by Kerrie Noor
Rebel without a Clue
By
Kerrie Noor
Book 1 in the Planet Hy Man series
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
Rebel without a Clue
First edition. February 05, 2017.
Copyright © 2016 Kerrie Noor.
Written by Kerrie Noor.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Meet the Gang
Planet Hy Man—Glossary
The Legend
Prologue—The Story
Chapter One—The Arrival
Chapter Two—The Mission
Chapter Three—Pete
Chapter Four—The Shed
Chapter Five—The Sidekick
Chapter Six—The Taxi Driver
Chapter Seven—Bunnie’s
Chapter Eight—Woody
Chapter Nine—Costa Coffee
Chapter Ten—Satin and Silk
Chapter Eleven—Beryl
Chapter Twelve—Leather
Chapter Thirteen—Bunnie’s Business
Chapter Fourteen—A Woman’s Best Friend
Chapter Fifteen—DJ
Chapter Sixteen—Control
Chapter Seventeen—The Connection
Chapter Eighteen—The Second Connection
Chapter Nineteen—Getting There
Chapter Twenty—The Limo
Chapter Twenty-One—Jimmie’s Arabic Tea Shop
Chapter Twenty-Two—The Cat Out of the Bag
Chapter Twenty-Three—The Tube
Chapter Twenty-Four—The Meeting
Chapter Twenty-Five—Dancing Queen with Spoons
Chapter Twenty-Six—The Exit
Chapter Twenty-Seven—Hilda Rules
Chapter Twenty-Eight—Which Way Did They Go?
Chapter Twenty-Nine—The Escort
Chapter Thirty—Abandoned
Chapter Thirty-One—The Second Landing
Chapter Thirty-Two—The Kitty
Chapter Thirty-Three—The Closure of the Shed
Chapter Thirty-Four—The Hangover
Chapter Thirty-Five—The Legion
Chapter Thirty-Six—Sheila’s Diner
Chapter Thirty-Seven—The Ol’ Fella
Chapter Thirty-Eight—The Lead
Hilda’s Epilogue
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Dedication
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Also By Kerrie Noor
About the Author
About the Publisher
Meet the Gang
LEGLESS: a man from Planet Hy Man who is past his prime. No one knows why he is called Legless, but he is a man elusive as a shadow, as well as the reason for the whole saga that you are about to read.
Beryl: a woman way past her prime. She is the leader of Planet Hy Man and has been since this whole saga began—and intends to remain so.
Mex: a woman from Planet Hy Man who is angry as she is courageous. She is of the age where a pension is within her grasp and smart enough to be planning for it.
Woody: a dwarf from Earth, unemployed but young enough to still have hope.
Vegas: a young ambitious woman from Planet Hy Man. She believes in many things but is logical enough to know when to ditch said beliefs.
Hilda: a woman from Planet Hy Man who has more ambition in her little finger than an American running for president. She is in her prime and will step on anyone who dares argue.
Pete: Mex’s robot—or android, as he likes to call it. Pete has plans and is smart enough to keep them well hidden.
Don: a cabbie from Glasgow with a soft spot for the character below . . .
Bunnie: a round woman who puts one in mind of Dawn French. She has a way with men, dogs, and lonely women. Except in times of stress, when she throws such “ways” to the wind for a more dominating/shouting approach.
DJ: a young DJ born in Glasgow. He is the same age as Woody and as tall as Woody is short. He is a man frustrated with his mentor, who is also the character below . . .
Archie: an Earthly pensioner who is old enough to know better and old enough not to care. His advice is ignored by many.
DBO: a teenager from Planet Hy Man. She is ignored by many, and she would like to change the status quo but is not sure how.
H2: a twenty-year-old woman from Planet Hy Man. She looks and acts much older than her years, which is probably the reason no one hangs around her.
Planet Hy Man—Glossary
VOTED INS: Planet Hy Man’s politicians. A contradiction in terms as they were never voted in. In the past, they were also known as the “Blue-Rinse Brigade,” when they were young enough for hair dye to make a difference.
Whip: also known as a flesh-cracker. In the past used by Man Spies to round up men like cattle during the great coup 1958, now worn like a peacock parading its virility.
Man Spy: women bred to act like men, who captured any free men to be “cared for” and/or “appropriately employed” for the greater benefit of the planet.
Manifesto the Great: the last man to rule Planet Hy Man, he wrote his memoirs while still ruling. In fact, he was so busy writing that he didn’t notice the great coup of 1958 until it was too late. His last few years were spent in exile, editing the Hy Man’s Geographic, a magazine no one had read for years, which is now mainly used for lighting fires when the price of energy goes up. It was also he who developed the early stances of the incognito pose.
Incognito Pose: a pose adopted by robots and the masses, helping them to blend into the background, or at least let those of great importance know that they are not worth noticing.
Teflon: a by-product of egg popping, and a material like no other. It is so flexible that a robot made of it will never age and finds yoga as easy as the mere blink of an eye.
Telespray/Telespraying: inspired by Planet Hy Man’s first truly scientific woman who had a crush on Star Trek’s Captain Kirk. She was an enthusiastic shower-maker who designed a power shower so strong it moved women from inside the shower to outside—she saw the potential.
