Hoods and Bots: Part Nine by Irena Szirtes

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

     Victor strode toward us, every inch the officer in command. Early forties, ramrod straight, muscled and honed from runs and daily workouts, he might have looked sexy if his eyes hadn't cut like a blade, if his heart wasn't sheer as gun metal.

I climbed in the back of his new solar four-wheel drive all smiles.

“I don't want you on this trip, girl. I made it crystal to leadership, but they'd have none of it. Your choice, but you might as well know you’re not welcome.”

“Well, I'm not missing it, welcome or not, so it’s your problem, Victor.” 

I felt shaken, nonetheless. 

“Fine,” he retorted, and Roland cut in, “Leave her be.” 

The air trembled with obscenities, then Victor muttered, 

“Calls herself Hood? She’s Imiołczyk, hasn’t got the stomach for it.”

   Anger flared on behalf of my father and his predecessors, whose courage was legendary. Paweł was no exception, though Victor was doubtless being  disparaging about the German life he’d saved. I thought about Imiołczyk ladies, too, who’d joined the Polish Auxiliary Service for WW2, or served Intelligence here in WW3. But shame paraded the guard on the embankment before my eyes, and I wondered if Victor was right about me. Perhaps I wasn’t worthy of my name.

 Roland defending me was unexpected. His speech, quiet and halting as ever, somehow conveyed he might just be Victor’s equal. 

“This mission’s about...  negotiation, not battle with... the enemy.”

“She’ll complicate things. Any mission can mean battle with the enemy, you know that.”

“She knows about livestock...  there’s  a role for everyone, get off... her back.”

“Well, if we run into trouble, it’s on the record - I never wanted her here.” 

  He took one hand off the steering  wheel and waved it to end that particular conversation. They began comparing notes on combat techniques and tales of past action. Roland told stories of the non-Bot past Resistance experts had helped him create. It struck me I’d rarely heard a more accomplished liar: if I hadn’t been at Cameron's, I’d have swallowed every word. Perhaps I was surrounded by accomplished liars, and didn’t know it. I remembered Frank’s protestations of fidelity: do lies come as easily to us all? I feared they might. 

   When action tales failed, misogynistic jokes grew like warts, while Roland listened without comment.  Victor knew Imiołczyk tradition despised vulgarity in the presence of ladies, and that misogyny was unacceptable on base, but vomited filthy words which surely included every letter of the alphabet. Perhaps he hoped I’d demand he turn round and take me home. Then came vicious descriptions of pornographic holo-novels. I was surprised: Victor was respected for the way he’d raised the fitness and performance of our military units, on other bases, then on ours. He trained both men and women; I’d never heard women complain about misogyny, let alone violence. But I was well-used to ladies who could rival Victor’s colourful language.  Bhuresi could drink most men under the table, and could probably have taught Victor a few words of her own, though she rarely spoke that way in front of me. She'd honoured my parents’ wishes to avoid lewd language throughout my upbringing, and that had stuck.

   I decided to appear impassive, but made faces at Victor behind his back. Roland caught me through the sun-shield mirror, and something resembling amusement flittered across his face, though I swiftly righted mine. I was determined not to give Victor the power to phase me, or steal my jubilance about the mission I felt I'd been made for.

   We stopped at services on route, where Victor waved away the packed food and bought a large hot lunch for us all, complete with drinks and dessert. If he was addicted to violent porn, a furtive misogynistic git, he was a generous one when it suited him: the cost of food had rocketed as our economy flailed. We were returning  to the vehicle, when Roland surreptitiously pointed out two Greenshirts making right for us. “Get in,” Victor told us, “I’ll deal with this.”

     We watched him stride across and meet them half way. He briefly dipped his head then gave a military salute, and their body language softened. “Good thinking,” Roland said. “Show a bit of deference, and they’re... easier to fool.”

“Did that work for you then?” 

“Sometimes... often. Worked better than murderous looks...  anyway.” 

I smiled at his attempt at good-humoured ragging. It was odd to think Victor’s role was partly to protect me against whatever horror had broken open during Roland’s counselling sessions. Paradoxically, I was beginning to feel a little easier in his company, and perhaps, after hearing about the porn, preferred it to Victor’s, though that wasn’t saying much. I remembered my initial impression Roland was a groper, and wondered if I’d been wrong. By now I'd noticed his preference to keep some space between himself and others, whatever their sex. 

   We watched Victor hand over his phone with forged permission to travel and false identity. The Bots scanned his adapted chip and examined our cover plan, a visit to a lady in Kendal, Carla Braithwaite, who was recovering  from a heart attack. We were posing as Carla’s relatives and her home would be our temporary mission base. She’d been Hood most of her life and gladly volunteered, eager to be of use again following her illness. The Bots handed Victor his phone, and he held them in conversation a few more minutes, finishing with another salute.

“Another good move,” Roland said. “ Never appear in...  a hurry to get away.”

    As we approached Kendal junction, the Howgill Fells, suspended in  melting haze, rose humped and folded, scarred like sleeping dinosaurs. I was spellbound. Gloucestershire was beautiful even in its harried  state, but this spread of hills breathed mystery and majesty that conjured gasps of wonder. Something inside of me powered down as I gazed at the patchwork of colours and shifting cloud. I felt a connection I couldn’t explain, as if the hills were calling me home. 

“Awesome!” I exclaimed, leaning forward to look between Roland and Victor. Roland agreed with a barely perceptible nod; Victor ignored me. Then we took the junction,  and turned away from the Howgills toward Kendal.