he wanted you,” she said. “In particular, I mean. After all, I’ve got nearly as much gelware in my head as you do, and yet he didn’t even ask me.”
“Feeling left out?”
“Hardly.” Her thumbnail worried the edge of the beer bottle’s label. “But doesn’t it strike you as odd?”
“Everything they do’s fucking odd.”
She dipped her heard, conceding his point. “Still, there’s something about it that doesn’t ring true. Something that tells me he wanted to do more than simply recruit you.”
Ack-Ack Macaque regarded her from beneath a lowered brow. “Your journalist instincts acting up again, boss?”
Victoria smiled. “Something like that.”
Ack-Ack Macaque ground out the butt of his cigar, then fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out another. “I thought as much.” He put the fresh cigar into his mouth, but didn’t light it. “Don’t go digging around on my behalf. I couldn’t give a damn what they want.” He grinned. “I’m just glad I slapped the silly sod when I had the chance.” He stretched in his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, boss, I’m going out for the evening.”
Victoria sat back with a sigh. Her curiosity would have to wait. She peeled off the label and screwed it into a ball.
“Are you going anywhere nice?”
“I hope not.” He gave a toothy grin. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“Quite sure, thank you.”
Victoria watched as Ack-Ack Macaque got to his feet, with the cigar clamped in his jaw and the bottle dangling from his fingers. This is my life, she thought: an uplifted monkey, an electronic ex-husband, a teenage hacker and me; four wretched creatures drawn together because we have nowhere else to go; because we’re all artificial, made things—with patched-up souls, and cortices covered with other people’s grubby fingerprints. Maybe that’s why the Gestalt frightens us so much: because, instead of feeling incomplete and ashamed, they embrace their artificiality. They make it a central part of themselves. And they want to help us.
With a flick of her finger, she sent the screwed-up label skittering across the table.
“Well, have a good time, won’t you?”
Ack-Ack Macaque caught the paper ball and dropped it into his unused glass.
“I’ll give it a try.”
A shout came from the corridor behind him. Victoria looked over, just in time to see a figure burst into the room—a wild-haired, bearded man in a white t-shirt and saggy pyjama bottoms, with pale, gooseflesh arms, and a gun clenched in his fist.
Oh hell, Cole.
The gelware processors in Victoria’s head kicked into combat mode, pumping adrenaline into her system and ramping up the speed of her thoughts. The chair went flying behind her, and her fingers curled around the neck of the beer bottle, ready to hurl it. At the same time, in her peripheral vision, she saw Ack-Ack Macaque throw himself sideways across the lounge, dragging his huge silver Colts from their holsters. By the time Cole staggered to a halt a few paces inside the door, he found himself facing a woman and a snarling monkey, both pointing weapons at him, and both poised to defend not only themselves, but also everybody else on the skyliner. His eyes rolled from one to the other, and then down to the pistol in his fist.
“Don’t shoot!” He let go of the gun as if scalded. The weapon clunked onto the deck, and he raised his hands.
Lying on his side, with both guns trained on Cole’s forehead, Ack-Ack Macaque spat out his cigar.
“We won’t fucking shoot,” he said in disgust, “if you don’t fucking move .”
A CTING ON V ICTORIA’S instructions, Ack-Ack Macaque and two of the white-jacketed stewards manhandled William Cole to her office, where they handcuffed him to the chair in front of her desk. She followed behind, examining the fallen gun.
“So, Mister Cole,” she said when he had been firmly secured. “Would you care to explain what you were thinking?”
Cole looked
“Feeling left out?”
“Hardly.” Her thumbnail worried the edge of the beer bottle’s label. “But doesn’t it strike you as odd?”
“Everything they do’s fucking odd.”
She dipped her heard, conceding his point. “Still, there’s something about it that doesn’t ring true. Something that tells me he wanted to do more than simply recruit you.”
Ack-Ack Macaque regarded her from beneath a lowered brow. “Your journalist instincts acting up again, boss?”
Victoria smiled. “Something like that.”
Ack-Ack Macaque ground out the butt of his cigar, then fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out another. “I thought as much.” He put the fresh cigar into his mouth, but didn’t light it. “Don’t go digging around on my behalf. I couldn’t give a damn what they want.” He grinned. “I’m just glad I slapped the silly sod when I had the chance.” He stretched in his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, boss, I’m going out for the evening.”
Victoria sat back with a sigh. Her curiosity would have to wait. She peeled off the label and screwed it into a ball.
“Are you going anywhere nice?”
“I hope not.” He gave a toothy grin. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“Quite sure, thank you.”
Victoria watched as Ack-Ack Macaque got to his feet, with the cigar clamped in his jaw and the bottle dangling from his fingers. This is my life, she thought: an uplifted monkey, an electronic ex-husband, a teenage hacker and me; four wretched creatures drawn together because we have nowhere else to go; because we’re all artificial, made things—with patched-up souls, and cortices covered with other people’s grubby fingerprints. Maybe that’s why the Gestalt frightens us so much: because, instead of feeling incomplete and ashamed, they embrace their artificiality. They make it a central part of themselves. And they want to help us.
With a flick of her finger, she sent the screwed-up label skittering across the table.
“Well, have a good time, won’t you?”
Ack-Ack Macaque caught the paper ball and dropped it into his unused glass.
“I’ll give it a try.”
A shout came from the corridor behind him. Victoria looked over, just in time to see a figure burst into the room—a wild-haired, bearded man in a white t-shirt and saggy pyjama bottoms, with pale, gooseflesh arms, and a gun clenched in his fist.
Oh hell, Cole.
The gelware processors in Victoria’s head kicked into combat mode, pumping adrenaline into her system and ramping up the speed of her thoughts. The chair went flying behind her, and her fingers curled around the neck of the beer bottle, ready to hurl it. At the same time, in her peripheral vision, she saw Ack-Ack Macaque throw himself sideways across the lounge, dragging his huge silver Colts from their holsters. By the time Cole staggered to a halt a few paces inside the door, he found himself facing a woman and a snarling monkey, both pointing weapons at him, and both poised to defend not only themselves, but also everybody else on the skyliner. His eyes rolled from one to the other, and then down to the pistol in his fist.
“Don’t shoot!” He let go of the gun as if scalded. The weapon clunked onto the deck, and he raised his hands.
Lying on his side, with both guns trained on Cole’s forehead, Ack-Ack Macaque spat out his cigar.
“We won’t fucking shoot,” he said in disgust, “if you don’t fucking move .”
A CTING ON V ICTORIA’S instructions, Ack-Ack Macaque and two of the white-jacketed stewards manhandled William Cole to her office, where they handcuffed him to the chair in front of her desk. She followed behind, examining the fallen gun.
“So, Mister Cole,” she said when he had been firmly secured. “Would you care to explain what you were thinking?”
Cole looked
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