pad groaned and gave her a mouthful about headaches, communication, and the requirement of a clear head when communicating.
“We’re close by,” Pete sniggered. “Depending of course on what you call close.”