The Administration Series (264 page)

"My own bloody fault for leaving it there," Toreth said. "I only brought it to put the chains in. Didn't think it'd get you off to a very good start to have me wandering through the place with them over my shoulder. Are you hungry?"

"Yes, actually. Shall we go out? Or I could cook."

"No need. I arranged to have something delivered — it's due any minute." Toreth stood up and looked over. "Unless you'd prefer to go out?"

"Here is perfect."

While Toreth waited for the food, Warrick went to the en suite bathroom. The extra space and new fittings were still an enjoyable novelty. He stood under the hot water, lathering himself thoroughly, and thought about the session, and about Toreth.

Thinking something he'd thought so often before: he'd never find anyone else who could do that to him, someone whose needs meshed so perfectly with his own, who would know him that well. Who could always find another boundary and draw him across it so skilfully that he didn't feel it pass until it was too late. It would be insane to jeopardise what he had for some ridiculous urge for cohabitation. The topic had to be forgotten. The alternative was to let it drive Toreth away for good.

Leaning against the cool tiles, he closed his eyes and traced the lines of the imaginary cuts through the soap on his chest. Unmarked, his skin remembered every slice, and he could almost feel the nerves responding to the electronic deception. Pain without consequences, dangerously seductive. Thinking about the knife, about hands on his body.

Surrender and ecstasy.

Toreth.

He heard a laugh, and opened his eyes to find Toreth watching him.

"The food's here. But if you keep doing that you're not going to get a chance to eat any of it."

Warrick shook his head, dismissing the images, and raised an eyebrow. "That looks like a rather ambitious threat from where I'm standing."

"Yeah, probably." Toreth grinned. "But I wouldn't put money on it. Can I join you?"

"Please do."

Toreth shed his shirt and trousers — presumably donned to answer the door — and stepped into the generously-sized shower. Warrick passed him the soap and thought how very homey it felt. He wished . . .

On a sudden, dangerous impulse, he asked, "Where have you been since the house-warming?"

That was a rule broken, and the surprise in Toreth's eyes reflected that. However, he answered after only a slight hesitation. "Sara's, mostly. And a couple of nights at work, when it didn't seem worth leaving. Although I'm not so keen on sleeping in the holding cells these days."

"I can imagine. Have you looked for anywhere permanent?"

"No. No time. I suppose I'll put in an application for accommodation. Might even get the old place back. But . . . well, because I registered here they'll classify me as voluntarily homeless. They're still working through a huge fucking backlog from the revolt. Could all take months — I might end up looking for somewhere private to rent, but that's always a nightmare to sort out with Housing."

Toreth put his head under the spray and Warrick waited until he emerged, shaking water from his hair, and continued. "Sara's fighting Accounts for me over putting a hotel on expenses. But even if they say no, I can always find somewhere cheap enough when Sara finally throws me out." He hesitated, and Warrick wondered if he was going to suggest another alternative. In the end, Toreth said, "It's no problem, really."

"Mm." His recent resolution seemed to have failed already. There was no harm, Warrick told himself, in taking a chance. If a compromise could be made, it was up to him to find a way to do it. Toreth certainly wouldn't, or couldn't. "You're more than welcome to stay here. On a purely temporary basis, naturally. Just until you find somewhere else."

No sound but splashing water as Toreth apparently thought it over. Warrick didn't, honestly, hold out much hope — even by their standards, it was a thin fiction. But might it still be enough?

Eventually, Toreth shook his head. "No."

Well, it had been worth a try. "Up to you, of course. If you — "

"No, Warrick. Shut up for a minute."

Warrick did as instructed and waited.

"Right. If you're still okay with it, I'd — " He sighed, sounded exasperated. "Do you know what I've been doing since I saw you?"

"I have a rough idea."

"Then I'll fill in the detail. I've been interrogating prisoners, fifteen, sixteen hours a day, plus paperwork. Luckily Cit Surveillance put a priority on the case, and most of the interrogation staff are dead or still on the sick, so no one thought it was odd. That's what . . . eight days . . . " His eyes narrowed. "Fuck, call it a hundred and twenty hours of interrogation. Which was really a hundred and twenty hours of making sure a decent number of them ended up with something on record to say they secretly suspected your brother was an informer."