For a while it was all the rage for the Voted In as they telesprayed from one shop to the next, frightening shop assistants until the shop assistants rebelled and started charging startle charges.
Cheese Pizza: a secret passion for many on Planet Hy Man. Once someone discovered how to make hemp pulp sort of taste like cheese, the pizza was revived, celebrated, and eaten whenever possible. Hemp pulp never, however, managed to work in cheese sauce.
Caffeine Blast: coffee on Planet Hy Man is for the elite and was introduced mainly to keep the Voted In awake during meetings.
Illegal Beverage: caffeine for the masses is as illegal as bootlegging was on Earth. Keeping the masses alert is greatly discouraged by those in charge; weak decaffeinated tea is all they are allowed.
Egg Popping: a recently accepted profession established by the first retired man spy. Eggs (also known as valuable real-estate) from a successful woman can earn her a tidy commission—which Mex was banking on to provide her with a better robot than the damnable Pete.
Contemplation of the Navel: a practice recognized by the robot-training board as an adequate way of make the passing of time productive, as well as cutting down on minding others’ business.
Arts and Stuff: anything gift-wrapped.
Limo Drivers: the last driver retired years ago and now mans the footman’s residents’ reception. He never remembers any names but he does a good toasted hemp pulp.
The Scent of an Identity: women who have a “longing” or a “something is missing” feeling are more susceptible to the scent than contented women. Men are comple
tely immune.
ESP-ing: the ability to communicate without speaking aloud; a form of mind reading. Outlawed on Planet Hy Man as it made bugging—a truly profitable pastime—pointless.
Messenger: an envelope-like device that usually contained orders of an unpopular nature.
H-Pad: looks like an iPad but has the ability to answer back and is not nearly as much fun.
Sparkly: sparkling water that tastes like champagne, costs a bomb, and can cause great clarity of thought or at least the illusion of it.
Strengtheners: like straighteners, but also work as a bugging device. For years, much was collected from what women said while straightening their hair, until it was discovered that what they talked about while grooming was pretty much the said grooming. Scientists are currently working on a handless set.
The Legend
“ONE DAY, LEGLESS WAS a legend that everyone talked about, and now, years later, no one can quite remember why.”
—a footman unknown and under the influence of a decent set of shoes
Prologue—The Story
1958
On a hot afternoon, while huddled behind a hedge, Legless caught a glimpse of a woman in an apron and fluffy slippers. She was bent over her basket of washing. Legless stared at her small behind pressing against her nylon skirt and lust filled his loins. Surprised, he decided to take action—an action that had not been spoken of for many years on his planet—and he had the woman’s rollers rattling beneath her scarf for at least two minutes.
Then he slipped away.
The woman stood up; she had felt something peculiar, but nothing too drastic. Nothing a little Epsom salts and a hair dryer wouldn’t cure.
Nine months later, an Identity was born.
That year, the sales of Epsom salts soared as women all over the world, bending over their washing, had their rollers rattled like a martini: shaken but not stirred . . .
OF COURSE, BERYL WAS watching; she watched everything. She had installed the latest mirror for just such a purpose, and it was money well spent. Beryl took a sip of her illegal beverage and smiled. Legless was the last man on Planet Hy Man to show any sign of gumption; now she had “done away with him.”
Well done, Your Sirness; well done, you!
Beryl knew Legless couldn’t resist Earth—it was so, well, earthy—and she knew that a man like Legless could not withstand the temptation of an “old-style female,” especially in an apron.
She poured another sparkling water, this time with extra ice. Yes, installing a two-way mirror was the height of intelligence. Not many knew about these mirrors, not even Legless, but he was easily persuaded to take one with him. Legless liked to look at himself, and he had no idea that a mirror on Earth allowed Planet Hy Man to watch, albeit with an imperfect view. Still, peering from the side pocket of a male hell-bent on getting his leg over was better than nothing—as long as you had the sound turned down.
Beryl looked at the enormous mirror she had retrieved for just such a purpose. It filled the wall and smacked of authority. She studied her face. It was a face built for power—long, lean, and with little ability to crack a smile. In fact, the nearest she ever got to a smile was a slight lift of the left side of her lip; not an attractive look for an Earth woman, but it worked wonders on Planet Hy Man.
The left side of her lip remained still as she thought about Legless. He was gone for good, no turning back.
Who needs a double-crossing man with ideas above his cycling shorts? He should have remembered who he was and, more importantly, who she was.
She pushed her beehive hair into shape. I would have sorted the energy problems—eventually. After all, a spark plug is but a mere few bolts . . . I was almost there.
And that’s what she told herself for the next fifty years . . .
Chapter One—The Arrival
50 YEARS LATER
“First impressions never last.” —Manifesto the Great, Hy Man’s Geographic, last edition
At half past one on a Saturday morning, Mex arrived in Glasgow. With a small bump, she landed in a bus shelter two feet away from Woody, a dwarf, who was peeing in the corner.
Woody stopped, staggered, and, like a sheep on ice, skidded to the floor. His backpack burst open and its contents scattered onto the pavement. He stared up at the vision before him. She towered over him, a giant, Gothic gran squeezed into a leather outfit even Catwoman would think twice about wearing.
