by Kerrie Noor
There were only four Teflon-ic robots made. After annoying the Voted In with their suggestion of better ways to make coffee and coordinate and budget the running of things, the other three disappeared with a “post more suitable for their creative nature” excuse. No more were made.
What would they do with him? Was the lack of an anniversary card a sign?
Pete polished the kitchen bench, watching and waiting for Herself to retire to bed. He watched her try to contact others with no success. Mex was looking for a way out and no one seemed to be available to help. Finally, after a decent amount of coffee, she left.
“I’m off,” she said, “to see Her Leadership; convince her what a terrible waste of funds this mission is.”
Pete stared out of the patio into the night. He tried to see the lights of the limo but it was impossible from that height. He strained his eyes until he convinced himself that she must have left, switched on the lift alert, and pulled out her log.
Maybe there’s a clue?
He flicked through the entries—three years ago . . . two years ago . . . one year . . . one month . . . finally . . .
It has been noted that the footmen’s inflexibility has become a problem and Pete could be used to increase this flexibility. His yoga for robots has not gone unnoticed and perhaps could be employed to enable the footmen to be more . . . agile, to help cope with bending and things.
Pete smiled. Not too bad an assignment. It meant a move to quarters unknown, but he could deal with that, take a few possessions, perhaps even Mex’s coffee maker.
Pete started to plan. What did he need—lubricant, mats, water bottles? He slipped Mex’s log back exactly as he found it, rolled out his bed onto the patio, and stared at the Milky Way. This may be the last time he would contemplate such a spectacle, but at least he had a place, a purpose. He was not for the big Teflon-ic meltdown just yet, and of course he had his collection of logs—his insurance policy.
BERYL’S BACK BEGAN to ache from squatting in a cupboard full of pads, pens, and staplers. She waited until the room with a view had emptied, then peeked out of the cupboard. There was no one but a footman quietly dozing. She edged the door open, skidded on some plastic wrapping, hit her head on the door yet again, and, stifling a “bollocks and bugger,” crept out. Her head was now thumping in tune with the throb in her back and she decided to head for the spa; it was the only place she could be alone to think and, with the help of a footman, remove unwanted staples from unwanted places—in private—along with making adjustments to her hairdo.
Beryl slid in the back way, slung her tuxedo onto the VIP seat, and headed into the steam bath, wrapped in a towel pulverized from hemp, which the spa insisted on using. It scratched at her neck.
Bollocks and pickled egg.
She had thought that Hilda was away sorting out the “refusal to harvest at night” rebellion. She thought she could slip the mission through the system before Hilda was back. But one of the Voted Ins had talked, and now Hilda, it seemed, was not at all pleased about the whole so-called Identities crisis. Beryl thrust her towel to the wind and edged herself into the bath—mindful of her beehive.
Bollocks, pickled egg, and beetroot.
“Feet, ma’am?” said a footman poised at the end of the bath.
“Not now,” muttered Beryl. “But could you survey my neck? I suspect there is something there that shouldn’t be.”
The footman, after a few flicks with a gloved hand, removed a splinter and went for a quiet doze on his feet while Beryl began to ponder her situation. To say that the Voted In lacked enthusiasm was an understatement, even with her latest speech and timely exit. Was she losing her grip? She reached for the glass as it plopped from the dispenser.
“Ice, ma’am?” said the dispenser.
“No.”
“Ice, ma’am?”
“No . . .”
“Ice?”
“Oh for pickle’s sake, no—I mean yes . . . I mean now.”
The glass filled with sparkling water as two ice cubes clinked on top. Beryl thought about her timing, the latest energy consumption, and her options, and she was in the middle of reminding herself of the said options when a plump square hand stretched out from the bubbles like the fin of a shark and grabbed the glass before Beryl had the chance.
Beryl sighed. She knew who it was; she would recognize that shovel of a hand anywhere. It belonged to a woman who after a binge on James Bond films had never been quite the same.