"An — " Warrick hesitated, somewhere between relieved and horrified that his guess had been correct. It made a strange twist on Carnac's plan of using Kate's file to frame Toreth. "Did it work?"

Toreth grinned suddenly. "That's a pretty fucking insulting question."

Warrick couldn't help smiling in response — easier now that interrogation no longer meant everything it once had. "Very well. How well did it work?"

"About as well as I expected — good enough to convince anyone who wasn't completely paranoid, which I suppose might not be good enough with Cit." He shook his head. "No, it should be okay. If Sable fixes the files right, Tarin might even end up with a pension. Or at least a medal."

Warrick's throat tightened. "No. Tar can't ever know about this."

"Jesus. Relax. I was joking. By the time he's up to hearing about anything, it'll be over and done with."

Warrick reined himself in. The arguments could wait until later. With Tarin still in intensive care, there was little point starting a fight over something that unfortunately might well remain hypothetical.

"What — " Warrick hesitated, then forced himself to ask. "What happens to them all?"

"Not a lot, for all the hours I put in. They had the right kind of stupid ideas, but they seemed to do a lot of talking and not much actual resisting. Cit requested low-level re-education for most of them, and the rest just got the fright of their fucking lives. All part of the kinder, gentler new Administration." Toreth's grin emphasised the tired lines around his eyes. "Lucky bastards. It's a good job for them — and you — that they didn't get arrested before the revolt."

"Thank you," Warrick said. "For trying to help Tar and for taking the risks. I'm grateful." He stroked Toreth's arm, wanting to make sure he believed it. "Very grateful."

Toreth shrugged. "No big deal. It was my arse on the line too."

The silence was becoming uncomfortable by the time Warrick added, "What I don't understand is what any of this has to do with your living arrangements."

For a moment, Toreth looked genuinely blank. Then he sighed. "Just that I've had a foul week asking trick questions and then making the answers work out, and I can't be bothered fucking around doing the same thing off duty."

"Ah. And?"

"The last primary interrogations wrapped up at lunchtime. So I left Sara to do her stuff, went to the Shop and bought the knife. Then I came round and spent the afternoon asleep on your sofa."

"It's very comfortable."

"Yeah, it is. And all my crap is still here anyway. So, what the hell, I might as well just — " Toreth's gaze flicked away, searching round the shower as though he were looking for a way out. Finally he looked back. "Can I still move in?"

"Yes."

"Great. Thanks. I, well, I decided . . . " The sentence trailed off.

"That you miss the cooking, the cleaning and my drinks cabinet?" Warrick asked lightly.

Toreth didn't smile. "No. I miss being able to fuck you without having to get in a taxi and drive all the way over here first. Because I've been too poleaxed to go out and find anyone closer." He hesitated. "No. Shit. I didn't mean . . . " Warrick could feel the tension growing. "I mean, it seems stupid, finding somewhere else when you have this huge place. And — "

"You don't need to explain."

"I know. Thanks." Toreth put his arms over Warrick's shoulders, then leaned his forehead on his right arm, his cheek warm against Warrick's. "I went to the gym too, after work, every bloody day. And before, most days. I absolutely fucking hate the gym first thing in the morning. But if you let it go too far, it takes forever to get fit again . . . I am so fucking knackered, you have no idea." He sighed again.

Warrick said nothing. He linked his hands at the base of Toreth's spine, almost an embrace, and held him, savouring the rare surrender.

"You know what?" Toreth said. "I'm sick of living out of that fucking suitcase. I just want to have somewhere to call home."

"Oh, I'm afraid I won't be able to make it to the gym tomorrow," Warrick said as the waiter set the after-dinner coffees on the table.

As Warrick reached for the milk, Toreth took his wrist and slowly pressed his arm down onto the table. Warrick resisted, to not very much effect. Toreth had the advantage of leverage and of their being in a very respectable restaurant where even this much of a display of intimacy was drawing covert looks from nearby diners.