Woody was scared, curious, and confused. Is she on the pull? He decided to lay off his mother’s antidepressants for a while, worried he was hallucinating.
Mex eyed him curiously. He was collapsed in the corner like a garbage bag, wearing a facial expression she had seen many times. She sighed and looked at the contents of his backpack spread out on the ground—a book, a pen, and a packet of Quavers. She picked up the Quavers and, after a good shake followed by a sniff, tossed the packet back on the ground and then lifted the book like it was a specimen jar to be examined.
“You read these?” she said, with no interest in the answer.
Woody gulped and silently watched as Mex slid his prized Terry Pratchett into her breast pocket and pull out a whip from her side belt.
Oh, Jesus.
The whip cracked itself around his waist and hoisted him up.
Mary Mother of God . . .
The whip twirled him around in the air and dropped him gently onto his feet—away from the piss.
“I’ll be good,” promised Woody. “I’ll go to church.”
The whip unwound from his waist and began to hover about Woody’s open fly like a rattlesnake ready to pounce.
Saint Christopher Columbus . . .
The tip of the whip hooked itself around the fly lever.
“Oh. Oh. Oooh. Arrrrrh!”
Then it zipped up his fly and, with a playful tap, led Woody from the bus shelter. Woody, confused by mixed sensations of fear and pleasure, stumbled away as Mex flicked the whip back into its holder.
Woody didn’t turn back once; he didn’t dare. Even when whoever she was began to yell about “latrines” and the like, he didn’t turn back. Fear pushed him forward, away from what, he had no idea, but he knew he wasn’t hallucinating. No matter how much dope he had had, she was real.
As Woody drew closer to home, he reduced his speed to a walk, and when he saw other people, he stopped, caught his breath, and let his heart slow to a quickstep. Everything’s the same, he told himself, everything is okay.
“Hey, Woody,” shouted Ahmad as Woody strode past the steamy windows of the Bangladesh Tandoori. “No pakora tonight?”
Woody didn’t hear. He was two doors from home and nothing was going to stop him from getting there—not even an oversized pakora and Ahmad’s famous spicy dip. His stomach was churning like a washing machine; in two minutes the battered sausage and chips he had eaten earlier would be on the pavement.
Woody stopped at the front door of his flat and stared at his knock if you dare door knocker. His hand strayed to his fly—it was wedged tight, welded like fingers held together with superglue, stuck so fast that he broke a nail trying to pull it open. Woody knew he would never be able to undo it again. He could waste a whole can of WD-40 on his fly and still it wouldn’t budge. He sighed; he was going to have to either spend the rest of his life walking around in camouflage trousers or get the scissors out.
How was he going to explain this to his mother?
THE VOTED IN ON PLANET Hy Man gasped; on-screen, Woody looked even more compact. They couldn’t take their eyes off him; it had been a long time since anyone on Planet Hy Man had seen a man of such caliber.
“Let’s track him,” said Vegas to the Voted Ins. No one argued. Watching Woody would sure make this ridiculous mission worthwhile. It might even add a bit of spice.
THE VOTED IN ARE A collection of women who spend their days arguing around the extra-large table in the “room with a view”—the room at the top of the Operations building where no one but the elite and some ancie
nt footmen are allowed.
Previously called the “Blue-Rinse Brigade,” they’re an assortment of women who are sixty-plus and like to think that they run things, that what they say and agree on enables Planet Hy Man to run smoothly. In truth, they do little but annoy Beryl, the leader, and clutter up any decision-making with useless arguments about cushions, pizza toppings, and how tired they are of the black tuxedo uniforms that all Voted Ins wear.
Although how that came to pass as law is anyone’s guess.
After the meeting, they gathered in the refreshment area. Vegas counted a full house—always the way when a new batch of illegal brew arrived. It was like Christmas . . .
At the end of the month, coffee, strong and illegal to the masses but enjoyed by the Voted In, arrived, filling the corridors of power with an aroma that had the Voted Ins’ noses twitching with excitement. From their office they would poke their noses out, sniffing like it was the first time caffeine had arrived. Sipping the illegal beverage in the lush surroundings of the room with a view made the tedious job of trying to appease the likes of Beryl worth it.
“This Woody,” said Vegas, pouring herself a second brew. “It is agreed he is worth the watching?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said one. “If we are going to have to watch reruns of this crazy mission, then Woody will make it bearable.”
“Oh, and more,” said another. “I mean, he has potential, don’t you think?”
Vegas whisked her dairy-free milk, wondering what potential they were talking about while the others chuckled around her.
A footman coughed as he stood at the doorway—he was an elderly man dressed in a footman’s uniform that hadn’t changed since the post began. It was tight and shiny; in fact, it was so tight that bending to tie a shoelace was done in private, just in case any ripping occurred. It was designed when watching BBC period dramas was all the rage to match the opulent room with a view—a room with an excessive amount of chandeliers and decor that made the Brighton Pavilion look like a bog-standard B&B. All had agreed that a footman poised for action like a poor man’s Napoleon Bonaparte would complement the décor.
