The Parcel

A good footman always knows who to spread a secret to.

Today is the last of my free YouTube audiobooks, for now, It’s the third book in the series Planet Hy Man Series——-Rebel Without A Crew.

At the moment I don’t have plans to make any more audiobooks but when I do you will be the first to know.

I have also left a taster for you to read if YouTube is not your scene.

Prologue

Hilda woke up to a tentative knock on her door and a throbbing head. She didn’t answer but rubbed her hand across a large bump on her forehead.

It felt as large as the Black Hills.

There was another knock . . .

“Ma’am?”

“What is it?”

“I have a parcel.”

“Just slip it through the slitty thing . . .”

“It’s not the slip-able kind.”

“Well then, just leave it outside the door.”

“It’s not leave-able either.”

Hilda tutted.

“It is but take-able,” added the robotic voice.

“Take-able? What are you talking about?” said Hilda as she rubbed her bump. You could ride a floating platform around it, she thought.

“It says here,” the voice read, “it is to be hand-delivered into our esteemed leader’s hands only. Definitely not leave-able.”

Hilda, with a great muttering of “pickles,” staggered out of bed. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and almost staggered again—it would be days before she could leave the pad with this face. She’d be laughed out of the room with a view before she even opened her mouth.

“Turn the other way,” snapped Hilda.

“What?”

“When I open the door, you must turn the other way, or I won’t open the door.”

“Turning as we speak, ma’am.”

Hilda creaked the door open a few inches and peered into the blinking eyes of a delivery android.

“Great pickled egg,” said the android.

“I told you to turn away.”

“You took me by surprise,” said the android.

“You are a robot, you don’t do surprise.”

“A figure of speech, ma’am. And it’s android.”

Hilda stared at the so-called android. When did they get so smart?

She snatched the parcel and made to slam the door, but the android stopped it with her foot.

“Signature, ma’am.”

“What?”

“New rules. Signing required for parcels larger than an H-Pad or Alice is involved.”

Hilda wrenched the door open, giving the android, along with her footman, a complete view of the esteemed leader in a onesie the size of a marquee, hair like a toilet brush, face as puffy as a blowfish, and a larger-than-life thumping red lump pulsating on her forehead.

“You could ride a floating platform around that bump,” muttered the footman.

Hilda threw him a look, grabbed the cheap-as-a-pickle signature pad, scribbled an esteemed-leader signature, and thrust it back into the android’s hands.

“You have both seen nothing.”

“Memory banks wiped, ma’am,” said the android.

“My lips are sealed, ma’am,” said the footman.

“Just as well,” said Hilda and, with a you dare tell anyone look, slammed her door shut.

Hilda tossed the parcel onto the chair and missed. It clattered to the ground. She stared at a mirror and touched her bump. She looked like a back of a robotic turtle.

She listened to the android reversing.

“Hemp oil won’t even touch that,” muttered the footman.

“Should have used filtered ice,” said the android.

“Too late now,” muttered the footman. “It’ll be days before that thing vanishes.”

“I can hear,” snapped Hilda, then stopped. Did that parcel just move?

Grrrrrrrr . . .

She poked it with her foot.

Grrrrrrrr . . .

The parcel began to vibrate.

She nudged it again with her foot.

The vibrations grew stronger, propelling it across the floor . . .

What the pickle?

* * *

Verruca, clutching an old-fashioned but still-fit-for-purpose remote, stared at a set of plans on her equally old and fit-for-purpose kitchen table.

She sipped her hot weak tea.

The plans were one of many that she had “pilfered” years ago during the great digital take-over when paper plans were burned on large bonfires.

It had been rolled up for years; to keep it flat, she had placed a teapot on one corner and a biscuit tin on the other.

She stared down at the layout of Hilda’s penthouse. Luckily, Hilda was not the redecorating sort of leader.

“It’s working,” said Verruca. “There may only be a forward and back on this so-called remote, but it’s working—I can move the parcel.”

Her robot, clattering about the inside of her fridge, didn’t answer.

The screen on top of the fridge wobbled.

“Will you leave the fridge,” said Verruca.

Her robot slammed the fridge door shut and the screen toppled onto its side.

“Leave where?” said the robot, adjusting the screen upright.

“Leave it where it is but shut,” said Verruca.

“Shutting completed.”

“Good, now go and do something useful,” said Verruca.

“Clean fridge.” The robot opened the fridge.

“No, I can’t see the screen when you open the fridge . . .”

The screen wobbled.

Verruca sighed.

“No screen in fridge,” said the robot.

“The screen is on top, and if you keep opening and shutting—”

“Shut door,” said the robot with a robust slam.

The screen crashed to the floor.

* * *

Hilda stared at the parcel. The vibrating stopped, she waited . . . nothing.

She decided to go back to bed and, in the vain hope that the footman was wrong, slapped hemp oil on her face.

Maybe, when she woke, her face would return to normal.

~

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Until next time happy reading