She was watching the spirits quiver in the bottles hanging behind the bar. They were rippling in time to the almost subliminal vibrations of the Tereshkova’s engines. The lounge had been decorated in a 1930s ‘Golden Era of Travel’ style, with art deco fixtures, ceiling fans, and plenty of prominent rivets on the bulkheads. A painting hung over the cash register, portraying the Commodore as a young man, in a white dress uniform with a bright scarlet sash. A row of large circular portholes filled much of the starboard wall. Perched on her stool at the counter, Victoria had her back to them. She didn’t feel much like looking out, or down. The bar counter itself had a thin copper top which had, over the years, acquired a patina of dents and nicks as unique as a fingerprint. The steward wore white gloves and served the drinks on small cork coasters. Victoria was on her third gin and tonic. Her flaxen wig lay scrunched on the bar before her. Right now, she didn’t care what she looked like, and her scarred, shaven head kept the other passengers from trying to engage her in conversation.
