The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [108]
★★I’m not giving up,★★ I tell her silently, then nod at Billington. “I get the picture. Business is business; I’ll cooperate.”
“Excellent. Or jolly good, as I believe you English would say.” He smiles in evident delight as he spears the other half of the strip of bacon and dangles it at knee level. A white streak blurs out of the shadows under the table and snaps the bacon right off his fork.
“Ah, Fluffy. There you are!” Billington reaches down and picks up the large, white cat, who turns his head and stares at me with sky-blue eyes that are disturbingly human. “I believe it’s about time you were introduced. Say hello to Mr. Howard, Fluffy.”
Fluffy stares at me like I’m an oversized mouse, then hisses charmlessly.
Billington grins at me from behind six kilos of annoyed cat. “Fluffy is what this is really about, Mr. Howard. I’m only doing this to keep him in kitty kibble, after all.”
“Kitty kibble?” I shake my head. Fluffy is wearing a diamond collar that belongs in the Tower of London with a platoon of Beefeaters standing guard over it. “I for one welcome our new feline overlords.” I tip the cat an ironic nod.
“I thought you could cover the cat-food bill out of the petty cash?” asks Ramona.
“Fluffy has very expensive tastes.” Billington dotes on the wretched animal, which has calmed down slightly and is permitting him to scratch it behind the ears.
Eileen chooses this particularly surreal moment to quiver as if electrocuted; then she shakes her head, yawns, and looks about. “Have I missed anything?” she asks querulously.
“Not a lot, dear.” Her husband regards her fondly. Breakfast with the Hitlers, I think, glancing between them. “Any news?”
“Ach.” Eileen hunches like a vulture when she’s aware. “Everything is in order, the central business groups advance on all fronts, nothing to report today.” She glances at me sharply, then at Ramona. “I think we ought to continue this in the office, though. Flapping ears and all that.”
Billington glances down at the table spread before him. I hastily refill my coffee cup before he looks up. “All right.” He nods, then stands up abruptly—still holding Fluffy—and nods at me, then at Ramona. “Feel free to finish up,” he says curtly. “Then you may return to your quarters. It won’t be long now.”
He and Eileen stalk out of the dining room via a door at the back, leaving me alone with Ramona, the remains of breakfast, and the disturbing sense that I’ve somehow strayed onto loose gravel at the edge of a precipice, and it may be too late to turn back and reach safe ground.
In the end, pragmatism wins: when you’re being held prisoner you never know where the next power breakfast is coming from, so I grab some slices of toast and a plateful of other munchies. Ramona sits hunched in her chair, looking out the porthole above the sideboard. Misery and depression is coming off her in black, stultifying waves.
★★We’ve not failed yet,★★ I tell her silently, my mouth full of hash browns. ★★As long as we can reestablish communications with Control we can get back on top of the situation. ★★
★★You think?★★ She holds out her coffee cup and the steward, who’s still waiting on us, fills it up. ★★What do you think they’ll do if we tell them what’s really going on? Give us time to get off the ship before they start shooting?★★
She takes a mouthful of coffee and puts her cup down. I can feel it scalding her tongue, too hot to