Finally, Toreth held Warrick's hand flat against the table. "See? You want to get anywhere, you need to put more effort in. And more regular effort."

Warrick smiled, although his gaze was fixed on their hands. He flexed his wrist and Toreth tightened his grip.

"I have no intention of turning myself into a narcissistic, hair-waxing bodybuilder," Warrick said. "I'm trying to improve my cardiovascular fitness, that's all. It keeps down the directors' health insurance costs."

"Whatever you're doing it for, it's still no good if you don't keep it up." Toreth ignored the waxing jibe, because saying 'I use cream' didn't improve the situation. Plus, they both knew how much Warrick liked the consequences of his so-called narcissism. "What's so important?"

Warrick looked up. "I'm supervising a sensory sampling session at a security training centre, of all places. It's a last-minute rush because we have a customer considering buying a sim-based training system. They've asked us to bring the demonstration forward. And, frankly, right now we'll do anything we can to chase customers."

"Who's buying?"

"Ah . . . an Administration department, is all I can say. They're looking for a way to model and test new nonlethal riot suppression equipment. It's all part of the kinder, gentler Administration."

Sounded like the Service. "They can't draft in some lucky recruits?"

Warrick raised a sardonic eyebrow, which looked odd when his hand was still pinned to the table. "If they were in a position to do so, which obviously I can't comment on, I suspect the problem would be that 'nonlethal' doesn't actually imply 'nondamaging'."

"So they're letting you look at the experimental kit? Sounds interesting."

"I'm sure it would be. However, most of the equipment doesn't exist yet, even in prototype, and the proposed designs are all tied up in confidentiality clauses. It's the usual problem — until we get the contract they won't give us the information we need to prove we can fulfil it. So, in lieu of that, we'll have to demonstrate that we can provide an accurate simulation of a riot environment, including current control technology."

"You're going to have
riots
in the sim?" Considered alongside the meadows and the sex programs it sounded utterly bizarre.

"We are indeed." Warrick worked his hand out from under Toreth's. "It'll be a good project, if it happens. For one thing, we're planning to use it as leverage to significantly expand the scope of the Yes development program. With the backing of the department in question, that application should go much more smoothly."

Toreth wondered whether KA-41 was still around, and whether it would wake up next to find itself in the middle of a simulated mob. "So what are you doing at a security training centre?"

"Firearms data acquisition. Most of the rooms required we can build from what we have, but firearms is one area in which we have no material at all. We need environmental recordings and subjective sensory information, all the usual things. We can't gather it while there are other people using the place, because of the background input levels. Of course, we can tune and filter, but — "

"I get the idea," Toreth said before the conversation degenerated too far into technicalities. "Bottom line is, you're far too busy to make it to the gym."

"Yes, I'm afraid so. The centre's been very accommodating but, unfortunately for my muscle tone, Saturday is the only day we can set up our equipment in suitable conditions. Of course," he added, "you're welcome to come along. I don't imagine it will be very interesting, but you could always provide some data."

Toreth had made the mistake before of volunteering for sim trials which had bored him more thoroughly than an hour of Tillotson at the monthly section meetings. "What does that involve?"

"Firing a gun while we monitor your brain and peripheral nervous system." Warrick's lips twitched in a mostly-hidden smile. "No deep scans, so it won't require you to stand still for too long."

"Well . . . "

"It would be a help. More subjects are always better, and there are a limited number of trained SimTech guards I can call in at such short notice."

"So I'm cheap fucking labour now?"

"Oh, no." Warrick smiled wickedly, adding a slow blink that sent straight to Toreth's cock a good proportion of the blood supply that had been about to start work on digesting his dinner. "I wouldn't say
cheap
."

Well, that settled the after-dinner entertainment.

While he watched Warrick stirring his coffee in careful clockwise-counterclockwise patterns, Toreth considered the proposal for tomorrow. He didn't have anything better planned, and although it had been a few months since he'd been on an intensive refresher course, he was pretty sure he'd be a hell of a lot better with a gun than Warrick. It was always nice to beat Warrick at something.