“You can keep it, Hilda,” she said. “I am not thirsty anyway.”
Hilda’s head emerged from the water, glistening and smooth like a seal until her short hair spiked up like a jackknife, giving her a more kookaburra look. “Just as well,” said Hilda.
“Why?”
“Because the cost of this mission is high.” Hilda drained her glass and with an aargh slammed it back onto the dispenser with a “no ice” command.
Beryl sighed.
“Vegas has kept me in the loop,” said Hilda. With a glance at the empty glass, she snapped “now” and the glass began to bubble with water, finishing with the plop of a lemon slice. Hilda made herself comfortable. Beryl pulled her knees into her chest. Beryl watched Hilda slide the lemon between her lips and wondered how she got in past the footman but didn’t have the heart to ask. Hilda gloating was not easy to bear.
“The Voted In are not happy,” said Hilda, toying with her glass.
“When are they?” said Beryl.
“If you don’t make cuts,” said Hilda, “then this whole thing could blow up in the proverbial.”
The footman opened his eyes and shut them again. Hilda with wet hair was not something you wanted to look at for too long.
“Who are you to tell me?” said Beryl.
“I am the Voted In. I speak for them, and they are not happy.”
“As I said, when are they?”
Hilda eyed her opponent with an irritating smile. “Have you forgotten that you need their signature?”
Beryl stared at the relaxing aquarium planted into the wall. It didn’t help and neither did the panpipe music; in fact, it was now irritating, almost on par with Hilda herself. “As I said, Earth is a threat of huge proportion—”
Hilda held up her hand, cutting Beryl short, and suggested—or rather implied—and, when Beryl still didn’t want to listen, left an ultimatum: “This is your budget,” she said. “No mission will be signed off on if the cost is higher than this figure . . .”
Beryl looked at the aquarium. Above it was a screen, which occasionally flashed headlines; fanfares trumpeted the arrival of such headlines to jolt those relaxing in the spar into some sort of panic attack—except for Beryl, who had devised the whole scheme. The new budget flashed across the scene as a fanfare of epic proportion filled the room, startling a blowfish into a frenzy of gulping and a sea horse into a mania of circling.
Beryl stared at the number; it wasn’t even three figures.
“A mission on that? Impossible.”
“Not if one goes secondhand,” said Hilda, deepening her smile, “and thinks out of the box.”
Hilda and Beryl argued back and forth like sisters over the last biscuit, Hilda punching the water with force; she talked of charging batteries and even using Earth equipment. Beryl’s beehive began to flop. Hilda was taking this whole thinking-out-of-the-box thing too far. Earth equipment—what next? She had just spent the previous night convincing Mex, a woman on the verge of retirement, that traveling to Earth at her age was good for her future, her morale, and her hormones and was a safe bet. What was Mex going to say to the idea of using Earth’s equipment?
“It’s this or nothing,” said Hilda. “The Voted In are no longer scared of you.”
Beryl had no choice; she watched as Hilda rose from the bath white and wobbly. It had been a long time since she thought out of the box, but she was sure she could remember how, and she had an idea of where to start.
THAT NIGHT, AFTER A decent dry and rub from t
he blow-dry chair, Beryl made her way to the basement. She walked past the buggered equipment shelf, the you’re having a laugh equipment display, and the when men ruined the planet sections, all on show to warn anyone—or at least those who could afford the ticket price—of past mistakes.
She entered the recycling area, scouring through shelves of old phones the size of an encyclopedia and cameras now made obsolete by the H-Pad. And the C-Pad, which preceded the H-Pad. The C-pad was designed by a frustrated industrialist who had more than a grudge against women. It was not only ugly but as difficult to open as a tin of corned beef. The same corned beef that led many to vegetarianism.
Beryl picked up a C-Pad and smiled as she remembered past heroic days of great decision-making. If Hilda thought she could get the better of her, she had another thing coming. I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve, Beryl thought. Then she spied what she was looking for—the very first H-Pad, unused and still with its self-destruct button intact.
