The Administration Series (7 page)

Why should now be different? Maybe it was an excess of financial concern; at the moment, SimTech was a little less like fun and rather more like work. Maybe it was Toth himself, whom he'd had plenty of time to study — nicely built, with a swimmer's broad shoulders and narrow waist. Or maybe it was the open challenge in the invitation, and the spice of danger, although any danger in the meeting suddenly seemed rather insubstantial.

No more real, in fact, than the virtual duck, which at that moment broke his reverie by nudging his shoulder. That is to say, absolutely real and quite unreal at the same time.

Perhaps he'd been spending too much time in the sim. Normally, it didn't affect him, although once or twice in the past, he'd caught himself trying sim-world things in the real world. Then he had simply avoided going in until the overlap went away. Other people had had problems; it had badly affected one of the graduate students. The corporate psychologist had labelled it 'excessive immersion'. They had reassigned the girl to the more theoretical aspects of the work and that had resolved the issue.

Not that he was suffering from excessive immersion now. No, that was simply a flimsy excuse for why he wanted to ignore his misgivings and see Toth again. To repeat the experience from this afternoon, only this time with more direct participation. Warrick imagined stripping Toth in a place where clothes didn't just vanish when dropped, imagined feeling real muscles slide under his fingers.

It would be very good, despite the imperfections of the world outside, to taste real skin again.

However, he'd have to be careful. There was danger and it was of his own making. He had set Toth up, and the man hadn't made the invitation to dinner out of gratitude for that. Everything depended on what Toth planned to do, and that was what he would have to find out this evening. Before he ended up in real-world trouble — the kind he couldn't escape with a code word.

Yes. He'd keep the appointment. Only, however, if he could find out one small thing first.

Toreth had been five minutes late, but he still waited in the restaurant's bar for nearly half an hour before Warrick arrived. It was one of the more expensive restaurants in the Renaissance Centre and surprisingly busy for midweek. Toreth passed the time in assessing the other drinkers — for the most part corporates dining with colleagues or illicit lovers — until he finally saw Warrick standing by the door, also examining the room. He caught sight of Toreth and strolled over.

"Sorry I'm late," he murmured as he took off his jacket. "Delayed at work. I rushed over as soon as I could get away."

He didn't sound the slightest bit sorry, or look as if he had broken into anything more energetic than an amble in the last hour. Toreth merely took it as the signal that the game was on again, and noted that he
had
showered and changed recently.

Toreth almost fell into the classic trap of claiming he too had only just arrived, but then remembered the empty glass in front of him. He settled for a shrug. "No problem. Do you want a drink?"

Warrick considered for a moment. "No, I think I'll wait until we eat. I missed lunch and I don't want to drink on an empty stomach."

And with the meal we'll have wine, which will come in a sealed bottle and be that much harder for me to tamper with, Toreth thought. Well, that established the base level of trust for the evening. He liked it. Warrick was justifiably cautious — maybe even a little apprehensive — but he was here anyway. He could work with that.

Just then, a waiter sidled over to announce that their table was ready. They took their seats and examined the ornately inscribed menus. Words like
fresh
,
natural
and
outdoor produced
were scattered liberally around and the steep prices made Toreth wince inwardly. If he didn't get this past accounts, Warrick would be the most expensive fuck he'd had for some time.

"What shall we have to start with?" Toreth asked, as a silence filler.

Warrick turned the page back and studied the selection. "Well, to start with, you can tell me your real name."

Toreth blinked. Damn it, just when he thought he had a handle on the situation the man managed something else unsettling.

"I beg you pardon?" he asked.

Warrick's gaze flicked up long enough to catch his flustered expression, and then returned to the menu. "I think now that this has extended to dinner, a real name is only polite, since you know mine. Usually I ask before letting someone come in my mouth, but I think, under the circumstances, that didn't really count."

Someone at the next table dropped their fork onto their plate with a loud clatter, but Toreth barely noticed.

Letting?
Didn't count?

He's baiting you, a calm part of his mind said firmly. Come on, you can do better than this.

Before Toreth could produce a response, Warrick looked up again. "Very well, if you insist. I shall guess." He laid the menu down and steepled his fingers. "Mm, let me see. Something like Toth, I imagine, because that makes it easier to respond to naturally. And you don't look like a Marcus, so let us discount that completely. Something like . . . Valantin Toreth, perhaps?"

At this rate, speechlessness looked set to become a permanent condition.

After a moment he managed to say, "It's Val Toreth. And I always go by Toreth."

Warrick smiled briefly and picked up the menu again. "This does look very good. I think I shall have chicken livers — or perhaps scallops. Did you know that, traditionally, there is a rule that fresh shellfish should only be eaten in a month with an 'r'? Or is that only oysters? I forget. In any case, October should be safe enough."

Toreth wasn't going to ask. He wasn't going to ask. He wasn't . . . then the question escaped through gritted teeth.

"How did you find out? The files are supposed to be secure."

That got a 24-carat smile, to which, to his intense irritation, Toreth found himself responding.

"The files are
always
supposed to be secure." Then Warrick shook his head. "However, I assure you that no illegal activity took place. I merely called the Investigation and Interrogation Division and asked to speak to a para-investigator called Toth — or something like Toth. The very pleasant receptionist asked me if I meant the tall, blond, handsome one, which I agreed was an acceptable description. Then she gave me your name and transferred me to another, equally delightful admin who said you were out of the building for the day, which clinched the identification."

Toreth was disgusted to discover that he actually felt
flattered
. Mentally, he glared at the feeling until it slunk away.

