Rebel Without A Mask

Chapter 4

Beryl had just moved into the sheltered accommodation when shame struck her like a dose of heartburn. She felt guilty for her past treatment of Legless and, like any good ex-leader, decided the only way to make amends was to commission a statue.

Beryl, now in contact with H2, began a nagging campaign. Persuading H2, however, was another story.

H2, a socialist from her bog-standard haircut to her no-frills H-Pad, ruled with an “every woman’s equal” policy.

She created foot rubs for all, public holidays for robots, and a “dress-up day” to celebrate Verruca’s saving of the planet (a particularly painful day for Hilda when she rarely ventured out). She scaled down the room with a view, replacing portraits of past leaders with an “ideas board” and the gigantic meeting table with an “everyone has their say” meeting table—a table so small that those around it could smell what the others had for breakfast.

..She dismembered the chandeliers of the room with a view; placed one in the updated, extra-large “training for the masses” emporium; and doled out the rest in small pieces like medals to those who “gave their all.”

And, with her new, innovative “our policies are an open book” campaign, gave Deidre, Planet Hy Man’s top reporter, full access to everything—including what Beryl had been up to.

She was hardly the sort of leader to erect statues, especially on the orders of a past top-heavy regime. Beryl pulled her best bribes, and when that didn’t work, she appealed to H2’s better nature—and when that didn’t work, she nag-messaged.

that“Legless did discover the spark plug, saved the energy crisis . . .” she messaged a million times.

H2 raised her concerns at the daily meeting with her leadership team: Vegas, DBO, and Alice.

Alice, a ball of a robot, circled the room with a view like an extra-large super-charged snooker ball. “Socialism is a bit drab,” she said.

is“Perhaps something with a splash of color,” said Vegas.

H2 skulled her caffeine. She could see the Operators, the hippie colony, and the field-workers swallowing that argument.

The Operators were still a little miffed about H2’s “give everyone a second chance, including robots” policy, which the hippie colony embraced until they realized they weren’t included in it.

The Operators felt there were “some who had more chances than an alcoholic.”

Deloris’s column had included several inflammatory remarks—talk of the field-workers and hippies uniting, breaking away, flying their own flag—until DBO suggested they take over the planet’s “dress-up day.”

A deal was struck involving the Darth Vader outfits Verruca and Hilda had worn in their much-talked-about fight of the century.

Soon, fields were covered in scarecrows dressed in Star Wars outfits . . . and a day off was allocated for dancing around them with sticks covered in burnt tofu and wrestling.

Star WarsSome would say it was a piss take, but as H2 was a people pleaser to the core, she chose to see it as women having the freedom to express themselves.

The door creaked open, and H2’s footman shuffled in sporting his latest recycled-but-cozy leisure suit, now so old he was permanently bent in foot rub mode. He stopped at the caffeine corner, made to fill a cup, and stumbled.

DBO jumped up and, with an “I’ll get it” sigh, took him to his seat. “Ignore it,” she snapped, thrusting a mug under the footman’s nose.

“I’d run a mile from the whole statue thing,” said Pete. “It only leads to trouble.”

The footman inspected his mug with a sniff. “Unless, of course . . .” He looked up with his best poignant look. “You want to please the statue workers.”

“Ruling is not about pleasing,” said Vegas.

“They are at a loose end,” said DBO.

are“And there are still plenty of off cuts from the table,” said Alice.

The team shifted uncomfortably.

The coffee table project went down like a stink bomb. H2 had recycled the giant meeting table into coffee tables for the field-workers. The field-workers who sat by fires for their tea break took one look at the table perched in the mud and chopped it into kindling.

Vegas looked at H2 with mixed feelings.

Many would have blinged up their outfit once in power; not H2. She, grimly hanging on to her “woman of the women” beliefs, remained in her orange jumpsuit, despite Vegas expressing her doubts . . .

Vegas had seen leaders come and go as quickly as the unrolling of a toilet roll. “It was all about faith,” she said, “inspiration,” and an orange jumpsuit was hardly going to do that.

“You’ll need to do something,” said Alice. “That Beryl can nag like there’s no tomorrow; she’ll never give up.”

“That’s true,” muttered DBO.

“And it won’t take long for Hilda to hear,” said Alice.

The team looked at each other; the footman tutted. “I told you so,” he coughed.

“Yes, so you keep telling me,” snapped H2.

“I did warn about all this open book malarky—”

open book “I know.”

“—but would you listen?”

“All right,” hissed H2. “How was I to know Legless could cook?”

“And that Beryl could drive,” said Alice.

The room fell silent.

H2’s “open book” theory seemed like a good idea. If the masses knew how s**t Beryl’s life was, they’d realize how lucky they were . . .

But Deidre’s “What’s Eating Beryl?” column had the opposite effect. Everyone knew that meat was eaten on Earth, but Deidre’s exaggerated stories of Legless’s pasta and roasts had many drooling.

H2, in an attempt to “balance things out,” did commission a column about Quorn and Japanese tofu claiming that many Earth people didn’t eat meat and were “the better for it.” But how could she compete with pictures of Beryl wiping her chin after a particularly succulent chicken, or Legless producing his famed cheesy lasagna from the oven?

And Deidre’s recent “Driving Earth up the Wall” article didn’t help either.

It had the market stall workers so jealous they could spit. Despite Earth being full of men, Beryl seemed to have the sort of luxurious driving-about freedom they could only dream of. And as they trotted through the dry, hard soil every day to work, it grated on them like a pebble in their shoe.

H2 poured another caffeine and stirred.

“Easy on the cream,” muttered the footman.

Vegas looked at him. “Cream helps her think.” She turned to her hero. “What you need is something to inspire, uplift.”

“Thank you, Vegas.”

“Something that pulls us all together, and perhaps something more than a jumpsuit?”

“I’m not changing my jumpsuit,” snapped H2. “I told you before, utopia is equality.”

is“Vegas has a point, ma’am,” said Alice.

“And don’t call me ma’am.”

ma’am“The masses need something to look up to, aim for.”

“And don’t call them the masses.”

the masses“Perhaps a foot massage?” said the footman.

The others pulled faces.

He slid off his sock to reveal the sort of foot that would shock a podiatrist. He wiggled his toe. “Get the ol’ grey matter working.”

She sighed and nodded.

He handed her a mask and gloves as the team, apart from Alice, left the room.

Foot-rubbing also helped H2 think, and she could go through quite a few.

The elderly footman sighed. “How about a small figurine planted by the gates of the Courtyard of Greatness?”

“Figurine?” H2 muffled through her mask.

“A small statue, ma’am,” said Alice. “The size of a thumb.”

“I said . . . don’t call me ma’am.”

ma’am“Sold as a recycling idea to inspire and uplift . . . that all are equal, including men.”

The footman moaned.

“A surprise so intricate no one will see the details,” said Alice.

H2 said nothing.

“Perhaps you could press a little more to the right,” he said, “near my bunion?”