It was designed like the 33 Robot with a similar “treat me with respect or I’m out of here” gene, which along with their large size had made them unpopular. As well as being too big for a handbag, they didn’t take to shouting. Beryl told herself this could be a good thing.
She turned it about in her hand. It wasn’t that big. In fact, in the dark and at a distance it looked almost like the later models except for the battery compartment, which, with any luck, Mex wouldn’t notice until she was in situ.
Beryl stared ahead. Mex was a stickler for the truth; convincing her that the planet was under threat from the Identities and their women had been even harder than persuading the penny-pinching Voted In. She had planned to tell Mex the truth when Mex had adjusted to Earth and retreat, let alone communication, was restricted. Mex could not keep anything from Pete, who loved to practice yoga with Hilda’s robot.
Beryl dropped the H-Pad into her extra-large carrier bag, and slung it under her arm. Mex needed a sidekick, someone who had no choice but to follow orders, preferably with an understanding of out-of-date technology, and who was unmoved by the ranting of a know-it-all redundant man spy. Beryl knew exactly who’d fit the bill, and he didn’t cost a penny.
She smiled to herself—her first thinking-out-of-the-box moment in years. Pete on Earth was the perfect choice. He would know exactly what to do when she told Mex that Planet Hy Man’s energy was on its last legs, and it was all thanks to a stupid decision the great and esteemed leader had made years ago.
Chapter Four—The Shed
“TO FIND A ROOM FOR one’s thoughts is as important as finding room for one’s shoes.” —Pete’s log
Back in the fifties, when Beryl was young and just another Voted In working her way up, men were the only source of energy. No longer needed for breeding, they were enslaved in gyms under the city, where they completed eight-hour shifts of spinning on stationary bikes, rowing on stationary rowing machines, or walking, for the less able, around the room.
Beryl, who everyone knew to be a no-nonsense, tell-it-like-it-is sort of woman, had been assigned to “sort out any rumblings” that may occur in the gym. So, when the “cannae cycle on bread alone” campaign took hold, Beryl was there to silence any rebellion.
Beryl marched to the basement and came across a sea of men in Lycra spinning their hearts out on stationery bikes like cyclists at a Tour de France with no sign of any rumblings . . .
“Come on, lads, keep it up, four hours to pint time,” shouted Legless.
Beryl took one look at his pert butt in the air and her heart began to race. She wanted to wake up every morning to the view of his taut thighs peddling his gluteus off and, without even thinking, offered Legless a stationary with a view, glucose drinks, and Lycra that breathed.
Legless became her personal energy source. She woke every morning to his clenched buttocks working overtime for her coffee machine, her strengtheners, and her top-of-the-range create-your-own-log equipment. Until, that is, he and she came up with the idea of recyclable energy without a cycle.
“Alls you need are a few spark plugs,” he said, and Beryl wondered why she hadn’t thought of it.
Men were aging and not being replaced—new sources of energy were needed. Beryl took the idea to the Voted Ins and immediately got her promotion, her portrait in the council chambers, and the penthouse with a view. She now had the best seat at the meeting table, first read of all minutes, and the attention of everyone worth impressing. And she had every intention of sharing her success with Legless. She had plans to surprise him with a deluxe saddle on his stationary bike, along with ice for his glucose drinks and as much illegal beverage as he wanted. But Legless, damn it, wanted more. He wanted his name beside hers and to share her seat and privileges.
Legless—“full of himself” and angry—seduced the men into a revolt. He sucked them into a frenzy of demands until suddenly they, the men who were happy with a good back scrub and a pint at the end of the week, wanted “better conditions” and a change of uniform: “Lycra that moves, breathes, and doesn’t damage the goods,” shouted many.
Beryl snorted at the memory. As if anyone was interested in the safety of out-of-date goods.
“I helped her save the planet,” Legless shouted, poised on a running machine mid shift, and wrote his own warrant of exclusion. Legless was sent to Earth.
