Rebel Without A Mask

Chapter 5

Pete and Woody were in the newly erected state-of-the-art shed when they heard the news.

Mex walked in, tossed her Nokia across the bench, and pulled up a seat with a “figurines—what next?”

Pete and Woody looked up from their plans in mild irritation. Mex had a habit of walking in unannounced.

Once Beryl had made contact with H2, care of Alice, her arse had been left high and dry out the preverbal window—no longer required.

Retired and slightly bored, her sized-down Earth whip ceremonially taken from her, Mex felt as useful as a toothpick with dentures. She had little to do but listen in on H2 and her meetings with her newly acquired pseudo Nokia—the first and only replica of Woody’s.

Woody’s Nokia flashed red, then beeped several times; then, with an automated “not . . . not . . . not again,” it died.

Mex’s followed.

“I told you not to bring that in here,” said Woody. “Now I’ll have to charge them both up again, and God knows how long that will take this time.”

thisMex pulled a face.

The Techno Twins, as she called Woody and Pete, were as close as Siamese twins—which, as DBO pointed out, was Woody’s way of dealing with admiration, women oohing and aahing at him.

“Woody feels safe with Pete,” said DBO, which Mex found as understandable as Beryl and Legless’s relationship.

Woody got about in hooded cloaks, while Pete—still dressed as a woman—had a stall on the market selling the odd girlie outfit, which for some reason many robots took to, especially the aprons, wigs, and lipstick.

Pete’s stall was so busy he employed other robots to help. Some even dressed like him: pointy bra, red lipstick, and a fifties-style wig (color optional).

And it was the running of things that had changed them; just like Beryl, they were full of themselves and way too busy for the likes of a retired man spy.

She huffed.

Give a man a shed, a bit of praise, enough knowledge to hang himself, and the next thing you know, he’s acting like he’s saving the pickling planet.

“It’s not my fault,” she said.

“I told you before, they are not compatible.”

Mex pulled a face.

“It’s the atmosphere,” said Woody. “Plays havoc with the Earth bits.”

“Earth bits,” said Mex. “Hardly scientific.”

Earth bits“You have a better name?” said Pete.

Woody set the two Nokias down to charge, his on the bench and, with a pointed look at Mex, the other outside.

Planet Hy Man’s atmosphere had turned Woody’s Earth Nokia into an all-singing, all-dancing device so advanced it made the H-Pad 11 seem as impressive as a toilet roll holder.

Everyone wanted one. In fact, so much in demand was a “Woody Nokia” that a project was set up, headed by Woody and Pete. Funded with the “sky’s the limit” budget, they rebuilt the charred remains of the Operators’ shed and came up with a prototype for Mex to “test run.”

They had free rein of any tools they could lay their hands on and access to everything, including firsthand information from the Operators in the Building of Opulence, who watched, recorded, and reported all, including Earth.

Pete, connected by the same “comfortable as an old slipper” earpiece as H2’s, was as up-to-date as the BBC news; in fact, that’s what he was listening to when Mex walked in.

Woody turned Mex’s pseudo Nokia in his hands. “Maybe I should scrap yours and start again.”

Mex jumped up to object. “But my Nokia is my only connection . . . with . . . things.”

Pete looked up, hand on his earpiece. “There’s a virus on Earth.”

“Pfff, that place is full of them,” said Mex with a soft look at Woody.

Pete stopped, listened, then looked at his comrades . . . “A pandemic.”

“Earth is so dramatic,” said Mex.

“In Scotland?” Woody asked.

“Wouldn’t worry, just a storm in a whatever,” said Mex.

Pete looked at his pal. “They’re to wear masks.”

---

Alice and Vegas headed across the market to find a statue worker, which, according to Alice, was as easy as finding a young man. There had been no statues built since the fall of Hilda, and the statue workers had dispersed into various jobs.

They made their way in silence.

The market band was playing an ear-bashing polka, and some of the stall workers were clapping and cheering, others even dancing. In fact, if they were not on the lookout for a statue worker, Vegas would’ve joined in. She liked a good knees-up, and listening to a polka from the room with a view was hardly the same.

