Rebel Without a Clue

by Kerrie Noor

  “Call the cleaner,” shouted a Voted In.

  H2, with great relish, watched as another explained that as it was sundown and not sunup, all the cleaners had gone home.

  Hilda shouted for someone to access the cleaners’ database, but no one listened, as the footman who was now getting into the swing of things began talking gibberish with his head tossing side to side, dribbling tea—an added touch.

  “Tea, as Legless would say, is for drinking, not for tossing,” muttered Harry, another footman. The other footmen began to snigger as H2 called for a collection of handkerchiefs. Beryl made her move . . .

  Harry, a man who in the past could muster a polish from just the tiniest bit of spit and tissue paper, rose to the occasion. He stumbled about the room collecting footmen’s lace handkerchiefs until a younger, more able footman took pity on him, allowing Harry to deflate like a soufflé. Harry was of the age when fumbling a lace handkerchief was beyond him.

  Beryl dashed in and made a grab for the master H-Pad (which controlled everything and didn’t need recharging). She pulled the connection from the H-Pad and slid it into her breast pocket . . .

  “Is that more blood?” shouted H2.

  Beryl slipped her fingers into the drawer under the table and grabbed the deluxe, digitally enhanced, high-frequency, and solar-powered plugulator.

  “It’s on the carpet,” continued H2.

  Beryl slid a few pens and pads into her bag (“for old times’ sake”), as well as the all-important extra-pocketed backpack. H2 threw her a “will you hurry” look as she, feeling a little desperate, continued to shout about blood and other bodily fluids. A few of the Voted In began to gag.

  “YOUR SIRNESS,” SAID Harry, clutching a few wet handkerchiefs. “Will that be all?”

  “Yes,” said Beryl, “and well done.”

  With a ceremonial twirl befitting his uniform, Harry saluted and made for a footman’s exit, followed by his “team.”

  “That’s loyalty,” said Beryl.

  “That’s the promise of a new uniform,” said H2.

  “A dime a dozen on Earth,” muttered Beryl.

  BERYL STOOD BEHIND the shed and stared at the H-Pad. She didn’t have much time. She had her backpack meticulously packed by H2, a B&B leaflet updated, and her now-purple hair teased extra high for power appeal.

  “Quickly,” said H2, but before she had time to flick a switch, Hilda’s voice boomed from the roof of the shed as she stood astride it like a superhero with a cape flapping in the wind.

  “New hairdo?” she shouted.

  Beryl continued to fumble with the exit button. How the pickled egg did she get up there?

  “Let me,” said Hilda, pulling her famous whip into the air. “After all, we need to send down the best, the most discreet, but of course all on a shoestring budget . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine—The Escort

  “AN ESCORT IS ONE OF many things and not always a car.” —Bunnie

  Bunnie, despite her facial expression, was enjoying the sudden turn in her life. For the first time in years, Bunnie missed her weekly Corrie and didn’t even care. How could Corrie possibly compete with an interplanetary transvestite of appalling taste, a wisecracking dwarf—origin unknown—and Mex’s beehive-wearing aunt whose idea of swearing involved a variety of pickles?

  Salads will never be the same again, thought Bunnie, who for once was blooming grateful.

  She stared into her fridge with visions of entertaining and smiled to herself. It’s just like in the good old pillow-talk days—intrigue, discomfort, and cheese for thinking . . .

  DJ listened to Bunnie’s bumblebee hum as she rummaged in the fridge. Was she the earthy type who liked stories and dancing? Or was she one of those women he had listened to on his plugulator? Not that he had a chance of finding out now. Pete had swiped the plugulator as soon as he could. Jimmie’s back door hadn’t even slammed behind them and Pete whipped the plugulator off DJ like a plaster from a cut with as much disregard of pain as a sadistic nurse. And before there was a chance to discuss an escape plan, before Don’s taxi was even thought of, let alone spraying puddles, Pete had adjusted his plugulator to sitting incognito in his breast pocket with microscopic earplugs pulled from somewhere secret. And then, as if to rub it in, Pete, with a smirk, adjusted the volume.

  DJ scowled. There he was walking around like an astronaut from a fifties film when he could have been walking around in style.