Why did he have to want so much? thought Beryl. He had a great view right near the patio, he could spin all day, watching the sun rise and set, with a ten-geared stationary—I mean who else had gears on their stationary? He was even allowed a break or two; after all, how much cycling does it take for a pair of strengtheners?
Beryl thought they were close; they dreamed the same dream. What a fool.
But what hurt the most was the hidden betrayal.
Beryl had kept instructions for spark-plug-making in the potting shed, just in case. Years later, with Legless lost somewhere in the wilds of Scotland and the last spark plug winding down, Beryl confidently trotted to her potting shed and rummaged under her hedge seedlings only to find nothing but a “you shag me and I’ll shag you” note—so typical of Legless.
Two months later, she still was no closer to a solution and time was running out; it all hinged on Mex and Pete, and neither had heard of a spark plug let alone how to make one. But they could find the whereabouts of Legless’s hiding place for it. Of course, Beryl did have a plan B; all good leaders had a plan B even if it was just an escape plan. But she didn’t want to think about that. She wanted to believe that plan A was the one and only plan and that Mex would, in the end, embrace her vision. Although embracing things was not Mex’s strongest talent.
HILDA LEFT THE SPA with great speed. So impatient was she to get to the next part of her plan that she rebuffed the footman’s offer of a pedicure, told the blow-dry chair to shove it, and flicked the hemp towel across her back, allowing other bits to drip-dry.
Still buttoning up her suit, she dashed into the security exit, ducking the view of the cameras in the corner. The shed was her next stop . . .
She took the old servants’ route, a route that many had forgotten. It involved navigating passages, crouching in a dumbwaiter, and running, still crouched, through a lean-to the height of a table. But for Hilda, a few minutes of crouching was a small price to pay for getting what she wanted.
It took her ten minutes to arrive at the shed, appearing from nowhere—a talent that made being in control that much easier.
The shed was where the masses aspired to be. It was the ultimate place to work for all those born the wrong side of the track, where free education taught you little apart from how great the Voted In were.
The shed was where the Operators collected information and, under the instruction of Beryl, filtered it for the Voted In and, after even more filtering, allowed it out to the masses.
Hilda, however, had taken to entering on a whim. Having worked in the shed years ago, it was easy for her, and surprising the Operators was an added bonus—like ducking the secu
rity cameras.
“All hands on deck—Mex is going down and without an H-Pad,” she said.
The shed, in silence, stared at Hilda. Without an H-Pad . . . what was she talking about?
“Beryl has gone to the basement,” said Hilda.
A few gasped.
“It seems she’s intent on some sort of recycling.” Hilda laughed. “I mean, what she will find there is anyone’s guess . . .”
“H-Pad, ma’am,” said a voice from the back.
“What? How?” Hilda stared into the dark. “Where did she get the okay for that sort of funding?”
“Second hand.”
“Second hand? I thought they were all destroyed,” said Hilda.
It was explained to Hilda that destruction, recycling, and dumping were pretty much all the same thing . . . Hilda looked on in disbelief as the “you never know when you might need it” theory was explained.
“Even my gran didn’t believe in that,” said Hilda.
BERYL, UNAWARE OF HILDA’S visit, decided to take the H-Pad to the shed for advice. She did think about ordering the limo but decided secrecy was the best—everyone knew limos were bugged. One of her own ideas, which now it seemed had backfired.
Beryl took the stairs down to the ground floor and headed through the kitchens, which had two footmen standing at the rear and automated arms chopping, slicing, and blending on various benches. Two elderly women oversaw everything, which involved cracking jokes, forcing the footmen to taste the new recipes, and ordering the apprentices about.
It was the kitchen of new cuisine, where plant food was manipulated into meat-like objects as convincing as Hilda’s sympathetic smile.
“Where’s that Lila now?” shouted the dark old lady.
The other pointed to the doorway where a sorry-looking young girl was plucking thin whispers of hairs from an herb for a stew.
