Rebel WIthout A Crew

2. Verruca

Chapter Two

Verruca

“Pickles is for swearing, not for eating.” —Cook

Hilda looked at her reflection. The hemp oil had had no effect on her puffy face. In fact, if anything, she looked worse; the whole side of her face was now like a balloon. She could hardly move her lips.

So much for a good night’s sleep.

Hilda dimmed the lights and wrapped a head scarf around her face, like a good old-fashion Earth terrorist.

She turned to Alice. “Switch on spy mode.”

“Ma’am,” said Alice.

“Let’s start with the kitchen,” said Hilda through swollen lips.

Alice projected an image of the kitchen onto a blank wall. Hilda poured herself some sparkly, pulled a straw from a drawer, and watched . . .

The dark lady who considered herself the head cook was casually leaning on her bench, eyeing Lilia. Lilia was on pot-scrubbing duty, and the dark lady was instructing Lilia like she had never cleaned one before. Lilia, attacking the bottom of a pot with a wire brush, hummed to herself. She’d had a great morning, and nothing the dark lady said could dull her mood.

“The Voted In are loving the cycling,” said Lilia.

The dark lady tutted. “You’re cleaning it all wrong.”

Lilia, with a hum, brushed hair from her eyes. “I made scones for them,” she said.

Hilda jolted in her chair. Scones? she thought. Since when are scones appropriate in the basement?

“Yes, they love them,” said Lilia. “Gobbled them up—no complaints.”

The dark lady choked on her tea. “They gobbled up your scones?”

“They even paid extra for hemp butter,” said Lilia.

“Pay?” yelled Hilda.

The two cooks stopped. Where did that voice come from?

Hilda threw a look at Alice. “Use the silencer,” she mouthed.

“Ma’am,” said Alice, “the silencer has been affected by the shed explosion.”

“Great pickling egg,” shouted Hilda.

The two cooks stopped.

“We are on spy lock-down,” said Alice.

“Spy lock-down! How can I spy when there is a pickling lock-down?”

The two cooks looked at each other.

“Who’s that?” hissed Lilia.

The dark lady looked about the kitchen. There was no one, not even a mechanical mouse.

Hilda waved a “switch it off” to Alice . . .

Alice tried to explain that switching off was not an instant thing. “Spy lock-down,” she said, “caused stalling . . . it will take time, ma’am.”

“Time,” snapped Hilda. “I have no time for time. Switch to the cleaners.”

“Cleaners?” muttered the dark lady.

Lilia looked at the dark lady. “Thought that was me.”

Hilda nodded a “switch quickly” look at Alice.

There was a rustling of noise as channels were changed; a loud piercing squeal filtered into the kitchen and Hilda’s bedroom. Hilda cupped her ears as the dark lady swore, while Lilia carried on cleaning.

“That’ll be the spy lock-down,” said Lilia over a loud scraping.

“And that’ll be you through to the other end if you keep that up,” snapped the dark lady.

Hilda focused on her wall as an image of Cleaner One and Cleaner Two slowly appeared. They were casually standing outside the barracks, talking about the Voted In’s lack of gratitude.

“That’s the seaside resort up and running, and do they care? Aren’t they interested?” said Cleaner One.

“No appreciation,” muttered Cleaner Two.

“‘Rather have a hoover robot suck my nose,’ said one of ’em.”

“As if they know what a hoover is,” said Cleaner Two.

“‘Teeth clamped together and eat through a straw,’ said that so-called Baby,” snapped Cleaner One.

“Bit rich. Many would give their eyeteeth for a turn of the seaside. I know I would,” said Cleaner Two.

Cleaner One eyed her colleague. “Eyeteeth? Since when does a cleaner have any of those?”

“Well, if I had one, I would . . . gladly . . .”

Hilda sighed. “Is this what I pay these workers for?” she snapped. “To stand around idly chatting—”

Cleaner One stopped. “What was that?”

“Sounded like Hilda,” said Cleaner Two.

“Hilda?” said Cleaner One. “She’s unavailable, some say on holiday.”

“Holiday?” said Cleaner Two. “She’s as likely to take one of those as a Voted In is to say thank-you.”

“I heard her face is like hemp pulp,” said Cleaner One.

Hilda glanced at herself in a mirror. Hemp pulp?

“Or was it mashed pumpkin?”

“Hmmm,” said Cleaner Two. “Too late for hemp oil . . .”

Hilda, with a sigh, told Alice to switch off. Spying was pointless with the lock-down in progress. She huffed; she hadn’t banked on the Voted In liking the stationaries or designing bras from G strings. She thought they’d be begging for their room with a view back, working hard for brownie points.

“Just tell me one thing,” said Hilda to Alice. “How do they pay?”

“It is more bribe rather than pay, ma’am.”

“Impressive,” muttered Hilda. “Never thought they had it in them.” She moved to her patio doors and glanced out onto her minions below.

“Yes, ma’am. The control of the kitchen appliance is all in the peddle power of the Voted In, which they have used to their advantage—so to speak.”

“Hmmm,” muttered Hilda. She was bored. She couldn’t spy, couldn’t go out, couldn’t even sip her beverages without a straw.

Grrrrrrrr. The parcel moved.

She looked at it. She usually loved parcels, ripped them open in seconds even when she knew what was inside. But not this time; she had no idea what was inside or how it moved, and she couldn’t care less. She had as much interest in that parcel as she did in a footman.

What had happened to her? Was it the explosion? The bump?

“Would you like to open the parcel, Alice?” she said with a flat sigh.

Alice circled the room with excitement as her arms unfolded. “Certainly, ma’am.”

Everyone hated Alice, even Hilda. She was, thanks to a dysfunctional app, too eager to please, too grateful for attention, and always looking for a “well done.”

Now, thanks to Hilda’s face looking like the top of a pumpkin, Alice was the only robot she wanted. In fact, she found Alice’s gratitude reassuring in the midst of not knowing what to do and feeling like a fool. Alice circling the penthouse with a hemp duster while offering “hot drinks” cheered her. Besides, no one listened to Alice; even if she shouted from the Speech Balcony that “Hilda’s face was like a splattered hemp rissole,” no one would listen. Her face was safe in the hands of Alice.

Hilda turned back to her patio doors as Alice attacked the parcel with relish. A bird fluttered by, took one look at Hilda’s face, and crashed into the glass with a shriek.

Hilda, tight-lipped, pulled the curtains shut as Alice pulled what looked like a drill from the box and squealed with girlish glee.

A leaflet fluttered to the floor.

Hilda started, turned, and for a moment felt a small pulse of interest.

“Such decoration,” muttered Alice. She turned it in her hand. “And so flexible, and yet . . . firm.”

“All that work for something to screw things?” muttered Hilda.

“Ma’am,” said Alice, “it is not a drill.”

Hilda, with a “what is it then” on the tip of her tongue, spied the leaflet.

Hilda looked down at the instructions. She’d never see diagrams like this before, not with a woman smiling. She began to read. Soon she had forgotten all about her puffy face and her disguise as Alice discreetly left the room.

Verruca was outside preparing a bonfire when her robot, in siren mode, began to yell, “Warning, warning, map moving, map moving.”

Verruca glanced at the kitchen window to see her robot circling the table, arms flying, in complete panic mode—an unattractive quality of earlier models.

Verruca raced inside.

“I told you before, it is merely the wind moving the map.”

She stared at the map spread out on the table. It was moving around the table in a circular movement, with the area marked “Hilda’s Bedroom” lit up like a hot plate.

Hilda had taken the bait.

She messaged DBO. “Time has been bought. Use it well.”