  “Give it to me,” he snapped and was just about to make a grab for it when Don rolled up, splashing Pete mid smirk.

  Don, sensing tension as they made their first lap of the long route to Bunnie’s, made a few jokey comments about “boys will be boys despite their dress sense,” rubbing both Pete and DJ the wrong way—neither thought they had anything but impeccable dress sense.

  “Technology’s a bastard,” Don added as he began his shorter route to Bunnie’s, followed by a wink in the rearview mirror directly at DJ . . . which went down like slashed tire. Don tilted his rearview mirror and wondered if the little man could be charmed . . .

  Don was, even by Identity standards, a strange man of contradictions. He was short, old, with a large bumpy nose and dark thick lips that everyone seemed to find attractive—bar DJ. Women looked at him as he sped up the road and cars pulled over to let him pass, and DJ had no idea why—were they seeing something he wasn’t?

  As Don sped up the motorway heading west, he overtook and cut off a coach, which slammed on the horn, overtook Don, and then, on seeing Don, slowed down and unwound his window with an “it’s yourself” comment, followed by Don tapping the side of his nose. The bus driver laughed with an “I get yer” and drove off . . .

  When they finally arrived at Bunnie’s, DJ watched the bowlegged taxi driver limp up the path with a speed that had both Woody and him breathlessly lagging behind. And Bunnie, a woman who from the look of her inner sanctum had taste, welcomed him. She cooed at his so-called banter, laughed at his so-called jokes, and ushered him about the place with more than a playful pat on his back—even slipping goodies into his pocket like some aunt with her favorite nephew. And DJ knew it wasn’t all for a free cab ride . . .

  It seemed Don was one of those rare breeds of men that had it in them to croon a woman, on par, it seemed, with an Identity.

  DJ looked around the empty inner sanctum; where was he? And why was he here? Could he leave, and if he could, did he want to?

  Maybe he should have left everything to the old cronies, allowed them to question and ESP Pete into submission, collect what there was to collect. Sure, they would have taken all the credit, glory, and whatever else was available—bragged like there was no tomorrow—put their names down in the stories of greats, like the great Legless . . .

  He stared at the corkboard full of female faces. He’d never hear the end of it; he would still be stuck on that small stage, doing small things, going nowhere while putting up with his mentor-bumming . . .

  He fiddled with the mouse of the computer. He could be onto something big—maybe even a lead to Legless, a first for many years. What would his mentor do? One thing for sure, his mentor wouldn’t be standing here like a kid ignored, waiting for something to happen.

  Then he noticed the bin full of male pictures.

  PETE, MINUS HIS DRESS coat, was admiring Bunnie’s collection of “no trimming required” plants in her glass porch and for a moment had the blissful picture of a life without hedges, while, Woody, feeling heroic, was already taking down notes. Never before had he braved the unknown, let alone saved an Android; he felt ten feet high.

  “They called me Tiny Tim,” he said.

  “What the gherkin is a Tiny Tim?” said Mex.

  “I don’t know, but we all laughed and then they started flicking kilts.”

  Pete lifted up the plant and wondered how much watering it took . . .

  “They toss kilts about like tissue paper,” said Woody. He looked at their blank faces. “I mean no one twirls a kilt abou
t their head and lives without a hernia—they’re heavier than a wet blanket.”

  “Brawn is not all it’s cracked up to be,” muttered Pete.

  “Brawn is what it is,” said Mex, pushing Izzie out the porch door. Izzie, having gorged on biscuits, was now, as Bunnie warned, having a repeat performance, and Mex was feeling sick from the smell. She left the door open. Izzie looked up at her and barked. “It has its place.”

  “‘Maybe you’re the rebel,’ they said and fell about laughing.” Woody chuckled. “Me the rebel, as if . . . then they started talking of expecting the unexpected as expected in the dressing room.”

  “What?” said Mex.

  “A rebel, coming for Legless?”

  “I never heard anything,” said Pete.

  “Or Legless is a rebel—they were very unclear,” said Woody.

  “That’s really helpful,” said Mex, pushing the dog out again.

  “Well, you try deciphering ESP conversations while camouflaging the listening with Terry Pratchett quotes and dodging flying kilts.” Woody looked at Mex. “See how much you can understand.”

  Mex said nothing as she shut the door on Izzie.