They passed the Voted In’s art stall in the middle of a miniature watercolor sale.

“Buy one get one free,” shouted Baby, a Voted In with a talent for screeching.

Vegas stopped, looked at the painting. Not bad for an ex–Voted In, she thought with a weak smile.

Not bad for an ex–Voted In, “We’re looking for the statue workers,” said Alice.

“What did you say?” yelled Baby.

“Statue workers?” shouted Alice.

“Yes, there are plenty more pictures,” said Baby.

“Not pictures—statue workers,” boomed Alice.

Vegas, rotating Baby’s picture for a

better angle, said nothing.

The band finished with a robust drumroll and round of applause. Vegas, sliding the painting back to Baby, cheered with the rest.

A sweeper robot appeared, sporting one of Pete’s best-selling aprons and blood red lipstick.

She stopped, her broom inches from Vegas’s feet. “You could try the road workers,” said the robot.

“You trying to be funny?” snapped Alice.

“I heard three joined last week . . . to help with the floating platforms.”

Vegas said nothing.

Mass production of “Hilda’s” floating platforms had been a joint decision, agreed to by all but Vegas. It was considered a cheaper, quicker way to sort out the whole potholes-in-the-road situation.

She had her doubts; she still had memories of Hilda on her platform.

The band began a new song.

“It’s a subdivision,” said the robot with a “don’t you know anything?” face.

Vegas looked at Alice. “Subdivision?”

“A division within a division,” said Alice she turned to the robot sweeper. “Where?”

“The emporium,” the robot said, gesturing with a painted fingernail. “It’s full of ’em.”

“I wouldn’t go in there,” said Baby. “That place is heaving with flying platforms, and those things are silent. You have no idea one is behind until wham—out for the count.”

whamThe robot nodded. “Those workers have as much idea of driving as your team has of roads.”

Vegas and Alice headed over to the emporium. Neither had been inside since it had changed to a training center.

They stopped at the front; it still looked like a*****e, except the doors were shut.

They wandered about, knocking, and when no one answered, they walked in.

The lobby was massive, with a high Victorian ceiling and one of the room with a view’s chandeliers in the middle. It was empty apart from a large circular fountain-type stand in the middle—covered, like the walls and floor, with scuff marks and dents.

A floating platform zoomed by Vegas’s head.

She ducked.

Alice chuckled, until she was clipped by another and cluttered to the ground.

---

Three statue workers were assigned to the Legless project.

It hadn’t taken much convincing.

Flying platform building was as basic as tying a shoelace. Getting their teeth into something more complex had them as excited as a bride on her wedding day—until they saw the plans.

A scrap of paper with a thumbnail sketch of a figurine. An afternoon’s work: hardly inspiring.

“For months we’ve been in this friggin’ place,” snapped the ambitious statue worker.

“I thought it was weeks,” said the statue worker many called Dozy.

“Assembling on a conveyor belt.”

“More design,” muttered Dozy.

“Way beneath our artistic talents.”

“We did install a brake system that doesn’t propel the driver across the room,” said the third statue worker.

“Ignored like a traffic sign, and now they want us to build a pickling figurine as big as a salt and pepper shaker,” said the ambitious statue worker.

“Bit bigger than a condiment set,” muttered Dozy.

“It’s an insult.”

“We’re not even allowed to test-run,” said Dozy.

The other two looked at her. “That’s just you,” said the ambitious statue worker.

“Oh.”

“Let’s show ’em what we’re made of,” said the ambitious statue worker.

Dozy, still staring at the plans, nodded.

While the third statue worker, infatuated with the ambitious statue worker, agreed with all her mind, body, and soul.

She, mulling over her morning caffeine, quickly drew up a design fit for a king, queen, and war hero combined, as large as Myanmar’s Buddhas and as dominating as Mongolia’s Genghis Khan statue.

With more recycling material than a McDonald’s bin, they set to hiding their work behind a tent.

Hilda, standing by her vibrator stall nearby, was the first to notice.