"So why did you bother asking?" he said without thinking, and then cursed himself. He was making hash of this. Why? There was a simple answer — because he wanted too badly to win. So it was time to pay attention and start playing seriously.

Warrick turned the page of the menu, taking his time replying. "I was curious to see if you would be honest enough to tell me," he said without any particular edge to his voice. "I suspected not, but I don't like to make assumptions without evidence."

The reappearance of the waiter saved Toreth from having to respond. Warrick had made his mind up, and so Toreth ordered more or less at random and chose two half-bottles of wine that would complement both meals. No point in drinking too much.

A platter of tiny but ridiculously elaborate hors d'oeuvres arrived. Warrick took one and began dismantling it, eating each component separately. A long silence developed, with which he seemed quite comfortable.

Toreth watched him, still wondering exactly why he was here. The up-front revelation that he knew Toreth's name was a clear signal saying, 'I know who you are, and you can be damn sure that someone else knows I'm here'. Then he had dropped in the little barbed compliment and dismissed the whole deception.

Toreth picked up one of the little biscuits, topped with a fish and herb roulade arrangement, and disposed of it in two bites as Warrick began another delicate deconstruction.

The signals were intriguing — wariness and definite interest. Some people had a thing for interrogators and, by extension, for para-investigators. They were usually people who had no firsthand experience of the profession. Toreth couldn't understand it. There was nothing sexually exciting about interrogation — it was a skilled, technically demanding and occasionally boring job. On the other hand, despite the general distaste with which I&I staff regarded 'interrogator junkies', Toreth had no moral objection to taking full advantage of the kink when the opportunity arose.

He had wondered before if Warrick fell into this category, but he'd decided not. For one thing, the man had too much imagination not to realise what the job entailed. For another, the contempt he had shown in the sim had been real, even if the setting hadn't.

Yet here he was. Interesting. Suggestive, maybe, that Warrick had some deeply hidden fascination in there after all.
That
would be a nice little piece of self-knowledge to give him. However, it wasn't worth pursuing quite yet; he'd wait until another glass or so of wine had gone down.

The appetisers arrived. Toreth's fish terrine turned out to be a close cousin to the roulade, and it was excellent. Warrick had settled on chicken livers. Toreth thought they were revolting, but Warrick clearly appreciated them.

After a few non-remarks about the food, Warrick said, "Now that you've had a few hours to consider it, what do you think about the sim?"

"I think it's absolutely incredible." Toreth didn't even need to exaggerate, because it had been an amazing experience. All of it.

Warrick seemed to expect elaboration, so he obliged. "I had no idea it would be like that. So real. The meadow was one of the most beautiful places I've seen in my life." He searched for the right word, one that Warrick would want to hear. "Magical."

No trace of the sardonic on Warrick's face now. "Yes. Yes, it is." Then his smile turned a little bitter. "Although your fellow civil servants generally have no difficulty in seeing past it."

Toreth shook his head. "You can't blame the Administration for appreciating the technology." Time to throw out an opening. "Or the potential applications."

"Applications." Warrick grimaced. "No, I suppose not." He took a sip of wine and that seemed to mark the topic as closed.

They ate in silence for a while, until Warrick laid down his knife and fork. He had finished the chicken livers, but the pastry shell that had held them he left discarded on the side of the plate.

"No good?"

"I'm not very fond of puff pastry."

"Then why order it?"

"I liked the rest." He wiped a sliver of bread around the plate to capture the last of the creamy sauce. "And it's too much trouble to ask them to make it without. Why? Does the waste bother you?"

"No. I was just curious."

"Ah. Curiosity." Warrick set his knife and fork precisely in the centre of the plate. "That's a professionally useful trait."

Toreth shrugged. "I don't usually have any personal interest in the questions I'm asking."

"Mm. I meant as a researcher."

He clearly hadn't, but it was a cover for a question he had wanted to ask without asking. "Curious about my job?" Toreth enquired.

Warrick leaned back, increasing the distance between them. "A little, perhaps, yes."

"What do you want to know?" Make him work for it.

"Why do you enjoy it?"

Not, Toreth noted, 'Do you enjoy it'?

"The money's decent," Toreth said. "The hours aren't bad. There's a lot of variety." Warrick watched him, silently assessing the reasons as he offered them. "I like the people I work with, and even some of the people I work for. It has an excellent career structure. And I'm good at it."

"Ah," Warrick said.

"Ah, what?"

"You make it sound like any other job."

"It
is
like any other job."

Warrick fell silent.

"Anything else you want to ask?"

"No, I don't think so."

The waiter arrived to clear their plates. Between courses, Warrick excused himself to go to the toilet. When he returned, he glanced at his nearly empty glass, and then knocked it onto the thickly carpeted floor with a casually accidental gesture. The waiter brought a clean glass and shared out the last remnant of the first bottle.

Toreth smiled. This was pointed mistrust as performance art.

The main course arrived. The second bottle of wine was opened and poured.

Between mouthfuls of his own meal, Toreth watched Warrick eat. He decided that his technique — and technique was the right word — exemplified everything about the man that he longed to strip away: calm, self-control, concentration, precision. He went through the contents of his plate methodically, dealing with each part in turn. The intricate bird's nest of potato slivers went first, then the tiny portions of vegetables, one kind at a time. He saved the steak until last.

He divided the thick slice exactly in half and cut a forkful out of the middle. Blood oozed slowly onto the plate. Toreth didn't like overcooked steak himself, but this one looked as if it might still get some benefit from emergency resuscitation.