sir?”
Ack-Ack Macaque grinned around the cigar in his teeth.
“Bottle.”
“Very good, sir.”
This early in the evening, few people were in the lounge. Victoria knew that most of the transatlantic passengers had already disembarked. They would complete their journeys by fast trains to London, Manchester, or Edinburgh. The remaining passengers, who intended to stay with the airship for her onward journey to London and Paris, had also mostly gone ashore for the evening, glad to be back on terra firma after three days in the air, ready to sample the nightlife and historic tourist attractions of Bristol and Bath.
When the steward had fetched their drinks, set them down, and withdrawn, she leant across the table.
“Are you all right, now?”
The monkey glanced at her with his one good eye. In the light of the art deco electric wall lamps, his fur had a rough, bronzed sheen.
“I’ve been better.”
Victoria wiped her thumb across the condensation on the neck of her beer bottle. She couldn’t read the label, but she could recognise the maker’s logo by its colours and shape.
“Would you care to elaborate?”
On the other side of the table, Ack-Ack Macaque unscrewed the cap of the rum bottle and, ignoring the glass the steward had brought, took a hefty glug from the neck. He smacked his lips, and replaced the cigar.
“Not particularly.”
“Was it something he said?”
“Who, Reynolds?”
“Of course, Reynolds.”
The monkey made a face and hunched over the table. His leather jacket creaked. “You know what they say: It takes a hundred and forty-three muscles to frown, but only fifty-two to grab somebody by the lapels and bite their face off.”
Victoria wasn’t amused.
“There’s been too much violence on this ship. If you want me to carry on trusting you, you can’t lash out like that.”
Ack-Ack Macaque drummed his fingers on the side of the rum bottle.
“It was everything he said. Especially all that stuff about being alone.” He ran a fingertip around the rim. “It got to me.”
“But, you’re not alone. You have K8. You have a place here.” She reached out a hand. “You have me.”
“I know.” Ack-Ack Macaque scowled. “But it’s not easy being the only talking monkey in the world.”
“You feel like a freak?”
He gave a shaggy shake of the head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Victoria felt her cheeks colour. She tapped the ridge of scar tissue at her temple. The surgery to repair the damage to her brain had been extensive and life saving; but it had left her bald and scarred—an oddity.
“Oh, really?”
She saw him glance at her scalp, then back down to the bottle in his paw.
“Sorry, boss.”
She gave a shrug. In truth, she knew how he felt. She used to feel the exact same way when passengers tried not to stare at her. For a while, it had bothered her; but last year’s unpleasantness had given her confidence, and a certain notoriety, and now she no longer cared what anyone thought of the way she looked.
She accepted his apology with a gracious nod.
“C’est rien.” Her beer was cold and sharp, just the way she liked it. She savoured the bubbles on her tongue before swallowing.
The sad truth was, the camaraderie she shared with Ack-Ack Macaque was about the closest thing she had to a relationship with an actual, physical being. She had Paul, of course, but, however much she loved him, he was still just a face on a screen, or a tiny hologram on her desk. The monkey was, tragically, the nearest thing she had to a living, breathing friend.
“You know,” she said, “I don’t trust them, either.”
His eye swivelled up to meet hers.
“The Gestalt?”
“There’s something about them.” She thought of Reynolds, and wondered how many minds had been peering at her from behind the man’s mild, cornflower-blue eyes. “They freak me out.”
Across the table, Ack-Ack Macaque took another hit of rum. She gave him a long, thoughtful look.
“I wonder why
Ack-Ack Macaque grinned around the cigar in his teeth.
“Bottle.”
“Very good, sir.”
This early in the evening, few people were in the lounge. Victoria knew that most of the transatlantic passengers had already disembarked. They would complete their journeys by fast trains to London, Manchester, or Edinburgh. The remaining passengers, who intended to stay with the airship for her onward journey to London and Paris, had also mostly gone ashore for the evening, glad to be back on terra firma after three days in the air, ready to sample the nightlife and historic tourist attractions of Bristol and Bath.
When the steward had fetched their drinks, set them down, and withdrawn, she leant across the table.
“Are you all right, now?”
The monkey glanced at her with his one good eye. In the light of the art deco electric wall lamps, his fur had a rough, bronzed sheen.
“I’ve been better.”
Victoria wiped her thumb across the condensation on the neck of her beer bottle. She couldn’t read the label, but she could recognise the maker’s logo by its colours and shape.
“Would you care to elaborate?”
On the other side of the table, Ack-Ack Macaque unscrewed the cap of the rum bottle and, ignoring the glass the steward had brought, took a hefty glug from the neck. He smacked his lips, and replaced the cigar.
“Not particularly.”
“Was it something he said?”
“Who, Reynolds?”
“Of course, Reynolds.”
The monkey made a face and hunched over the table. His leather jacket creaked. “You know what they say: It takes a hundred and forty-three muscles to frown, but only fifty-two to grab somebody by the lapels and bite their face off.”
Victoria wasn’t amused.
“There’s been too much violence on this ship. If you want me to carry on trusting you, you can’t lash out like that.”
Ack-Ack Macaque drummed his fingers on the side of the rum bottle.
“It was everything he said. Especially all that stuff about being alone.” He ran a fingertip around the rim. “It got to me.”
“But, you’re not alone. You have K8. You have a place here.” She reached out a hand. “You have me.”
“I know.” Ack-Ack Macaque scowled. “But it’s not easy being the only talking monkey in the world.”
“You feel like a freak?”
He gave a shaggy shake of the head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Victoria felt her cheeks colour. She tapped the ridge of scar tissue at her temple. The surgery to repair the damage to her brain had been extensive and life saving; but it had left her bald and scarred—an oddity.
“Oh, really?”
She saw him glance at her scalp, then back down to the bottle in his paw.
“Sorry, boss.”
She gave a shrug. In truth, she knew how he felt. She used to feel the exact same way when passengers tried not to stare at her. For a while, it had bothered her; but last year’s unpleasantness had given her confidence, and a certain notoriety, and now she no longer cared what anyone thought of the way she looked.
She accepted his apology with a gracious nod.
“C’est rien.” Her beer was cold and sharp, just the way she liked it. She savoured the bubbles on her tongue before swallowing.
The sad truth was, the camaraderie she shared with Ack-Ack Macaque was about the closest thing she had to a relationship with an actual, physical being. She had Paul, of course, but, however much she loved him, he was still just a face on a screen, or a tiny hologram on her desk. The monkey was, tragically, the nearest thing she had to a living, breathing friend.
“You know,” she said, “I don’t trust them, either.”
His eye swivelled up to meet hers.
“The Gestalt?”
“There’s something about them.” She thought of Reynolds, and wondered how many minds had been peering at her from behind the man’s mild, cornflower-blue eyes. “They freak me out.”
Across the table, Ack-Ack Macaque took another hit of rum. She gave him a long, thoughtful look.
“I wonder why
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