  “I mean, I didn’t ask to be here, I don’t have to stay. I’ve only been helping this here robot because he-she had no one else . . .”

  Izzie began to bark; Pete sighed and let her in. “ESP-ing on our planet has been outlawed for just that reason,” muttered Pete. “Blocking out an ESP takes weeks of training.”

  The truth was that it was the men who were nailing the ESP-ing on Planet Hy Man, so much so that women memorized the leader’s last greatest speech to block any reading until things were “under control”; for a while, men ESP-ing posed a serious threat.

  Mex looked at Woody, impressed that in minutes he had worked out how to block ESP-ing while dodging flying kilts; even a woman on Planet Hy Man would have struggled. With a blank face, Mex asked Woody to stay.

  DJ PULLED A PHOTO FROM the bin. It was of an elderly man wearing a carpet-like wig on his head—who was, according to the back of his photo, looking for a woman who loved to laugh in and out of bed—which, with a hairdo like his, thought DJ, wouldn’t be a hard thing to find.

  “Anyone for cheese?” shouted Bunnie with her head still in the fridge.

  DJ pulled out another photo of the same man, this time younger, with an explosion of facial hair and a smooth sunny skull—this time looking for friendship; a listener who also liked being listened to . . .

  “One of my best,” said Bunnie, who appeared from nowhere.

  DJ started.

  “Never a complaint.”

  “What? Oh? Yes . . .”

  “He took escorting to a new level altogether; his stories were to die for.”

  “Escort?”

  “Yes, now he wants to write it all down.”

  DJ looked questioningly at Bunnie holding a tray of cheese, biscuits, and grapes . . . it was an impressive selection, enough to tempt even a vegan.

  DJ, like Woody, was in his early twenties. He was as tall as Woody was small. He had a long straight nose and red freckles. Women could never work him out because he always looked relaxed while deep in thought about something amusing. He had such long legs that he had accustomed his walk to a slow amble to allow others to keep up. DJ, as many would say, “played his cards close to his chest” and “liked his own company.”

  “The stories are all about women,” said Bunnie, pulling the photo from him and placing it in a drawer.

  Mex, Woody, and Pete walked in. Izzie had refused to stay outside, making recouping impossible, and Izzie’s explosive gas clung to the air like a gas leak.

  Pete, being a robot of tidiness, began to help Bunnie, and as he picked up the photos a tingling overtook him—again. He looked at Her Leathership pushing Izzie away from Bunnie’s Cheese on a Tray exhibition. “Ma’am, are you feeling anything?”

  “Only when she gets my fingers instead of the biscuit,” said Mex.

  Pete sighed. “No, ma’am, I mean your sensors—are they not picking things up . . . clues?”

  Pete, ignoring Mex’s waffle about a warm breath, jumped; his plugulator was making alarm noises, along with Mex’s H-Pad.

  THE DASHBOARD OPERATOR had been under the stairs for hours. She was waiting to see how long it would be before anyone noticed she was gone, and when no one did, she stayed and rummaged. She pulled out boxes of old equipment and began to pull things apart, occasionally stopping to eavesdrop on the other Operators. She even managed to sneak out for a drink when the night shift dozed off, which was when she saw Hilda astride the shed roof like some caped crusader in black . . .

  Years ago, Vegas, under the instruction of Hilda, had “dropped a plant” in the shape of an old-fashioned remote in the shed. Every now and then, one of the Operators picked it up with a comment along the lines of “Remember the days when you had to point and press,” which would send the other Operators into hysterical giggling and praising of their new voice-operated technology.

  No one suspected the remote was bugged.

  When Hilda heard Beryl and H2’s conversation at the back of the shed, she was ecstatic, which for Hilda meant not shouting. Hilda was listening to replays of her radio interview with Deirdre at the time when the conversation between Beryl and H2 blurted out from the remote receiver.

  “The flathead won’t know what hit her,” laughed Beryl. “Who would suspect a footman or the likes of . . . what was your name again?”

  Hilda was prepared . . .

  “You must intercept Legless,” shouted Hilda, “and find the spark plug recipe.”

  Hilda let out a manic laugh followed by a piff-puff-poof leading to a telespray of epic proportions; Beryl and H2 disappeared under a cloud of smoke . . .

  Hilda landed on the ground with a thud, dusted herself off, and folded her cape into her arms.

  “Always wanted to do that,” she muttered and strode into the shed.

  DBO leaned back against the wall and caught her breath. What had happened to Beryl? Had the mad one done away with her? And if so, who should she tell—anyone or no one?

  Still holding her breath, she crept back the way she came, via the cleaner’s door.

  The possibility of Hilda in charge made her feel sick. The woman was loopy. Beryl was a bit frayed around the edges, but she didn’t dress like a comic-strip hero or laugh like a hyena; in fact, she didn’t laugh at all, which was, in light of what she just saw, probably a good sign.

  DBO leaned against the stair door. She could hear Hilda coughing for attention, which was more for effect, as the shed was already in silence.

  “Time for recess,” Hilda shouted.

  The Operators looked up, confused.

  “Recess?”

  “A break . . . a well-earned one.” Hilda attempted a smile.

  The Operators began to mutter . . .

  “What? Break? What is she on about?”

  “Drop everything,” said Hilda, “your Christmases have finally come; leave it all and come back when we have rebooted things.”

  The Operators continued to mutter as confusion set in.

  “Reboot? That went out with remotes and earplugs.”

  “Pay is suspended,” said Hilda.

  “What pay?”

  Oh, pickled egg, thought DBO, I know too much . . .

  Chapter Thirty—Abandoned

  “A LEGEND IS ONLY AS good as its believers.” —Legless

  After the cryptic message from Hilda, Mex and Pete tried to console each other that Hilda was a good leader. In truth, Mex had her doubts; she, like many, had watched Hilda with a sinking heart, and she had no idea that a takeover could happen so fast.

  Bunnie plonked her teapot on the table. “So she with the beehive has left the building—so to speak?”

  “Yes,” said Mex with a gulp of air, “presumably she is coming here.” Mex, having given up trying to turn Izzie outside, was now practicing breathing through her mouth when things got to
o bad, as suggested by Bunnie.

  “Does Beryl like cheese?” said Bunnie.

  No one answered.

  “I mean, there is plenty, and she might be able to give us more gen on this Legless fellow.”

  “Hope not,” said Mex. “She will just interfere and get in the way like she always does . . . we usually keep her occupied with spreadsheets.”

  “Ma’am,” said Pete, opening a window. “It is wise to prepare for the worst.”

  “Yes,” said Mex.

  “And to accommodate all foreseeable outcomes.”

  Mex sighed. “There is no need to continue on in that tone. We all know you have embraced a new lingo, as they say here.”

  “Lingo, ma’am, is more of an antipodean word; here it is just known as speech.”

  “Yes, well, just cut the speech and talk as you would if I wasn’t here. I can’t concentrate, what with you talking like a dictionary, Izzie gassing us out . . . and now Herself heading down here. I mean, what are we supposed to do? Search for Legless, go home, meet Herself—which I sincerely do not want to do—avoid her, beam her up? I mean, what sort of speech was that to give us—she left the planet, not sure where she’s going, but Earth’s a definite possibility? And what’s with the out and over . . .”

  “Over and out,” said Pete.

  “Since when do we say such a thing?”

  “Quite, ma’am.”

  Mex flashed Pete a look as Izzie began to bark.

  Hilda, accompanied by a trumpeting fanfare, had burst onto the H-Pad screen in an enlarged fashion, sporting a severe haircut and black tie. Hilda was short, sharp, but evasive rather than to the point, closing her message before any Q&A time was suggested. One of her keeping-control techniques, picked up from Beryl.

  DJ all but choked on his tea; he had no idea a woman could be so . . . dominating. Were the other women he had listened to like her? He was aware of woman’s rights, lesbians, transvestites, and all manner of things, but he had yet to meet a woman old enough to be his mother, dressed like a man, and at the same time seductive to the point that he couldn’t think of a word to think, let alone say. How could a woman like her spin his head so? She didn’t even smile, let alone laugh, and she certainly didn’t look the sort who would enjoy a good story or a rousing Strip the Willow. Yet she had DJ’s heart beating fast and furious, his mouth dry and speechless, and his disappointment plummeted to unknown depths when she disappeared.